THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY (1137-1892) SELECTED AND ANNOTATED BY JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY PROFESSOR AND HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO GINN AND COMPANY BOSTON . NEW YORK • CHICAGO • LONDON ATLANTA • DALLAS ■ COLUMBUS • SAN FRANCISCO COPYRIGHT, 1907, 1909, 1916, BY JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY ALL RIGHTS RESERVEU 718.5 GINN AND COMPANY • PRO- PRIETORS • BOSTON • U.S.A. PREFACE This book has been made in response to the wishes of teachers who need a col- lection of English prose and poetry in a single volume and who desire to have the selections provided with notes. It contains no selection not included in its prede- cessors, English Poetry {iijo-i8g2) and English Prose {irjy-iSgo). The condensation of the two volumes has been made with care, and it is believed that no selection has been omitted which is necessary in a rapid survey course. For the texts previous to Chaucer translations have been made and printed side by side with the texts. These translations of course have not all the qualities of the originals, but an attempt has been made to preserve not only the metrical form but also the tone and general manner. Where the original had poor rhymes, or loose syntax, or undignified diction, such features have been permitted in the translation, though it was not always possible to reproduce each at the exact point of its appearance. The effort to preserve the tone of the original has often rendered the task of trans- lation or paraphrase difficult because of the necessity of excluding ideas and senti- ments foreign to the original as well as diction out of harmony with it. The briefer and simpler notes are placed on the same page with the text, because the editor .feels that turning frequently to the back of a book to consult notes or a glossary disturbs the reader's enjoyment and thereby interferes with, if it does not destroy, the effect of a piece of literature. The more elaborate notes, containing gen- eral information about the texts -or authors, or discussing difficulties, or quoting inter- esting parallels, are placed at the end of the volume for the same reason — that is, to avoid interference with the enjoyment of the reader while he is engaged in reading. They may be consulted beforehand, in preparation for reading, or later, in explanation of difficulties that have not been solved by the reader himself. In the case of a few poems, the notes are purposely elaborate, because the poems themselves are either especially difficult, or especially suggestive in diction, or especially loaded with allu- sions ; but in general the editor has striven to keep the annotations down to a practical minimum. That he has not always succeeded in this effort, he is only too well aware. There are many of the notes which he himself would disregard in reading and in teaching. But no one has yet discovered exactly what number of grains of sand makes a heap, and the present editor has not even been able to maintain strict consistenc}- in regard to what knowledge may safely be assumed as possessed by students or easily accessible to them. Every student of English should possess a copy of Webster's Secondary School Dic- tionary or the Standard Desk Dictionary. Either one of these excellent dictionaries IV ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY will be found to contain every word in these texts not explained in the notes. It was originally intended to omit from the notes every word explained in these dictionaries, but in practice it was found desirable to include many words found in them, chiefly because they were words which the student was likely to misunderstand and think it unnecessary to look up. The general notes at the end of the book are not intended to take the place of a history of English Literature, but merely to supplement such a volume or give emphasis to features of immediate interest. Some of them perhaps will seem to the student unnecessary, but it is hoped that he will remember that there are other students whose equipment and mental power differ widely from his. For assistance with the notes and the translations, the editor wishes to thank his friends Professor James Weber Linn and Miss Edith Rickert. For help in reading the proofs and for making the Table of Contents and the Index, he is indebted to his father, Dr. Charles Manly, and his sister, Mrs. H. M. Patrick. In conclusion, the editor wishes to express the hope that he has done nothing that will make more difficult for the student the enjoyment of English Literature and the cultivation of a taste for reading. His aim has been to help, not to hinder. JOHN M. MANLY CONTENTS EARLY MIDDLE ENGLISH A Monk of Peterborough (c. 1154) The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (extract from An. 1 137) I The Poema Morale, or Morale Ode (c. 11 70) (Author unknown) 2 ORifM (fl. 1200) The Orrmulum 4 Layamon (c. 1205) The Brut 5 The Ancren Riwle (Speech ; Nuns May Keep No Beast but a Cat) (c. 1225) (Author unknown) 8 King Horn (c. 1250) (Author unknown) 9 Nicholas de Gtjildford? (fl. 1250) The Owl and the Nightingale 14 Cursor Mundi (The Flight into Egypt) (c. 1300) (Author imknown) . ... 17 Thomas de Hales (bef. 1300) A Luve Ron 19 Middle English Lyrics (Authors unknown) Alysoun (c. 1300) 21 Springtime (c. 1300) 22 Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt? (c. 1350) 23 THE AGE OF CHAUCER William Laxgland? (1332?-! 400?) Piers the Plowman The Prologue, A-Text 24 The Prologue, B-Text : The Fable of Belling the Cat 28 Sir John MANDE\^LLE? (d. 13 71) The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maunde\dle, Kt 30 John Wiclif (d. 1384) The Gospel of Mathew 34 Syr Gawayn and the Grene Knyght (c. 1370) (Author unknown) 37 Pearl (c. 1370) (Author unknown) 46 John Gower (i325?-i4o8) Conf essio Amantis : Medea and Eson .... 51 Geoffrey Chaucer (1340?-! 400) Troilus and Criseyde 56 The Canterbury Tale?, The Prologue .... 59 A Roundel (from The Pariement of Foules) 69 Balade de Bon Conseyl 69 The Compleint of Chaucer to His. Empty Purse 69 A Treatise on the Astrolabe, Prologus 70 John de Trevisa (1326-1412) Higden's Polychronicon 71 THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES Thomas Hoccle\^ (i37o?-i45o?) De Regimine Principum (On Chaucer) ... 72 John Lytjgate (i37o?-i45i?) The Story of Thebes 73 Ballads (Authors unknown) Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 74 The Battle of Otterburn 77 Sir Patrick Spens 80 Captain Car, or Edom Gordon 81 Lord Randal 83 Hind Horn 83 St. Stephen and Herod 84 Sir Thomas Malory (i4oo?-i47o) Le Morte Darthur, Bk. XXI, Cap. V 84 William C.\xton (1422 ?-i 491) Preface to the Book of Eneydos 8fi Stephen Hawes (d. 1523) The Pastime of Pleasure The Mariage betwene Graunde Amour and Labell PuceU 86 John Skelton (1460?-! 5 29) A Dirge for PhyUip Sparowe 87 Colyn Cloute 88 The Nutbrowne Maide (c. 1500) (Author unknown) 88 Early Tudor Lyrics (c. 1500) Rehgious Lyric Wlio shall have my fayr lady? 92 Christmas Carols Thys ender nyght ' . . . 92 Quid petis, O fily ? 93 Make we mery, bothe more and lasse 93 WTiat cher ? Gud cher ! 94 Con\'ivial Songs Fyll the cuppe, Phylyppe 94 Make rome, syrs, and let us be mery 94 Love Songs LuUy, lulley, lulley, luUey 94 The lytyll, prety nyghtyngale 94 THE BEGINNING OF THE RENAISSANCE Sir THOiL\s More (1478-1535) A Dialogue of Syr Thomas More, Kt 95 William Tyndale (d. 1536) The Gospell of S. Mathew, Cap. V 96 Vl ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542) The Deserted Lover Consoleth Himself 97 The Lover Complaineth the Unkindness of His Love 98 A Description of Such a One as He Would Love 98 Of the Mean and Sure Estate 98 Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517?- .1547'' Description of Spring 100 Complaint of a l^over Rebuked 100 Description and Praise of His Love Geraldine 100 The Means to Attain a Happy Life 100 Virgil's yEneid, Bk. II 100 Roger Ascham (1515-1568) The Scholemaster : The First Booke for the Youth loi John Foxe (1516-1587) Acts and Monuments : The Behaviour of Ridlej' and Latimer 103 Thomas SACK\^LLE, Lord Buckhurst (i 536-1608) A Mirror for Magistrates : The Induc- tion 105 THE RENAISSANCE Edmund Spenser (i552?-i599) The Shepheards Calender : Februarie. . . 108 The Faerie Queene in Epithalamion 115 Amoretti 117 Prothalamion 118 An Hymn in Honour of Beauty 120 An Hymn of Heavenly Beauty 121 Sir Pihlip Sidney (1554-1586) Astrophel and Stella 122 The Nightingale 123 Hymn to Apollo 123 Arcadia, from Bk. 1 124 John Lyly (i 554-1606) Euphues and His England 127 Apelles' Song 128 Spring's Welcome 1 38 Fairy Revels 128 Thomas Lodge (i558?-i625) Rosalynde : Euphues' Golden Legacy .. . 129 Robert Greene (i56o?-i592) Sweet are th^ thoughts that savour of content 131 Philomela's Ode 131 Sephestia's Song to Her Child 132 The Shepherd's Wife's Song 132 A Groat's Worth of Wit, Bought with a Million of Repentance 133 Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) Hero and Leander, The First Sestiad 135 William Shakespeare (1564-1616) Venus and Adonis 137 Sonnets 139 Songs from the Plays 143 George Chapman (i559?-i634) The Twelfth Book of Homer's Odysseys 145 Samuel Daniel (1562-1619) Sonnets to Delia (XIX, LIV, LV) 146 Epistle to the Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumberland 147 Michael Drayton (1563-1631) Idea (IV, XX, XXXVII, LXI) 148 Ode XII, To the Cambro-Britans : Agin- court 149 Nymphidia, The Court of Fairy 150 Francis Bacon (1561-1626) Essays Of Truth 150 Of Marriage and Single Life 151 Of Great Place 152 Of Atheism 154 Of Wisdom for a Man's Self 155 Of Friendship 156 Of Youth and Age 159 Minor Poetry My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is — Sir Edward Dyer 160 The Silent Lover — Sir Walter Raleigh . 160 The Conclusion — Sir Walter Raleigh . . 160 Song of Paris and CEnone — George Peele 161 Harvestmen a-Singing — George Peele. . 161 Farewell to Arms — George Peele 161 The Burning Babe — Robert Southwell 161 Cherry Ripe — Thomas Campion 162 England's Helicon Phyllida and Corydon — N. Breton. . . . 162 As It Fell Upon a Day — Ignoto 162 Phyllida's Love-call to Her Corydon — Ignoto 162 The Shepherd's Description of Love — Ignoto 163 Damelus' .Song to his Diaphenia — H. C 164 A Nymph's Disdain of Love — Ignoto . . 164 Rosalind's Madrigal — Thom. Lodge. . . 164 The Passionate Shepherd to His Love — Chr. Marlowe 165 The NjTnph's Reply to the Shepherd — Ignoto 165 THE END OF THE RENAISSANCE Thomas Dekker (i57o?-i64i) Song from The Shoemaker's Holiday. . . . 166 Song from Old Fortunatus 166 Content (from Patient Grissill) 166 The GuU's Hornbook, Cap. VI 166 Ben Jonson (i573?-i637) Song to Celia 169 The Triumph of Charis 169 To the Memory of my Beloved, Master William Shakespeare 169 A Pindaric Ode 170 An Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy 171 Epitaph on Elizabeth, L. H 171 CONTENTS vu John Donne (15 73-1631) The Indifferent 171 Love's Deity 171 The Funeral 172 Forget 172 Death 172 John Fletcher (1579-1625) Sweetest Melancholy 173 Invocation to Sleep 173 Song to Bacchus 173 Bfeauty Clear and Fair 173 Weep No More 173 Dirge i73 Francis Beaumont (1584-1616) Master Francis Beaumont's Letter to Ben Jonson 174 William Deummond (1585-1649) Sonnet 174 Madrigal 1 174 John Ford (fl. 1639) Song from The Broken Heart 175 Dirge from The Broken Heart 175 George Wither (i 588-1667) Sonnet IV (from Fair Virtue) 175 Thomas Heywood (d. 1650?) Go, Pretty Birds ! 176 William Browne (i 591-1643) Britannia's Pastorals, Bk. II, Song V 176 Epitaph 176 On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke. 177 Robert Herrick (1591-1674) Cherry-Ripe 177 Corinna's Going a-Maying 177 To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time 178 Upon Julia's Clothes 178 To Daffodils 178 To Keep a True Lent 178 George Herbert (i 593-1633) Virtue 178 The Collar 179 Love 179 IzAAK Walton (1593-1683) The Complete Angler (extract) 179 Thomas Carew (i598?-i639?) Ask me no more where Jove bestows. ... 181 Would you know what's soft? 181 Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682) Hydriotaphia : Urn-Burial, Chap. V. . . . 181 Edmund Waller (1606-1687) The Story of Phoebus and Daphne, Applied 184 On a Girdle 184 Go, Lovely Rose ! 185 Thomas Fuller (1608-1661) The Holy State : The Life of Sir Francis Drake 185 John Milton (1608-1674) On the Morning of Christ's Nativity 189 L'Allegro 192 II Penseroso 193 Lycidas 195 John Milton (i 608-1674) (Continued) Sonnets At the Age of Twenty-three 198 When the Assault was intended to the City 198 To the Lord General Cromwell 198 On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 198 On his Blindness 199 To Cyriack Skinner 199 Paradise Lost, Bk. 1 199 Of Education 208 Areopagitica 210 Sir John Suckling (i 609-1642) The Constant Lover 214 Why so Pale and Wan 214 Richard Crashaw (i6i3?-i649) In the Holy Nativity of Our Lord God 214 Jeremy Taylor (1613-1667J The Rule and Exercises of Holy Dying, Chap. I, Sec. II 216 Sir John Denham (161 5-1669) Cooper's Hill 218 Richard Lox'elace (1618-1658) To Lucasta, Going to the Wars 218 The Grasshopper 218 To Althea, from Prison 218 Abraham Cowley (1618-1667) The Wish 219 Andrew M.arvell (1621-1678) The Garden 219 To his Coy Mistress 220 Henry Vaughan (1622-1695) The Retreat 221 The World 221 The Timber 221 THE RESTORATION John Dryden (1631-1700) Stanzas on Oliver Cromwell 222 Absalom and Achitophel 222 The Hind and the Panther 223 Alexander's Feast; or, The Power of Music 224 I>ines under the Portrait of Milton 226 An Essay of Dramatic Poesy 226 Samuel Pepys (i 633-1 703) His Diary (extract) 234 Samuel Butler (161 2-1680) Hudibras, Part I, Canto 1 237 John Oldham (1653-1683) A Satire Dissuading from Poetry 238 John Locke (1632-1704) Of the Conduct of the Understanding (extract) 238 John Bxinyan (1628-1688) The Fight with ApoUyon, from The Pilgrim's Progress 239 Vanity Fair, from The Pilgrim's Progress 241 Minor Lyrists Song : Love stiU has something of the sea — Sir Charles Sedley 243 To Celia — Sir Charles Sedley 243 Vlll ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY Minor Lyrists (Continued) Love and Life — John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester 244 Epitaph on Charles II — John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester 244 The Enchantment — Thomas Otway . . . 244 To his Mistress — John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester 244 THE CLASSICAL AGE Daniel Defoe (i66i?-i73i) An Academy for Women, from An Essay upon Projects 245 Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) A Tale of a Tub, Section II 248 A Modest Proposal 253 Sir Richard Steele (167 2-1 729) The Tatler (Nos. 95, 167, 264) 254 The Spectator (No. 11) 260 Joseph Addison (1672-1719) The Campaign 262 Hymn 262 The Spectator Aims of the Spectator 262 Thoughts in Westminster Abbey . . . 264 The Head-Dress 265 The Vision of Mirza 267 Hilpa and Shalum 269 The Sequel of the Story of Hilpa and Shalum 271 Matthew Prior (1664-1721) To a Child of Quality Five Years Old. . . 272 The Remedy Worse than the Disease. . . 272 To his Soul 272 Alexander Pope (i 688-1 744) An Essay on Criticism, Parts I, II 273 The Rape of the Lock 275 Eloisa to Abelard 285 An Essay on Man, Bk. 1 286 Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot 288 The Dunciad, Bk. IV 290 The Iliad, Bk. VI 290 John Gay (1685-1732) The Hare with Many Friends 291 Black-Eyed Susan 292 Edward Young (1683-1765) The Complaint, or Night Thoughts Man 292 Procrastination 203 THE TRANSITION Lady Winchilsea (i 661- 17 20) A Nocturnal Reverie 294 Robert Blair (i 699-1 746) The Grave 294 James Thomson (i 700-1 748) Winter : A Snow Scene 296 Summer : The Sheep-Washing 296 Spring : The Coming of the Rain 297 Autumn : Storm in Harvest 297 James Thomson (i 700-1 748) (Continued) The Castle of Indolence 298 Rule, Britannia 300 John Dyer (1700?-! 758) Grongar Hill 300 David Mallet (i 705-1 765) William and Margaret 301 Samuel Johnson (i 709-1784) Congreve 302 The Rambler (No. 69) 308 London '. . 309 The Vanity of Human Wishes 310 William Shenstone (i 714-1763) Written at an Inn at Henley 311 The School-Mistress 312 Thomas Gray (1716-1771) Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College 313 Elegy Written in a Country Church- yard 314 The Progress of Poesy : A Pindaric Ode 316 The Fatal Sisters : An Ode from the Norse Tongue 318 William Collins (17 21-1759) A Song from Shakespeare's Cymbelyne . 319 Ode (Written in the beginning of the year 1746) 319 Ode to Evening 319 The Passions : An Ode to Music 320 Thomas Warton (1728-1790) Sonnet IV. Written at Stonehenge 322 Oliver Goldsmith (i 728-1 774) The Chinese Goes to See a Play (from Letters from a Citizen of the World) 322 The Deserted Village 324 Retaliation 329 Edmund Burke (1729-1797) Speech on the Nabob of Arcot's Debts. . 331 Reflections on the Revolution in France 335 William Cowper (1731-1800) The Task, from Bks. I, II, V 336 On the Loss of the Royal George 338 On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture 338 James Macpherson (?) (i 736-1 796) The Poems of Ossian : Cath-Loda, Duan III 340 James Boswell (i 740-1 795) The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D., Chap. XIII 341 Junius Letter XV, to the Duke of Grafton 351 Thomas Chatterton (i 752-1 770) Bristowe Tragedie ; or, The Dethe of Syr Charles Bawdin 353 The Account of W. Canynges Feast. . . . 358 George Crabbe (1754-1832) Tales: The Lover's Journey, Tale X 358 William Blake (i 757-1827) Songs of Innocence : Introduction 359 Songs of Experience The Clod and the Pebble 359 CONTENTS IX Willi A.M Blake (i 757-1827) (Continued) The Sick Rose 360 The Tiger 360 A Poison Tree 360 Ideas of Good and Evil Auguries of Innocence 360 Two Kinds of Riches 360 Love's Secret 360 Minor Scottish Poets William Julius Mickle (173 5-1 788) There's Nae Luck About the House. ... 361 Jane Elliot (1727-1805) The Elowers of the Forest 361 Robert Fergusson (1750-1774) Caller Water 362 Robert Burns (1759-1796) Song : Green grow the rashes 362 Address to the Deil 363 Lines to John Lapraik 364 To a Mouse 364 The Cotter's Saturday Night 365 Address to the Unco Guid 368 To a Mountain Daisy 369 A Bard's Epitaph 369 Tam O'Shanter 370 Bonie Doon 372 Ae Fond Kiss 373 Bonie Lesley 373 Highland Mary 373 Duncan Gray 374 Scots Wha Hae 374 A Man's a Man for a' That 374 THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL William Wordsworth (1770-1850) Preface to "Lyrical Ballads" 376 We are Seven 382 Expostulation and Reply 383 The Tables Turned 384 Lines Composed a few miles above Tintem Abbey 384 Lucy 386 Three years she grew 386 A slumber did my spirit seal 386 Lucy Gray ; or, Solitude 386 The Recluse 387 To the Cuckoo 388 My heart leaps up when I behold 389 The Solitary Reaper 389 She was a phantom of delight 389 I wandered lonely as a cloud 390 Ode to Duty : 390 Personal Talk 391 Ode : Intimations of Immortality 391 To a Sky-Lark 394 Sonnets On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic 394 September, 1802, Near Dover 394 Thought of a Briton 394 London, 1802 395 William Wordsworth (1770-1850) (Continued) Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1802 395 On the Sea-Shore Near Calais 395 The world is too much with us 395 To Sleep 395 The River Duddon 396 Most sweet it is 396 Scorn not the sonnet 396 Samuel Taylor Coleridge (177 2-1834) Biographia Literaria, Chap. XIV 396 Kubla Khan ; or, A Vision in a Dream 399 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 400 Christabel 415 Robert Southey (17 74-1843) The Well of St. Keyne 416 Francis Jeffrey (1773-1850) "The White Doe of Rylstone" 416 Sir Walter Scott (177 i- 183 2) The Lay of the Last Minstrel : The Lay of Rosabelle 417 Marmion : Christmas in the Olden Time 418 The Lady of the Lake : Soldier, Rest ! thy Warfare O'er 419 The Lady of the Lake : Fitz- James and Roderick Dhu 419 Charles Lamb (17 75-1 834) The Two Races of Men 422 Mrs. Battle's Opinion on Whist 425 A Chapter on Ears 428 The Old Familiar Faces 431 ^Thomas Campbell (177 7-1844) Ye Mariners of England (A Naval Ode) 431 Battle of the Baltic 432 Thomas Moore (1779-185 2) The time I've lost in wooing 433 Oft in the stilly night 433 'Tis the last rose of summer 433 The harp that once through Tara's hall 433 Leigh Hunt (1784-1859) Rondeau 434 Fairies' Song 434 Thomas de Quincey (i 785-1859) The Confessions of an English Opium- Eater 434 George Noel Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824) English Bards and Scotch Reviewers . . . 443 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 445 Sonnet on ChiUon 451 The Prisoner of Chillon 451 Ode : Oh Venice ! Venice ! 455 Know ye the land 457 She walks in beauty 457 So, we'll go no more a roving 457 Charles Wolfe (1791-1823) The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna 458 Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) Alastor ; or. The Spirit of Solitude 458 Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 459 Sonnet : Ozymandias 460 Lines Written among the Euganean HiUs 460 ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY Percy Bysshe Shelley (i 792-1822) (Continued) Ode to the West Wind 462 The Indian Serenade 463 The Cloud 464 To a Skj'lark 465 To — (Music when soft voices die) 466 Adonais 466 Final Chorus from Hellas 473 To Night 474 To — (One word is too often profaned) 474 John Keats (1795-1821) Ode to a Nightingale 474 Ode on a Grecian Urn 475 To Autumn 476 Ode : Bards of Passion and of Mirth 477 Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 477 La Belle Dame sans Merci 477 Sonnets The Grasshopper and the Cricket 478 On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 478 To Sleep 478 On the Sea 478 When I have fears 479 Bright Star ! 479 Endymion 479 Hyperion 481 The Eve of St. Agnes 482 Walter Savage Landor (i 775-1864) ^sop and Rhodope 487 Rose Aylmer 492 A Fiesolan Idyl 492* To Robert Browiiing 492 Why 493 On his Seventy-fifth Birthday 493 On Death 493 Thomas Hood (i 798-1845) The Song of the Shirt 493 Ruth 494 WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PrAED (1802-1B39) The Belle of the Ball-Room 494 Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803-1849) Dream Pedlary 495 Death's Jest-Book (Song) 496 THE VICTORIAN AGE Thomas Carlyle (i 795-1881) Sartor Resartus, Bk. II, Chaps. VII, VIII, IX 497 Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay (1800-1859) The History of England, Vol. I, Chap. Ill (extract) 510 John Henry, Cardinal Newman (i8oi- 1890) The Idea of a University : Discourse VI (extract) 518 Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) The Lady of Shalott 523 A Dream of Fair Women 524 Morte D'Arthur 528 Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) {Continued) Ulysses 532 Locksley Hall 532 St. Agnes Eve 537 Sir Galahad 537 Break, break, break 538 Wages 538 The Higher Pantheism 538 Maud (XXII) 539 In Memoriam Proem, I, XXVII, XXXI, XXXII, LIV, LVII, XCVI, CVI, CXXX, Epilogue 540 Sir John Franklin 543 To Dante 543 The Silent Voices 543 Merlin and the Gleam 543 Crossing the Bar 545 Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861) Sonnets from the Portuguese (I, VII, XIV, XVII, XX, XXI, XXII, XXVIII, XLIII) 545 The Cry of the Children 547 A Musical Instrument 549 Robert Browning (181 2-1889) Cavalier Tunes Marching Along 549 Give a Rouse 550 "How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix" 550 Song: Nay but you, who do not love her 551 Evelyn Hope 551 Home-Thoughts, from Abroad 552 Saul 552 Song : My Star 554 My Last Duchess 554 A Grammarian's Funeral 555 "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" 556 Era Lippo Lippi 559 One Word More 564 Abt Vogler 567 Rabbi Ben Ezra 569 Apparitions 572 Wanting is — What? 572 Never the time and the place 572 The Epilogue to Asolando 572 William Makepeace Thackeray (181 i- 1863) The English Humorists : Sterne 573 Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861) Qua Cursum Ventus 578 "With Whom is no Variableness" 579 Easter Day 579 "Perche Pensa?" 581 Say not the struggle nought availeth 581 John Ruskin (1819-1900) The Stones of Venice, Vol. II, Chap. IV 582 The Crown of Wild Olive : Preface 584 Frederick Locker-Lampson(i82 1-1895) To My Grandmother 590 The Unrealized Ideal 590 CONTENTS XI Sidney Dobell (1824-1874) i\merica 59^ Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) Culture and Anarchy : Sweetness and Light 591 Shakespeare 602 The Forsaken Merman 602 To Marguerite 603 _ Morality 604 The Future 604 Sohrab and Rustum 605 Philomela 616 The Scholar Gipsy 617 The Last Word 620 Edward Fitzgerald (1809-1883) The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam 621 Coventry Patmore (1823-1896) The Angel in the House : Preludes Bk. I, Canto III : I. The Lover ... 623 Bk. I, Canto VHI : I. Life of Life 623 II. The Revelation 624 III. The Spirit's Epochs 624 The Unknown Eros : The Toys 624 Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) The Blessed Damozel 624 Sister Helen 626 The Ballad of Dead Ladies, from Frangois Villon 629 Francesca da Rimini, from Dante 629 On Refusal of Aid between Nations 630 The Sonnet 630 Love-Sight 630 Love-Sweetness 630 Mid-Rapture 631 Soul-Light 631 Known in Vain 631 The Landmark 631 The Choice 632 Vain Virtues 632 Lost Days 633 A Superscription 633 The One Hope 633 William Morris (1834-1896) The Earthly Paradise Proem 633 Prologue 634 The Lady of the Land 634 Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837- 1909) Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon 640 The Garden of Proserpine 641 Itylus 642 Etude R6aliste (I, II, III) 643 The Salt of the Earth , 643 Sonnets On Lamb's Specimens of Dramatic Poets 644 ' Hope and Fear 644 After Sunset 644 George Meredith (1828-1909) Love in the \'alley 644 Juggling Jerry 648 Bellerophon 649 Lucifer in Starlight 650 Ask, is love divine 650 Song of the Songless 650 Dirge in Woods 650 Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) The Prince's Progress : The Bride-Song 650 A Birthday 651 Song : WTien I am dead 651 The First Day 651 Remember 652 Rest , 652 The Lowest Place 652 James Thomson (i 834-1 882) The City of Dreadful Night 652 Sunday up the River 653 Art 654 Walter Pater (i 839-1 894) Style 654 The Child in the House 657 Robert Loms Ste\'enson (1850-1894) Franfois Villon 662 NOTES INDEX OF AUTHORS INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES. 677 781 783 ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY EARLY MIDDLE ENGLISH THE ANGLO-SAXON CHRONICLE (c. 1154) A MONK OF PETERBOROUGH From THE RECORD FOR 1137 This gaere ^ for ^ the king Stephne ofer sae ^ to Normandi, and ther wes * underfangen,^ for-thi-that ^ hi ^ uuenden * that he sculde * ben 1° alsuic " alse ^^ the eom '^ wes, and for ^ he hadde get " his tresor ; ac ^^ he to-deld ^^ it and scatered sotHce.^^ Micel ^^ hadde Henri king gadered gold and sylver, and na ^^ god -° ne dide me -^^ for his saule '- tharof .^ Tha ^ the king Stephne to Englalande com, 2^ tha ^^ macod ^^ he his gadering ^* ast Oxeneford ; and thar he nam ^^ the biscop Roger of Sereberi,^" and Alexander biscop of Lincol and te ^\ Canceler Roger his neves,^^ and dide ^^ aslle in prisun til hi ' iafen ^ up here ^^ castles. Tha ^ the suikes ^^ under- gaeton ^'' that he milde man was and softe and god 2" and na ^* justise ^* ne dide, tha '^^ diden hi " alle wunder.^^ Hi ' hadden him *° man- red * maked -^ and athes ''^ suoren ^ ac ^^ hi nan " treuthe ne heolden.'*^ Alle he ^ wasron *^ forsworen, and here ^^ treothes for- loren ; *^ for aevric *'' rice ^* man his castles makede,*^ and agaenes ^ him heolden,^^ and fylden ^^ the land f ul of castles. Hi suencten ^ suythe ^ the uurecce *^ men of the land mid ^^ castel weorces.^^ Tha ^ the castles uuaren *^ maked, tha ^ fylden hi mid deovles and yvele ^' men. Tha ^* namen ^° hi tha ^' men the ^^ hi wenden ^ that ani god " hefden,^^ bathe ^^ be ^^ nihtes ' j'ear ^ went ^ sea ■* was ^ received ® because ^ the^ * weened, thought ^ should ^"^ be ^^ just such '- as ^^ uncle ^^ yet ^'^ but ^^ dispersed ^^ foolishly '* much '^ no ^ good ^^ anyone ^^ soul ^^ on account of it ^ when ^* came ^^ then ^^ made ^ assembly ^ seized ^^ Salisbury ^' the ^^ nephews (i.e. the son and nephew of Roger of Salisbury) ^'put ^^gave This year went King Stephen over the sea to Normandy and was received there, be- cause they thought that he was going to be just such as his uncle was, and because he still had his uncle's treasure; but he dis- persed it and scattered it foolishly. Much had Henry the king gathered of gold and silver, and no good did anyone for his soul by means of it. When King Stephen came to England, then he made his assembly at Oxford ; and there he seized the bishop Roger of Salisbury and Alexander, bishop of Lincoln, and the Chan- cellor Roger, his nephews, and put them all in prison till they gave up their castles. When the traitors perceived that he was a mild man and soft and good, and enforced no justice, then did they all wonders. They had done homage to him and sworn oaths, but they kept no troth. But they were all forsworn and their troths were entirely abandoned ; for every powerful man built his castles and held against him, and they filled the land fuE of castles. They op- pressed grievously the wretched men of the land with castle-building. When the castles were built, then they filled them with devils and evil men. Then they seized the men who they thought had any property, both by night and by day, ^^ traitors ^ perceived ^ justice, punish- strange things, evils *° to him ^^ homage *^ sworn ^ kept ^^ were ^ entirely aban- every ^ powerful ^^ built ^ against ^' held ^^ their ^® traitors ^ perceived ^ justice, punisl ment ^' strange things, evils *° to him *^ homaj *- oaths •'^ sworn •" kept ^^ were ^ entirely abai doned ^'^ every ^ powerful ^^ built ^ against ^' hel ^- filled ^ oppressed ^ greatly ^* wretched ^ with ^^ works ^ then ^' evil ®° seized ®^ those ®^ wh ^^ weened, thought ®"' property "" iivy^v. ..'ho ** both ®' by THE POEMA MORALE and be daeies, carlmen ^ and wlmmen, and diden ^ heom ^ in prisun efter •* gold and sylver, and pined ^ heom untellendlice ^ pining,'' for ne uuaeren* naevre ^ nan martyrs swa ^" pined alse ^' hi wasron. Me ^- henged '^ up bi the fet " and smoked heom mid ful '^ smoke. Me henged bi the thumbes, other "^ bi the hefed/^ and hengen '^^ bryniges ^^ on her ?" fet. Me dide ^ cnotted strenges '^^ abuton -^ here ^ haeved '" and uurythen^^ to -^ that it gaede ^^ to the hasrnes.^^ Hi dyden heom in quarterne ^^ thar ^^ nadres -^ and snakes and pades ^^ waeron inne, and drapen *^ heom swa.^° . . . I ne can ne I ne mai '^ tellen alle the wun- der 33 ne alle the pines ^* that hi diden wrecce ^^ men on ^ this land ; and that lastede tha .xix. wintre ^^ wile ^^ Stephne was king, and aevre ^^ it was uuerse ^ and uuerse. men and women also, and thrust them in prison for gold and silver, and tortured them with unspeakable tortures, for never were any martyrs so tortured as they were. They were hanged up by the feet and smoked with foul smoke. They were hanged by the thumbs, or by the head, and coats of mail were hung on their feet. Knotted strings were put about their heads and twisted till they penetrated to the brains. They put them in dungeons in which Vv'ere adders and snakes and toads, and killed them thus. . . . I cannot and I may not teU all the wonders nor all the tortures that they did to wretched men in this land ; and that lasted the nineteen years while Stephen was king, and ever it was worse and worse. From THE POEMA MORALE, OR MORAL ODE (c. 1170) (Unknown Author) Ich ■" aem elder then ich "^ wes, a wintre and a lore ; '^ Ic •^ waelde '^ more thanne ic dude,^* mi wit ah '^ to ben more. Wei lange ic ^ habbe *^ child ibeon ^" a weorde and ech '^^ a dede ; Theh ^^ ic beo ^^ a wintre eald,^^ to ying ^^ I eom ^^ a rede.^ Unnut ^ lyf ic habb ilaed,^'' and yiet,^^ me- thincth, ic lede ; Thanne ic me bethenche,^' wel sore ic me adrede.'* Mest ■''' al thajt ic habbe ydon ''** ys idelnesse and chilche ; " Wel late ic habbe me bithoht, bute ^'^ me God do milce.*'^ Fele ""'^ ydele word ic habbe iqueden ^'^ syth- then '^'^ ic speke cuthe,*^" And fale '^ yunge '^^ dede ido, thet me of- thinchet '^^ nuthe.'" 10 ^ put 3 them ''after {i.e ^ tortured '' unspeakable '' torture ^ ^^ so '^ as " feet ^^ foul ^'' or " head i** hung '^ corselets (as weights) ^^ their 2' cords ^^ about ^^ twisted ^ till ^* went, penetrated ^'^ brains ^' prison 2* where ^'■' adders ^o toads ^i killed ^'^ may ^ evils 34 tortures ^5 wretched ^c j^ 37 yg^rs I am older than I was in winters and in lore; I govern more than e'er I did, my wisdom should be more. Full long time have I been a child in word and eke in deed ; Though I be in winters old, too young am I in rede. Useless is the life I lead, and long, methinks, have led ; When I remember me of this, full sore am I a-dread. Nearly all that I have done is childish and of naught ; But, save God show me mercy now, too late is this my thought. Many idle speeches have I spoken since speech to me was lent ; And many a foolish deed have done, that I must now repent. lo ^ men 2 put 3 them '' after {i.e. to obtain) 38 while 39 ever *' worse ''^ I ^- in years and in tortured '' unspeakable '' torture ^ were ^ never knowledge ''3 govern "*' did ^^ ought '^ have so '^ as *'^ one (i.e. they iiidefinilc) '3 hanged '^ been ''^ also ■•' though ^ am ^^ old ^^ young feet ^^ foul ^'' or ^^ head ^^ hung ^^ corselets ''■' counsel "^ useless ^^ led ^ still ^^ betBink f^ I am frightened '^^ almost ™ done «i child- ishness ""^ unless *'3 mercy ^"^ many ^^ spoker •'•' since •■'" could '^ young, silly ^^ repents ™ nov ;n now THE POEMA MORALE Al to lome ^ ic habbe aguit ^ a weorche ^ and ec ^ a worde ; Al to muchel ic habbe ispend, to litel yleid '" an horde. Mest ^ al that me licede ^ ser,* nu hit ^ me mislicheth ; ^° The ^^ mychel ^^ folyeth ^^ his ywil, him sulfne he biswiketh." Ich mihte habbe bet ^^ idon, hadde ic tho ^® yselthe ; ^' Nu ic wolde, ac ^^ ic ne mei ^' for elde ^° ne for unhelthe ; ^' Ylde ^ me is bistolen on, £er ic hit awyste ; ^ Ne mihte ic iseon ^ before me for smeche -^ ne for miste. ^rwe -^ we beoth ^s to done god, and to yfele ^' al to thriste ; -^ More aeie -^ stent ^^ man of manne thanne him do of Criste. 20 The ^^ wel ne deth '^ the hwile he mei,"^ wel oft hit hym scael ruwen,-^''' Thaenne ?* hy '" mowen sculen ^^ and ripen,^' ther ^^ hi aer seowen.^^ Don ec *> to Gode wet ^^ ye muye,-^ the hwile ye buth -^' a life ; Ne hdpie no man ^ to muchel to childe ne to wyfe ; The " him selve for}'-ut ^ for wife other for childe, He sceal cume an uvele stede ** bute *^ hym God beo milde. Sende aech ■** sum god biforen hym, the hwile he mei, to heovene ; Bet ere is an elmesse "*" bifore thenne been asfter seovene. Ne beo the leovre ^^ thene the sulf thj[ mei ■** ne thi maye ^ Sot '"^ is the " is othres mannes freond betre thene his aye.*^ 30 Ne hopie *^ wif to hire were,^ ne wer ^* to his wife ; Beo ^^ for him sulve aevrich ^^ man, the hwyle he beo ^" alive. Wis ** is the ^^ him sulfne bithencth ™ the hwile he mote ^^ libbe,^^ For sone ^^ wulleth ^ him foryite ^° the fremde ^ and the sibbe.^^ All too often have I sinned in deed and eke in word ; All too freely have I spent, too Uttle laid in hoard. Almost all I now mislike of things I liked of yore ; Who follows over-much his will, betrays him- self the more. Had fortune only favored me, I might have done more good ; Now for weakness and for age, I may not, though I would. Old age is stolen me upon, ere that I it wist ; I could not see before me for the smoke and for the mist. Timid we are in doing good, in evil all too bold ; More awe of man than awe of Christ doth every person hold. 20 Who doth not well, the while he may, shall often rue it sore. When comes the time to mow and reap what he has sovi-n before. Do ye for God the best ye may, the while ye are in life ; And let no man hope overmuch in child nor yet in wife. He who doth himself forget for wife or else for child Shall come into an evil place save God to him be mild. Let each some good before him send, the while he may, to heaven ; For better is one alms before than afterward are seven. And hold not dearer than thyself thy kins- man or thy son ; Foolish to be another's friend rather than thine own. 3° And let no wife in husband hope, nor husband in his wife ; Be each man for himself alone, the while he is in life. Wise is who bethinks himself the while he liveth yet ; For him will stranger — ay, and friend, soon enough forget. ^ all too often ~ sinned ^ deed * also ^ laid ^ al- s? pg^p 3S ^yhere ^^ sowed ''° also ^^ what ^- let no most ■ pleased ^ formerly ^ it ^^ displeases " who man hope ^ forgets •" in evil place '^ unless '2 much 'follows "betrays ^^ better 1*^ then ^^ each •*' one alms ■'^dearer •*» kinsman ^ son i^good fortune i^but "may not .20 age ^i weak- ^i fooiig^ ^^ ovm ^ hope not ^ man ^^ be ^6 every ness 22 before I knew it '-* see ^-i smoke ^ timid 67 jg 5s ^jgg 69 ^.^q go bethinks ®^ may ^- live ^ are ^ evil ^^ bold ^9 awe, fear ^ arises to ^i doth 63 goon «* will ^^ forget ^ stranger «" kinsman ^^good fortune ^^but '^may not .^''age ^^ weak- ness ^^ before I knew it -* see ^^ smoke ^ timid ^ are ^ evil ^^ bold -^ awe, fear ^ arises to ^' doth *^ may ^ shall repent ^^ when ^^ they ^^ shall ORRM The ^ wel ne deth ^ the hwile he mei,^ ne sceal he hwenne he wolde. Manies mannes sare iswinch habbeth oft unholde.'' Ne scolde nan man don a furst,^ ne sclawen ^ wel to done ; For mani man bihateth ^ wel, the^ hit for- yiteth sone. The man the ^ siker * wule beon to habbe Codes blisse, Who doth not well, the while he may, he shall not when he would ; Many a man's sore labor oft cometh to no good. In doing good let none postpone or ever make delay ; For many a man doth promise well who yet forgets straightway. The man who would be safe and sure of having God's own bliss Do wel him sulf the hwile he mei, then haveth If he do well the while he may, he verily shall he mid iwisse.^ 40 not miss. 40 ORRM (11. 1200) From THE ORRMULUM Nu, ^^ bro]?err Wallterr, bro])err min Affterr ])e flaeshess kinde ; " & bro}?err min i ^^ Crisstenndom purrh fulluhht ^^ & >urrh troww>e ; ^^ & bro])err min i ^^ Godess hus, Set o^^ J?e )?ride ^^ wise,^^ J)urrh ]?att witt ^** hafenn ^^ takenn ba 2" An -^ reahellboc ^^ to foll^henn,^'' Unnderr kanunnkess ^^ had ^^ & lif , Swa summ ^^ Sannt Awwstin sette ; '^''■ Ice hafe ^^ don swa summ ^^ )?u badd,^* & forjjedd »» te ^i >in wiUe, Ice hafe ^^ wennd ^^ inntil ^^ Ennglissh Goddspelless halljhe lare,^* Affterr l?att little witt ^^ tatt ^^ me Min Drihhtin hafe}>}) lenedd ^^ pu l^ohhtesst ^* tatt ^ itt mihhte wel Till ^^ mikell frame ^^ turrnenn, 5iff *^ Ennglissh foUk, forr lufe off Crist, Itt wollde Jerne ''^ lernenn, & foUjhenn ^'^ itt, & fillenn « itt Wi]?l> J?ohht, ^■* w\])]) word, wi]?)? dede. & forrj>i ^^ §errndesst ^^ tu J?att ice piss werrc ^' Ipe shollde wirrkenn ; & ice itt hafe forl^edd ™ te,"^' Ace ^^ all l?urrh Cristess hellpe ; & unnc birrf) ''^ baj)e ^° Jjannkenn Crist patt itt iss brohht till ^^ ende. Ice hafe sammnedd ''• o ""^ )?iss boc pa Goddspelless neh '-^"^ alle 30 ' who ^ doth ^ may * many a man's sore labor hath often misfortime '"' no man should postpone * delay ^ promises * sure ^ then he hath it certainly '"now "nature '^ in '^ through baptism '''faith '^ on "" third '^ waj', degree '* we two '^ have ™ both *' one ^ rule-book ^'' follow ^ canon's ^^ order '® just as ^ commanded ^ 1 have ^^ badest ^ ac- Now, brother Walter, brother mine After the fleshly nature ; And brother mine in Christendom Through baptism and through fealty ; And brother mine in God's own house In still another manner, In that we two have taken both One book of rules to follow, Within the life of canonhood. Just as St. Austin ordered ; 10 As thou didst bid me, I have done, Thy will for thee fulfilling ; For into English I have turned The gospel's holy teaching, According to the little wit With which my Lord endowed me. Thou thoughtest that it might full well Be turned to mickle profit If English folk, for love of Christ, It zealously would study, 20 And follow it, and it fulfil, With thought, with word, with action. And therefore thou didst yearn that I This book for thee should render ; And I for thee have finished it, As Christ the Lord did help me ; And now behooves us both thank Christ That it is brought to ending. I have collected in this book Now nearly all the gospels 30 complished •''' thee ^'■^ turned ^^ into '^ holy lore ^^ wit, intelligence ^'' that ^' my Lord has lent ^^ thoughtest ^^ to ^^ great benefit "^ \i ^ eagerly ^^ fulfil *"• with thought ^^ therefore *^ desiredst ''^ wo'rk ^^ but ^"^ us two it behooves ^ both " col- lected ^^ in ^^ nigh, near LAYAMON patt sinndenn ' o the messeboc ^ Inn all Jje aer ^ att messe. & all * affterr |>e Goddspell stannt ^ patt tatt '^ te Goddspell menejp})/ patt mann birr]? spellenn ^ to J?e folic Off J)e33re ^ sawle nede ; & 3et taer tekenn mare inoh ^^ pu shallt tasronne " findenn Ofif |)att tatt 8 Cristess halljhe l^ed ^^ BirrJ? ^^ trowwenn ^* wel & follahenn.^^ Ice hafe sett her o ^® ]?iss hoc Amang Goddspelless wordess, All ]>urrh me sellfenn,^" mania word pe rime ^* swa ^^ to fillenn ; Ace ]>u. shallt finndenn }?att min word, EjJwhaer l^aer -° itt iss ekedd,^' Ma^a hellpenn ])a. ~ l?att redenn itt To sen & tunnderrstanndenn ^ All })ess te bettre hu ])ellm birrjj ^* pe Goddspell unnderrstanndenn ; & forrj^i '^ trowwe ice }>att te -'' birrj? Wel ]?olenn -'' mine wordess, Ejjwhcer Ipsdv ^^ })u shallt findenn hemm ^^ Amang Godspelless wordess. That all the year at mass are found Within the holy massbook. And aye after the gospel stands That which the gospel meaneth, Which must be told unto the folk, Because the soul doth need it ; And still within it thou shalt find Enough and more there written Of what the holy flock of Christ 40 Must well believe and follow. I have set down here in this book, Among the words of gospel, All of myself full many a word. To fill the measure merely ; But thou shalt find here that my word, W^herever it is added, May help the people who shall read To see and understand too The better how it them behooves 50 To understand the gospel ; And therefore trow I that thou must Endure my words with patience. Wherever thou shalt find them set Among the words of gospel. 40 50 LAYAMON (c. 1205) From THE BRUT Arthur for ^a to Cornwale Mid unimete ferde ; ^° 28530 Modred that iherde ^^ And him togeines heolde ^^ ]Mid unimete ^ folke. Ther weore monie vaeie ! ^^ Uppen there Tambre ^'^ Heo ^^ tuhten ^' to gadere ; The stude hatte ^* Camelford ; Ever-mare Hast that like weorde ! ^^ And at Camelforde wes isomned ^'^ Sixti thusend And ma thusend there-to ; ^ Modred wes heore aelder.*- Tha *^ thiderward gon '*'' ride 28540 Arthur the riche *^ ^ are ^ mass-book ^ j'ear ^ always ^ stands ® that that, that which " means * that it be- hooves one to tell * of their ^^ and besides that, enough more ^^ therein ^ hoh' people ^^ behooves ^* believe ^^ follow ^^ here in ^'' by m3-self ^* rhythm, measure ^^ so ^^ everj'where where ^^ added ^ those ^ to understand ^* all the better for this how it behooves them ^^ therefore ^® thee -^ endure, per- Arthur went to Cornwall, The host with him was countless ; 28530 Modred heard the tidings And took his way against him With host no man could number. Many there were death-doomed ! By the river Tamar The troops came together ; The place was christened Camelford ; Forever-more shall last that word ! And at Camelford was assembled Sixty thousand And thousands many more too ; Modred was their leader. Then thitherward went riding 28540 Arthur the royal mit ^^ them ^^ went ^° with a numberless army ^^ heard ^^ and went against him ^^ numberless ^^ there were many fey (fated to die) '^ upon the Tamar (a river) ^® they '" came ^* the place was called ^' ever-more shall last that same word (name) ^ was gathered ■" and more thousands besides ^ was their leader "^^ then ^did '^^ great LAYAMON Mid unimete folke, Vaeie thah hit weore.* Uppe there Tambre Heo tuhte ^ to-somne ; ' Heven here-marken;"^ Halden ^ to-gadere ; Luken sweord longe,® Leiden o ' the helmen ; Fur ut sprengen,* 28550 Speren brasthen ; * Sceldes gonnen scanen,^" Scaftes to-breken." Ther faht ^^ al to-somne " Folc unimete. Tambre wes on flode ** Mid unimete ^^ blode. Mon i than fihte Non ^^ ther ne mihte I-kenne nenne kempe/^ No 1* wha dude ^^ wurse, no wha bett^** Swa that withe ^^ wes imenged ; "^ 28562 For aelc ^^ sloh ^^ adun riht, Weore he swein,^^ weore he cniht.^® Ther wes Modred of-slawe -' And idon of Uf-dawe ^* 29* ***** * * * in than fihte. Ther weoren of-slawe ^^ Alle tha snelkj^" Arthures hired-men,^^ 28570 Heye and lawe,'^ And tha Bruttes ^ alle Of Arthures borde,^* And alle his fosterlinges '* Of feole kineriches,^* And Arthur forwunded Mid wal-spere brade.^^ Fiftene he hafde Feondliche wundcn ; ^^ Mon mihte i thare lasten ** 28580 Twa gloven ithrastc.'"' Tha ^^ nas ther na mare I than fehte to lave ■*'^ Of twa hundred thuscnd monnen ''' Tha '^ ther leien ^'^ to-hauwcn ""^ Buten ''^ Arthur the king ane *® And of his cnihtes tweien.^' * fey though they were ^ they came ' together ^ raised battle-standards ^ rushed * locked long swords ' laid on, struck upon ^ made fire leap out ' rattled spears ^^ shields did shiver '' shafts broke to pieces ^^ fought '^together '''a-flood '^measure- less ''"' no man in the iight ^'' recognize no warrior '** nor '' did ^* better ^' conflict ^ confused ^^ each With army unnumbered, Doomed though they all were. By the river Tamar The troops came together; Raised their royal standards ; Rushed there together ; Long swords locked they, Laying blows on helmets ; Sparks they struck out, 28550 Spears did rattle ; Shields were a- shaking, Shafts were a-breaking. There fought all together Folk beyond counting. Tamar was a flood With measureless blood. Of men in the fight there Nobody might there Distinguish any warrior, Nor who did better, who did worse. So was that conflict mingled ; 28562 For each struck adown right. Were he yeoman, or were he knight. There was Modred stricken, And life in him did sicken. * * * in that conflict. There fell in that battle All of the brave ones, Arthur's own henchmen, 28570 The high and the lowly, And all the Britons Of Arthur's board too, And all his fosterlings Of foreign nations many, And Arthur sorely wounded With broad blade of war-spear. Fifteen times was he Fiendishly wounded ; Even into the smallest 28580 Two gloves might one have thrust. Then were there in that battle Left among the living Of two hundred thousand soldiers Who lay there slaughtered But Arthur the king only And two of his warriors. ^'* struck ^^ yeoman ^^ knight ^'^ slain ^* and put from life-days ^^ A line or more is missing here. ^^ the brave ^' retainers ^ high and low ^^ the Britons ^* table ^^ wards ^^ many kingdoms *' with broad slaughter-spear ^ dreadful wounds ^' in the least ^^ thrust ^1 then ^ in the fight remaining " men ** who ** lay *" hewed to pieces *^ but ^^ alone ^* two THE BRUT Arthur wes for-wunded Wunder ane swithe.' Ther to him com a cnave ^ 28590 The ^ wes of his cunne ; * He wes Cadores sune. The Eorles of Cornwaile. Constantin hehte ^ the cnave ; He wes than ^ kinge deore. Arthur him lokede on, Ther he lai on folden/ And thas word * seide ]\Iid sorhfulle heorte : " Constantin, thu art wUcume ! 28600 Thu weore ^ Cadores sone ! Ich the bitache here ^° Mine kineriche ; " And wite '^ mine Bruttes A to thines Ufes ; ^^ And hald heom ^* alle tha lawen ^^ Tha habbeoth istonden a mine dawen,^® And alle tha lawen gode Tha bi Utheres dawen stode. And ich wuUe varen ^' ta Avalun 28610 To vairest ^^ aire ^^ maidene, To Argante there -" quene, Alven swithe sceone ; ^ And heo ^ seal mine wainden Makien alle isunde,-^ Al hal ^* me makien IVIid haleweiye drenchen.^^ And seothe ^® ich cumen wulle To mine kineriche ^" And wunien ^^ mid Brutten 28620 Mid muchelere womne." ^' ^fne than worden ^ Ther com of se wenden ^' That wes an sceort bat lithen,^ Sceoven mid uthen ; ^ And twa wimmen ther-inne Wunderliche idihte.^ And heo nomen Arthur anan,^^ And an eovste hine vereden,^^ And softe hine adun leiden, 28630 And forth gunnen lithen.^^ Tha ^* wes hit iwnirthen ^' That Merlin seide whilen,*' That weore unimete care ^ * wondroirely much ^ young man ^ who * kin ^ was named ® to the ^ the ground ^ these words ® thou wert *" I commit to thee here ^^ kingdom ^ defend ^^ ever during thy life ^* keep for them ^^ customs, laws ^^ that have stood in my days ^' I will go ^* fairest ^' of all " the 21 elf very beautiful ^ she 23 weU ^ whole 28590 28600 28610 Arthur was wounded Wondrous severely. To him came a child then Who was of his kindred ; He was Cador's first-born, Who Earl was of Cornwall. Constantine his name was; He was to the king dear. Arthur looked upon him. As he lay on the ground there, And these words spake he With heart fuU of sorrow : " Constantine, welcome art thou ! Thou wert Cador's first-born ! To thee do I commit here • The care of my kingdom ; And guard well my Britons Ever whilst thou livest ; And keep, thou all the customs That loved were in my Hfe-time, And all the customs splendid That Uther's reign attended. And I will fare to Avalon To the fairest of aU maidens, Where Queen Argante tarries, Most beautiful of fairies ; And she shall every wound Make both whole and sound, All whole shall she make me With health-giving potions. And come shall I hereafter Back to my kingdom And abide with my Britons With bhss forever. " E'en as he was speaking There came from sea speeding A very small boat gliding Before the waves a-riding ; And women twain within it Wondrously attired. And they raised up Arthur anon, And aboard rapidly bore him, And adown softly they set him, And forth went the}'^ sailing. Then was fulfilled there What Merlin said aforetime. That infinite grieving 2* with healing draughts '^ aftem'ards ^ kingdom 2^ dwell 23 with great joy '" even with these words '^ from the sea moving '2 that was a short boat gliding ^ impelled by the waves ^* wondrously attired ^* thev took Arthur at once ^^ and in haste bore him " did glide ^ then ^^ fulfilled * whilom, formerly *^ that there should be measureless sorrow 2862c 28630 8 THE ANCREN RIWLE Of Arthures forth-fare.' Bruttes ileveth yete ^ That he bon on live ^ And wunnien ^ in Avalun Mid fairest aire ^ alven; And lokieth evere Bruttes yete 28640 Whan Arthur cumen lithe, "^ Nis naver '' the mon iboren Of naver nane burde icoren ^ The cunne ^ of than sothe ^^ Of Arthur sugen mare.^^ Bute whQe ^- wes an witeye ^^' Masrlin ihate," He bodede ^^ mid worde — ■ His quithes I® weoren sothe ^^ — That an Arthur sculde yete 28650 Cum Anglen to fulste.^* Should be at Arthur's leaving. Britons believe ever That still he is living And fostered in Avalon With the fairest of all fairies ; And ever hope the Britons 28640 For Arthur's coming hither. Was never the man born Of mother on lucky morn Who can of the true tale Of Arthur tell us further. But once there was a wizard, Merlin they called him, With words he predicted — ■ His sayings were truthful — That an Arthur should one day 28650 Come England to succour. From THE ANCREN RIWLE ^^ (c. 1225) {Unknown Aiithor) NUNS MAY KEEP NO BEAST BUT A CAT Ye, mine leove ^^ siistren,^^ ne schulen -^ hab- ben ^^ no best ^^ bute kat one.'^ Ancre ^^ thet haveth eihte " thiincheth ^^ bet ^^ husewif j^" ase Marthe was, then ancre ; ^^ ne none-weis ^^ ne mei heo ^^ beon ^^ Marie mid grithfulnesse ^'^ of heorte. Vor theonne ^^ mot ^'^ heo thenchen " of the kues ^^ foddre and of heordemonne ^^ huire,*" oluhnen ^^ thene ■*- heiward,^^ warien ^^ hwon ^^ me ^^ piint ^'^ hire, and yelden,^* thauh,^3 the hermes.* Wat ^1 Crist, this is lodlich ^2 thing hwon ^^ me ^^ maketh mone ^^ in tune ^ of ancre ^^ eihte.^^ Thauh,"*^ yif '"'^ eni mot ^^ nede habben ^^ ku, loke ^^ thet heo ^^ none monne ne eilie ^^ ne ne hermie ; ^^ ne thet hire thouht ne beo ^'^ nout ther-on ivestned.^^ Ancre ne ouh "^ nout to habben ^^ no thing thet drawe ^ utward hire heorte. None cheffare ^^ ne drive ye. Ancre thet is cheapild,''® heo cheapeth ^^ hire soule the chepmon ^^ of helle. Ne wite ^^ ye nout in oure ^° huse '^ of other ^ death ^ believe yet ^ is alive ^ dwells ^ of all shall come ' is never * of never no {i.e. of no) dy chosen ^ who can ^" the truth ^^ say more ° shall come ' is never ° of never no {i.e. 01 no) lady chosen ^ who can ^" the truth ^^ say more *^ once ^' wizard " named ^^ announced ^^ sayings P true ^^ come for a help to the English '^ The M,,^.' T?,.io 20 ^„_ 21 sisters 22 shall ^3 have "^ beast 2^ property ^^ seems ^^ rather ways ^2 she ^' be ^^ peacef ulness ' once P true ^^ come lor a neip Nuns' Rule ^o dear ^i sisters 2^ only ^'' a nun ^^ prr.T-.Ar ^° housewife ^^ no-way Ye, my dear sisters, shall have no beast but a cat only. A nun that has property seems rather a housewife, as Martha was, than a nun ; and in no wise may she be Mary, with peacefulness of heart. For then must she think about the cow's fodder and the herds- men's wages, flatter the constable, curse when the cow is put in the pound, and pay the damages nevertheless. God knows, it is a hateful thing when complaint is made in the village of a nun's property. However, if anyone must needs have a cow, let her see to it that it disturbs or harms no man ; and that her heart be not fastened upon it. A nun ought to have nothing that will draw her heart outward to the world. Drive ye no bargains. A nun that is a bargainer sells her soul to the merchant of hell. Keep ye not in your house any of other ^^ then 3^ must ^^ think ^* cow's '^ herdsmen's ■*" hire ^^ flatter '^ the ^^ heyward, bailiff *^ curse ^^ when *® one ^^ impounds ^^ pay ^^ nevertheless *" damages ^^ knows ^^ hateful ^^ complaint ^^ town, farm ^ a niin'c; ^'^ if ^^ havp ^^ look ^* disturb farm *^ a nun's ^'^ if ^^ have ^^ look ®3 ought ^^ may draw '"' harm " be ^^ fastened '^ bargain ®® bargainer ®' sells ''^ keep, take care of ^° your ^^ house ®^ tradesman KING HORN monnes thinges, ne eihte/ ne clothes ; ne nout ne undervo - ye the chirche vestimenz, ne thene ^ caliz,-* bute-yif ^ strencthe ^ hit makie/ other * muchel eie ; ^ vor of swiiche ^" witunge " is ikumen ^^ muchel iivel ^^ ofte-sithen." men's things, either property or clothes ; and do not receive the church vestments or the chalice, unless compulsion or great fear cause you to do so ; for of such custody has come great evil oftentimes. From KING HORN (c. 1250) {Unknown Author) Alle beon he ^^ blithe That to my song lythe ! '^ A sang ihc schal you singe Of Murry the kinge. 4 King he was bi weste ^" So longe so hit laste. GodhUd het ^* his quen ; Fairer ne mihte non ben.^' 8 He hadde a sone that het ^* Horn ; Fairer ne mihte non beo born, Ne no rein upon birine,-" Ne sunne upon bischine.'^^ 1 2 Fairer nis non thane he was ; He was brigt so the glas. He was whit so the flur. Rose- red was his colur.^^ 16 In none kinge-riche ^^ Nas non his Uiche.^'' 20 Twelf feren ^^ he hadde That he with him ladde, ^^ Alle riche mannes sones, And alle hi were faire gomes ^ 24 With him for to pleie. And mest he luvede tweie ; ^* That on him het ^a Hathulf child, And that other Fikenild. 28 Athulf was the beste And Fikenylde the werste. Hit was upon a someres day, Also ^° ihc you telle may, 32 Murri the gode king Rod on his pleing '^ Bi the se side, Ase he was woned ^^ ride.^ 36 He fond bi the stronde, Arived on his londe, 40 Schipes fiftene, ^ property ^ receive ' the * chalice ^ unless ® strength, necessity '^ make, cause * or ' fear ^^ such " guarding ^^ come ^^ evil ^'* oft-times ^^ they ^® listen " in the west ^* was named ^^ fairer Joy to none be wanting Who listens to my chaunting ! A song I shall you sing Of Murry the king. 4 King he was i' th' west While his rule did last. Godhild was his queen ; Fairer might not be seen. 8 He had a son whose name was Horn ; Fairer might there none be born. Nor rain rain on such a one, Nor upon such shine the sun. 1 2 None is fairer than he was ; He was bright as the glass. As the flower he was white. Red as rose his color bright. 16 Within no kingdom great Could be found his mate. 20 Twelve companions had he That ever with him led he; Each was a noble's son. And each was a fitting one 24 To share in his playing. Two loved he beyond saying ; The one was called Hathulf child, And the other Fikenild. 28 Athulf was the best And Fikenild the worst. It was upon a summer's day. As I to you the story say, 32 IMurry the noble king Rode in his pleasuring By the water-side. As he was wont to ride. 36 He found by the strand there, Arrived in his land there, 40 Ships fifteen all told might none be ^ nor any rain rain upon ^^ shine 2- After this line other MSS. insert two other lines. 2^ kingdom ^^ like ^^ companions ^® led ^~ fellows 28 {-\yQ 29 ^y^g uamcd ^'^ as ^^ in his sport ^- wont lO KING HORN With Sarazins kene.* He axede what hi sohte ^ Other to londe brohte. 44 A payn ^ hit of herde ■* And hym wel sone answerde, "Thi lond-folk we schuUe slon ^ And alle that Crist leveth "^ upon, 48 And the selve ' rigt anon ; Ne schaltu ^ todai henne ^ gon." The kyng hgte of his stede, For tho ^° he havede nede, 52 And his gode knigtes two ; Al to fewe he hadde tho.'" Swerd hi " gunne '^ gripe And to-gadere smite. 56 Hy " smyten '^ under schelde, That sume hit yfelde.'^ The king hadde al to fewe Togenes so vele schrewe.'* 60 So fele '•> mihten ythe ''' Bringe hem thre to dithe.'* The pains '^ come to londe And neme ^° hit in here honde. 64 That folc hi gunne quelle ^' And churchen for to felle. Ther ne moste libbe ^ The fremde ^3 ne the sibbe,^* 68 Bute hi here lawe asoke ^^ And to here ^^ toke.. Of alle wymmanne Wurst was Godhild thanne. 72 For Murri heo weop ^^ sore And for Horn yute ^^ more.^^ He ^ wenten ut of halle, 77 Fram hire maidenes alle. Under a roche of stone Ther heo ^ livede alone. 80 Ther heo ^^ servede Gode, Agenes the paynes ^^ forbode ; ^^ Ther he ^" servede Criste, That no payn hit ne wiste.^^ 84 Evere heo bad ^* for Horn Child That Jesu Crist him beo myld. Horn was in paynes honde With his feren ^^ of the londe. 88 Muchel was his fairhede,''"' For Jhesu Crist him makede. Payns him wolde slen ^^ Other al quic flen.** 92 ' bold ^ they sought ^ pagan * heard * slay ' believe ^ thyself * thou shalt not ' hence '" then " they '^ did *' smote ^* felled '^ against so many wicked '* many " easily '* death '' pagans ^ took ^ did kill ^ there might not live ^' foreigner Of Saracens full bold. He asked them what they sought Or else to land brought. 44 A pagan there beside At once to him replied : "All thy people we shall slay And all who hold with Christ this day, 48 And thyself without delay ; Hence shalt thou not go away." The king' sprang from his steed then, For surely he had need then, 52 And with him true knights two — Of men he had too few. Swords in hand they took And together struck. 56 They smote so under shield That some fell in the field. The king had all too few Against this evil crew. 60 So many might easily Put to death these three. The pagans came to land And seized it in their hand. 64 The people they did kill And churches spoil at will. There none alive might go, Kinsman no more than foe, 68 But who his faith forsook And that of pagan took. Of all earthly women Saddest was Godhild then. 72 For Murry wept she sore And for Horn yet more. She went out of the hall, 77 Leaving her maidens all. Under a rock of stone There lived she all alone. 80 To serve God was she glad, Though the pagans it forbade ; And there she served Christ too, And naught the pagans knew. 84 Ever she prayed for Horn Child That Jesus Christ be to him mild. Horn was in pagans' hand With his fellows of the land. 88 Beauty great had he, As Christ would have it be. The pagans wished to slay him Or else alive to flay him. 92 ^* kinsman ^^ unless they forsook their faith ^* theirs ^^ she wept ^*yet ^^ See nhle on 1. 16. ™ she 3' pagans' '^ prohibition ^' knew ^ prayed ^* companions ^"^ fairness ^^ slay *^ flay alive KING HORN II Gef his fairnesse nere,' The children alle aslawe ^ were. Thanne spak on Admirald, Of wordes he was bald,^ 96 "Horn, thu art wel kene,* And that is wel isene ; ^ Thu art gret and strong, Fair and evene long.*^ 100 Thu schalt waxe more '' Bi fulle seve * yere, Gef thu mote ^ to live ^^ go — And thine feren ^' also. 104 Gef hit so bi-falle, Ye scholde slen ^^ us alle ; Tharvore thu most to stere/^ Thu and thine if ere ; " 108 To schupe schulle ye funde ^* And sinke to the grunde. '^ The se you schal adrenche ; ^^ Ne schal hit us noht of-thinche,^' 112 For if thu were ahve. With sward other with knive We scholden aUe deie, And thi fader deth abeie." ^* 116 The children hi brohte to stronde, Wringinde here honde/^ Into schupes borde At the furste worde. 1 20 Ofte hadde Horn beo wo,^ Ac ^^ nevere wurs than him was tho.^ 122 The se bigan to flowe And Hornchild to rowe. 1 28 The se that schup so faste drof, The children dradde ther of ; , Hi wenden to-wisse ^ Of here lif to misse, 132 Al the day and al the niht TU hit sprang dai liht, Til Horn say ^ on the stronde Men gon in the londe. 136 "Feren," " quath he, "yinge, Ihc ^^ teUe you tithinge. Ihc here fogeles 2*" singe And that gras him springe. 140 Bhthe beo we on lyve, Ure schup is on r>'ve." ^^ Of schup hi gunne funde ^* And setten fout ^* to grunde.'" 144 Bi the se side ^ if it were not for his beauty ^ slain ^ bold * brave ^ very evident ® of good height ^ greater ^ seven ^ mayst ^^ alive ^^ companions ^^ slay ^' go to ship " go ^^ bottom '^ drown ^^ repent Had he not been so fair, The children ah had perished there. .An admiral then foretold, In speaking he was bold : 96 "Horn, valour is in thee, As any man can see ; Thou art now large and strong, Fair and of body long. 100 Thou shalt grow ever greater For seven years or better. If thou alive may go — And thy comrades also. 104 , If so it should befall, You would surely slay us all ; Therefore thou must to sea, Thou and thy company ; 108 To ship now shall you go, And sink to the ground below ; The sea shall you swallow ; Nor shall remorse us follow, 112 For if we gave you life. With sword or else with knife We all should soon be dead. And thy sire's death repaid. 116 They brought the boys to the shore, \^'ringing their hands full sore. On shipboard they thrust them, No longer would they trust them. 120 Oft had Horn suffered woe, But never worse than he then did know. 122 The sea began a-flowing xAnd Horn Child a-rowing. 128 The sea so fast the ship did drive, No hope the boys had to survive. They thought without a doubt Their lives would soon go out, 132 All the day and aU the night Tin there sprang daylight, Till Horn saw on the strand ^len walking in the land. 136 "Comrades," said he, "true, Good news I teU to you. I hear the birds a- singing And the grass a-springing. 140 Let us be glad once more, Our ship has come to shore." From the ship they went to land .\nd set foot upon the strand. 144 By the water side ^^ pay for " wringing their hands ^ been sad 21 but ^ then See note on 1. 16. ^ they expected certainly ^4 gaw 25 j zebji-ds 27 ghore ^s did go ^' foot ^ ground 12 KING HORN Hi^ leten that schup ride. Thanne spak him Child Horn, In Suddene he was iborn, 148 "Schup, bi the se flode Daies have thu gode ; Bi the se brinke No water the na drinke. 2 152 Gef thu cume to Suddenne, Gret thu wel of myne kenne; 156 Gret thu wel my moder, Godhild, quen the gode. And seie the paene ^ kyng, Jesu Cristes withering,** 160 That ihc ^ am hoi and fer *> On this lond arived her ; And seie that hi ^ schal fonde * The dent of myne honde." 164 They let the ship ride. Then up spake Child Horn, In Suddene he was born : 148 "Ship, by the sea flood May thou have days good ; By the sea brink May thee no water sink. 152 To Suddene if thou come, Greet well my kin at home; 156 Greet well my mother dear, Godhild, queen without peer. And teU the pagan king, Hateful to Christ in everything, 160 That I am whole and sound Landed on this ground ; And say that he shall feel The blow my hand shall deal." 164 Aylbrus wende ^ hire fro ; Horn in haUe fond he tho i" Bifore the kyng on benche Wyn for to schenche." 388 "Horn," quath he, "so hende,^^ To bure ^^ nu thu wende ^^ 392 After mete stille With Rymenhild to duelle.^* Wordes suthe ^^ bolde In herte thu hem holde. 396 Horn, beo me wel trewe ; Ne schal hit the nevre rewe." ^^ Horn in herte leide Al that he him seide. 400 He yeode ^* in wel rigte To Rymenhild the brigte. On knes he him sette,^^ And sweteliche hure grette.^" 404 Of his feire sigte Al the bur gan ligte. He spac faire speche ; Nc dorte ^^ him noman teche. 408 "Wel thu sitte and softe, Rymenhild the brigte, With thine Maidenes sixe That the sitteth nixte!^^ 412 Kingcs stuard ure ^^ Sendc me in to bure. With the speke ihc scholde ; Seie*' me what thu woldest. 416 Seie, and ich schal here, What thi wille were." * they ^ drown ^ pagan ^ enemy ^ I " sound ^ he ' experience ® went ^'^ then " pour ^"^ courteous ^? bower ^* go ^'^ remain, be ^^ very ^^ repent Aylbrus went from her to the hall, Where Horn did serve before them all To the king upon the bench Wine his thirst to quench. 388 "Horn," said he, "my friend. To bower must thou wend 392 In secret after meat Rymenhild to greet. Speeches very bold In heart thou shalt hold, 396 Horn, to me be true. And ne'er shalt thou it rue." Horn in heart has laid AU he to him said. 400 In he went forthright To Rymenhild the bright. He knelt there at her feet, And sweetly did her greet. 404 Of his lovely sight The bower grew all bright. He spoke with courteous speech — Him needed no man teach: 408 " Sit thou in weal aright, Rymenhild the bright. With handmaidens twice three That ever sit with thee ! 412 The steward of our king A message did me bring : To bower should I seek To hear what thou wouldst speak. 416 Speak and tell to me Thy will, whatso it be." ^^ went ^^ he kneeled ^^ greeted ^^ needed ^^ that sit nearest thee ^^ our ^'^ tell KING HORN 13 Rymenhild up gan stonde And tok him by the honde. Heo sette him on pelle, ' Of wyn to drinke his fuUe.- Heo makede him faire chere And tok him abute the swere.^ Ofte heo him custe,'* So wel so hire luste."" "Horn," heo sede, "withute strif, Thu schalt have me to thi wif. Horn, have of me rewthe,*^ And pHgt ' me thi trewthe." Horn tho him bithogte What he speke migte. "Crist," quath he, "the wisse,* And yive ^ the hevene blisse Of thine husebonde, Wher he beo in londe ! Ihc am ibore to lowe Such wimman to knowe. Ihc am icome of thralle, And fundling bifalle.^" Ne feolle ^^ hit the of cunde ^ To spuse ^^ beo me bunde.'* Hit nere no fair wedding Bitwexe a thral and a king." Tho gan RymenhUd mis-lyke, And sore gan to sike.^^ Armes heo gan buge ; ^^ Adun he i' feol iswoge.^^ Horn in herte was ful wo. And tok hire on his armes two. He gan hire for to kesse, Wei ofte mid ywisse.^^ "Lemman," ^ he sede, "dere, Thin herte nu thu stere.^^ Help me to knigte, Bi al thine migte. To my lord the king. That he me yive dubbing. Thanne is jni thralhod Iwent ^ in to knigthod, And i schal we.^e more. And do, lemman, thi lore." -^ Rymenhild, that swete thing, Wakede of hire swowning.-^ "Horn," quath heo, "wel sone That schal beon idone ; Thu schal beo dubbed knigt Are ^^ come seve nigt. Have her this cuppe. 420 426 437 440 444 448 452 456 460 464 468 472 476 ;ck ''kissed ^pleased ^pit}^ ■ piignt " airecc - give ^° chanced '^ it would not suit ^^ nature ^^ spouse ^'* bound ^^ sigh ^^ did bow ^ skin, rug ^ fill ^ nect ' plight * direct ^ give Rymenhild up did stand And took him by the hand. 420 On couch she set him tine, To drink his fill of wine ; She gave him welcome true And arms about him threw ; Full oft she did him kiss, Her joy was most in this. 426 "Horn," she said, "without all strife, 437 Thou shalt have me as thy wife. Horn, have of me ruth And plight to me thy truth." 440 Horn in his heart did seek What words he then might speak. "May Christ," said he, "now guide thee ! And heaven's bliss betide thee 444 Of thy husband free, \Miere'er in land he be ! But I am born too low Such a woman's love to know. 448 I come of thralls, God wot ; A foundling's was my lot. Befits thee not by kind Thyself to me to bind. 452 It were no fit wedding Betwixt a thraU and a king." Rymenhild was grieved thereby And sore began to sigh. 456 Her arms slipped strengthless down, And there she fell a-swown. Horn such woe could nowise brook And in his arms the maiden took. 460 And then he did her kiss. Full oft and oft, i-wis. "Sweetheart," said he, "dear, Thy heart now must thou steer. 464 Help me become a knight. Truly, with aU thy might, To my lord, the king. That he me grant dubbing. 468 Then shall my thrallhood Be changed to knighthood, And I grow greater still. And do, sweetheart, thy will." 472 RymenhUd, that sweetest thing. Wakened then from her swooning. "Horn," quoth she, "fuU soon That shall all be done ; 476 Thou shalt be dubbed a knight Within this sevennight. This cup do thou now bear ^^ she ^^ a-swoon ^^ ver>' often indeed -" sweet- heart ^^ direct, control ^ turned -^ teaching 24 curnnnino' 25 p-„ ^* swooning ^^ ere 14 NICHOLAS DE GUILDFORD And this ring ther-uppe/ 480 To Aylbrus the stuard, And se he holde foreward.- Seie ^ ich him biseche, With loveliche speche 484 That he adun falle Bifore the king in halle And bidde ^ the king arigte Dubbe the to knigte. 488 With selver and with golde Hit wurth ^ him wel iyolde.^ Crist him lene spede ' Thin erende to bede." ^ 492 And this ring so fair, 480 To Aylbrus bear them both And bid him keep his oath. Tell him I him beseech That he with fairest speech 484 Upon his knees do fall Before the king in hall And pray the king aright Thee to dub as knight. 488 With silver and with gold Shall his reward be told. Christ him grant good skill Well to obtain thy will ! " 492 NICHOLAS DE GUILDFORD (?) (fl. 1250) THE OWL AND THE NIGHTINGALE Ich ^ was in one sumere dale,!" In one swithe digele hale," I-herede ^^ ich holde grete tale ^^ An vde and one nigtingale. That plait ^^ was stif and stare and strong, Sum wile ^^ sof te, and lud among ; ^^ And aither i' agen other swal/* And let that vule mod ut al.^^ And either ^^ seide of otheres custe -" That alre-worste ^^ that hi wuste ; '^- And hure and hure -'^ of otheres songe Hi '^ heolde plaiding swithe '" stronge. The nigtingale bi-gon the speche, In one hurne '^'^ of one beche ; And sat up one vaire bohe," Thar were abute -* blosme i-nohe,^' In ore waste '"^ thicke hegge, I-meind mid spire ^^ and grene segge. Heo ^^ was the gladur vor ^^ the rise,''* And song a vele cunne wise.^^ Bet thuhtc the drem ^^' that he " were Of harpe and pipe, than he " nere,''^ Bet thuhte ^^ that he •'' were i-shote Of harpe and pipe than of throtc. Tho ^^ stod on old stoc thar bi-side, Thar tho '" ule song hire tide,''^ And was mid ivi al bi-growe, Hit was thare ule earding-stowe. ^ Ijesides ^ agreement ' say ^ pray ^ shall be ^ paid '' grant success * present ' I ^^ a summer dale " a very secret corner '^ heard ^' talk ^'' strife ^^ while ^^' at times ^^ each ^^ swelled '' the foul spirit all out ^^ qualities ^' the very worst ^^ knew ^ and indeed and indeed ^ they ^" very ^'^ corner As I was in a summer dale, Within a very secret vale, I heard of talking a great tale Betwixt an owl and a nightingale. The strife was stiff and stark and strong ; Sometimes 'twas soft, then loud, their song. Either against the other swelled, Let out the rage that in her dwelled. And each said of the other's ways The worst she knew to her dispraise ; 10 And specially of each other's song They had a quarrel very strong. The nightingale began the speech, Snug in a corner of a beech ; She sat upon a pretty bough. There were about her blossoms enow, All in a lonely, thickset hedge. Tangled with shoots and green with sedge. She was the gladder for the sprays. And sang in many kinds of ways. 20 It rather seemed the sound I heard Was harp and pipe than song of bird ; For rather seemed the sound to float From harp and pipe than from bird's throat. There stood an old stump there beside, Wherefrom the owl in her turn cried ; It was with ivy overgrown. And there the owl dwelled all alone. ^" a fair bough -^ about -® enough ^ a solitary' ^^ mi.xed with sprouts ^^ she ^^ for ^^ spray ^^ and sang in many kinds of ways ^^ the sound seemed rather ^^ it ^* was not ^^ it seemed rather ^ then ^' where the *^ in her turn ^^ the owl's home THE OWL AND THE NIGHTINGALE The nihtingale hi ^ i-seh. And hi ^ bi-heold and over-seh,^ 30 And thuhte wel vule ^ of thare ule, For me hi halt ^ lothlich ^ and fule. "Unwiht," ^ heo sede, "awei thu flee ! ]\Ie is the wers ^ that ich the seo ; I-wis ^ for thine vule lete ^ Wel oft ich mine song for-lete ; ^"^ Min heorte at-flith/i ^^d fait ^'^ mi tunge, Wonne ^^ thu art to me i-thrunge." Me luste bet speten ^^ thane singe, Of ^^ thine fule gogelinge." ^' 40 Theos ule abod fort ^^ hit was eve, Heo ne mihte no leng bileve,^^ Vor hire heorte was so gret,^" That wel neh -^ hire fnast at-schet ; ^- And warp -^ a word thar-after longe : "Hu thincthe -^ nu bi mine songe? Wenst -'" thu that ich ne cunne ^® singe Theh -" ich ne cunne -* of writelinge ? ^^ I-lome ^° thu dest ^^ me grame,^- And seist me bothe teone ^•^ and schame ; 50 Gif ^ ich the heolde on min vote,^^ So hit bi-tide ^^ that ich mote ! ^' And thu were ut of thine rise,^^ Thu scholdest singe an other wise. The nightingale her soon espied, And looked at her with scornful pride. 30 She thought but meanly of the owl, For men it loathly deem and foul. ".Monster," she said, "away with thee! The worse for me that thee I see ! Verily for thy ugly look, I oftentimes my song forsook. My tongue is mute, my heart takes flight, When thou appearest in my sight. I rather wish to spit than sing. At sound of thy foul sputtering." 40 The owl abode till eventide, No longer could she then abide. So swollen was her heart with wrath That she could scarcely get her breath ; And still she made a speech full long : "How think'st thou now about my song? Think'st thou to sing I have no skill Merely because I cannot trill ? Oft am I angered by thy blame. Thou speakest to my hurt and shame ; 50 If I once held thee in my claw, — Would that I might here in this shaw! — And thou wert down from off thy spray, Then should'st thou sing another way ! "Yet thu me seist of other thinge. And telst that ich ne can noht singe, 310 Ac ^^ al mi reorde ''" is woning,''^ And to i-here grisUch ''- thing. That nis noht soth,''^ ich singe efne ^ Mid fulle dreme ^° and lude stefne.^" Thu wenist -^ that ech song beo grisUch ^® That thine pipinge nis i-lich : '^^ Mi stefne * is bold and noht un-ome,'** Heo *^ is-i lich '^^ one grete home ; And thin is i-lich ^ one pipe Of one smale weode un-ripe.^^ 320 Ich singe bet than thu dest ; ^- Thu ehaterest so ^ doth on Irish prest. Ich singe an eve, a rihte time. And seoththe,^ won ^^ hit is bed-time, The thridde sithe ^'^ at middelnihte. And so ich mine song adihte ^® Wone ^^ ich i-seo arise veorre ^^ ^ her ^ despised ^ very foully * for everj-one holds her * hateful ^ monster ^ I am the worse * truly * appearance ^° give up " flies away ^^ fails ^^ when ^* arrived ^° I feel more like spitting ^^ because of ^^ screeching ^^ waited till ^^ no longer wait ^° swollen "^ nigh ^ breath choked ^ threw -* how does it seem -^ thinkest ^^ cannot "And yet thou say est another thing. And tellest me I cannot sing, 310 That all my song is mourning drear, A fearsome sound for men to hear. That is not sooth ; my voice is true. And fuU and loud, sonorous too. Thou thinkest ugly every note Unlike the thin ones from thy throat. My voice is bold and not forlorn. It soundeth like a mighty horn ; And thine is like a little pipe Made of a slender reed unripe. * 320 Better I sing than thou at least ; Thou chatterest like an Irish priest. I sing at eve, a proper time. And after, when it is bedtime, And once again at middle-night, And so ordain my song aright When I see rising from afar ^"^ though ^^ causest it happen entation 46 ugly ing ^^ it wards *^ ^ know nothing ^^ trilling ^^ often ^"^ anger ^ injur\' ^* if ^^ foot ^® so may ^^ may '* bough ^^ but ^^ voice ^ 1am- ^ terrible ^ true ■" precisely ^^ sound " that is not like thy piping ^ unpleas- ^ like °^ green ^^ dost ^^ as ** after- third time *® ordain °' afar i6 THE OWL AND THE NIGHTINGALE Other ^ dai-rim - other ^ dai-sterre. Ich do god mid mine throte, And warni men to heore note ; ^ 330 Ac ^ thu singest alle longe niht, From eve fort ^ hit is dai-Hht, And evre lesteth thin o ' song So ^ longe so ^ the niht is longe, And evre croweth thi wrecche crei,^ That he ne swiketh 1° niht ne dai. Mid thine pipinge thu adunest ^' Thas monn^s earen thar '^ thu wunest,'* And makest thine song so un-wiht ^'' That me '^ ne telth ^^ of the nowiht.^^ 340 Evrich murhthe ^^ mai so longe i-leste, That heo shal liki ^^ wel un-wreste ; ^" Vor harpe and pipe and fugeles -^ songe Misliketh, gif hit is to longe. Ne beo the song never so murie, That he ne shal thinche ^^ wel un-murie,-^ Gef he i-lesteth over un-wille.^^ So thu miht ^^ thine song aspille ; ^^ Vor hit is soth,^^ Alvred hit seide, And me ^^ hit mai in boke rede, 350 ' Evrich thing mai leosen ~* his godhede ^^ Mid unmethe ^° and mid over-dede.'" ^^ Either day-dawn or else day-star. I do men good thus with my throat. And help them with my warning note ; 330 But thou art singing all the night, From eve untU it is daylight. For ever lasts thy only song. As long as ever the night is long. And ever crows thy wretched lay. That ceaseth not, by night or day. Thy piping is ever in man's ears. Wherever thou dwellest, thy din he hears ; Thou makest thy song a thing of naught. No man accounteth thee as aught ; 340 For any mirth may last so long That dislike of it waxeth strong ; For harp or pipe or song of bird Displeaseth if too long 'tis heard. Never so merry a song may be But to disgust shall turn its glee If it shall last till it annoy ; So mayst thou thy song destroy. For it is true, as Alfred said, And in his book it may be read, 350 ' Every good its grace may lose By lack of measure and by abuse.' " "Ule," heo seide, "wi dostu so? 411 Thu singest a-winter ^- ' wolawo ' ; ^^ Thu singest so ^ doth hen a ^^ snowe : Al that heo singeth, hit is for wo we ; ^^ A-wintere thu singest wrothe ^^ and gomere,^^ And evre thu art dumb a-sumere. Hit is for thine fule nithe,^^ That thu ne miht ^^ mid us beo blithe, Vor thu forbernest '"' wel neh ^^ for onde,^ Wane ^ ure blisse cumeth to londe. 420 Thu farest so » doth the ille ; ^^ Evrich blisse him is un-wille ; ^^ Grucching and luring ^^ him beoth rade,*^ Gif he i-seoth that men beoth glade ; He wolde that he i-seye*^* Teres in evrich monnes eye ; Ne rohte he ^^ theh ^ flockes were I-meind ^^ bi toppes ^^ and bi here.^^ Al-so thu dost on thire ^ side ; Vor wanne ^■' snou lith thicke and wide, 430 And alle wihtes '■''•' habbeth sorhe,^" ^ either ^ dawn ^ or ■* benefit ^ but ^ till "^ last- eth thy one ^ as ^ cry ^^ it ceases not ^^ dinnest ^^ where '''dwellest ^"^ horrible ^^one ^''accounts ^'naught ^^ every mirth '* please ^^ very badly ^' bird's ^^ seem ^'^ unpleasant ^'' if it lasts unto displeasure ^^ mayst ^^ ruin ^' true ^* lose ^' good- "Owl," she said, "why dost thou so? 411 Thou singest in winter a song of woe ; Thou singest as doth a hen in snow : All that she sings it is for woe ; In winter thou singest in wrath and gloom, In summer thou art ever dumb. 'Tis thy foul malice that hinders thee. That blithe with us thou may'st not be ; For envy 'tis that in thee burns, When in the spring our bliss returns. 420 Thou farest as doth the wicked ever, Whom joy of others pleases never ; For grudging and louring is he mad Whene'er he sees that men are glad. Rather would such a one espy Tears in every person's eye ; Never a whit would that man care Though flocks were mixed, both head and hair. So dost thou fare, upon thy side ; For when the snow lies thick and wide, 430 And every creature lives in sorrow, ness ^^ excess ^^ over-doing ^^ in winter ■ ^^ wela- way ^ in ^^ woe ^* wrath ^^ grief ^ hatred ^' mayst not ^^ burnest up ** nigh ^ envy ^^ when '•'* wicked man ^^ unpleasing ^'' louring ^^ ready *^ saw ^^ he would not care ^ though ^' mixed up ^^ heads ^^ hair ^ thy ^^ creatures *^ sorrow CURSOR MUNDI 17 Thu singest from eve fort amorhe.^ Ac ' ich alle blisse mid me bringe ; Ech wiht ^ is glad for mine thinge,'* And blisseth hit ^ wanne '^ ich cume, And hihteth agen ^ mine kume.^ The blostme ginneth springe and sprede Bothe ine treo and ek on mede ; The UUe mid hire faire wHte '^ Wolcumeth me, that thu hit wite/" 440 Bit " me mid hire faire bleo ^^ That ich schulle to hire fleo ; The rose also mide hire rude/^ That cumeth ut of the thorne wude, Bit " me that ich shulle singe Vor hire luve one skentinge." ^* Then singest thou from eve till morrow. But I all gladness with me bring, All men are happy when. I sing; They all rejoice, when I appear, And hope for me another year. Blossoms begin to spring and grow, On tree, in mead, and in hedge-row ; The lily with her fair white hue Doth welcome me, I would thou knew ; 440 With her sweet face she biddeth me That I to her shall quickiy flee ; Likewise the rose with ruddy hood. That Cometh from the thorny wood, Biddeth me ever that I shall sing For her dear love in carolling." From CURSOR MUNDI (c. 1300) {Unknown Author) THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT An angel thus til ^^ him can ^'' sai : 210 "Rise up, Joseph, and busk ^' and ga, ^* Maria and thi child al-sua ; '^ For yow be-hoves nu ^^ al thre In land of Egypt for to fle ; Rise up ar ^^ it be dai, And folus ^ forth the wUdrin -^ wai. Herod, that es the child ^■s fa,2» Era nu ^^ wil sek him for to sla.^' Thare sal ^^ yee bide stU wit ^^ the bam,^° Til that I eft ^^ cum yow to warn." 220 Son ^^ was Joseph redi bun ; ^^ Wit ^^ naghtertale ^^ he went o ^^ tun, Wit ^* Maria mUd and their meine : '^ A maiden and thair suanis ^^ thre, That servid tham in thair servis ; With thaim was nan bot war ^^ and wis. Forth SCO rad,^° that moder mild. And in hir barm *^ sco ledd ^ hir chUd, Til thai come at * a cove was *" depe. Thar ^^ thai tham thoght to rest and slepe ; Thar did *'^ thai Mari for to light," 231 Bot son thai sagh ''^ an ugli sight. Als *^ thai loked tham biside, ^ till morning - but ^ creature * on my account ^ rejoices ^ when " hopeth for * coming ' face ^^ know " bids ^^ visage ^^ redness " pastime ^^ to ^^ did ^^ get ready ^^ go ^' also ^'^ now ^^ ere '■" Know '■'■ bids ^' visage "" redness " pastime ^^did ^^ get ready ^^ go ^' also ^"^ now ^ ^.^ . *^ follow ^ wilderness ^* child's ^^ foe ^^ from now was ^'° there An angel thus to him did say : 210 "Rise up, Joseph, and busk and go, Maria and thy child also ; For it behooves you now all three To the land of Egypt for to flee ; Rise up, then, ere it be day, And follow forth the desert way. Herod, that is the infant's foe, Henceforth will seek to lay him low. There with the bairn shall ye remain Till I come back to warn you plain." 220 Now soon was Joseph ready dight ; He left the town at fall of night, With Mary mild and their company : A maiden and their servants three, That served them well in servants' guise ; With them was none but wary and wise. Forth she rode, that mother mild, And in her bosom bore her child, TlU they came to a cave full deep ; There they had thought to rest and sleep ; There helped they Mary to alight, 231 But soon they saw an ugly sight. As they were looking them beside, slay -^ shall ^ with ^ child ^^ again ^^ soon prepared ^ with ^^ night-time ^® from ^'' house- old ^^ men-servants ^^ none but was wary ^ she Jde ■*^ bosom ^ carried ^^ came to ^^ cave that -■ siay -' snau — wun "" cnuu — again ^^ prepared ^ with ^^ night-time ^® from ^'' 1 hold ^^ men-servants ^^ none but was wary rcide ■*^ bosom ^ carried ^^ came to ^^ cave was ^'° there ^^ caused ■*" alight ■** saw ^'^ as CURSOR MUNDI Ute o ' this cove - than sagh ^ thai glide Mani dragons wel ^ sodanU ; The suanis ^ than bi-gan to cri. Quen ^ Jesus sagh tham glopnid ^ be, He Hghted of ^ his moder kne And stod a-pon thaa ^ bestes grim/'' And thai tham luted ^^ under him. 240 Than com '- the propheci al cler To dede ^^ that said es in Sauter : ^^ "The dragons, wonand ^^ in thair cove, The Laverd '^ agh ^^ yee worthli to lofe." ^* Jesus he went befor tham than, Forbed ^® tham harm do ani man. Maria and Joseph ne-for-thi ^^ For the child war ful dreri ; ^^ Bot Jfesus ansuard ^^ thaim onan : ^^ "For me drednes haf ^^ nu yee nan,^* 250 Ne haf yee for me na barn-site,^® For I am self man al parfite,^^ And al the bestes that ar wild For me most -^ be tame and mild." Leon yode.tham als imid ; -^ And pardes,^" als "^ the dragons did, Bifor Maria and Joseph yede,^^ In right wai tham for to lede. Quen Maria sagh thaa ^ bestes lute,^* First SCO "*'* was gretli in dute,^^ 260 Til Jesus loked on hir blith And dridnes ^® bad hir nan to kith.^'' "Moder," he said, "haf thou na ward ^* Nother o ^^ leon ne o lepard. For thai com noght us harm to do, Bot thair servis at ^^ serve us to." Bath ^1 ass and ox that wit ^- tham war ^ And bestes that thair harnais bar Ute o Jerusalem, thair kyth,^ The leons mekli yod ^" tham wit,^ 270 Wit-uten harm of ox or ass. Or ani best that wit tham was. Than was fulfild the propheci, That said was thoru Jeremi : "Wolf and wether, leon and ox, Sal '"' comen samen,^*' and lamb and fox." ^ out of ^ cave ^ saw ^ very ^ men ^ when ^ terri- fied ^ off ' those ^^ fierce '' bowed ^^ came ^^ to deed, to realization ^'' the Psalter ^^ dwelling ""'Lord ^^ ought ^^ praise ^'forbade ^"neverthe- less ^^ sad ^^ answered ^^ at once ^'* have ^^ none Out of this cave then saw they glide Many dragons full suddenly ; The servants then began to cry. When Jesus saw them frightened be, He lighted from his mother's knee. And stood upon those beasts so grim, And low they bowed them under him. 240 Then came the prophecy all clear As in the Psalter ye may hear : "Dragons that in their cavern dwell The praises of the Lord shall tell." Jesus, he went before them then, Forbade their harming any men. Maria and Joseph, none the less. For the child were in distress ; But Jesus answered them and said : "For me have ye no manner dread ; 250 For me as child have ye no fright, A perfect man am I by right ; And all the beasts that are so wild, For me must be both tame and mild." A lion went them then amid ; And leopards, as the dragons did. Before Maria and Joseph lay, Ready to lead them on their way. When Mary saw the beasts all lout, Greatly, at first, she was in doubt, 260 Till Jesus blithely drew anear, And bade her not at all to fear. "Mother," said he, "have no regard For lion or for fierce leopard ; For they come not us harm to do ; But us their service to give unto." Both ass and ox were with them there. And other beasts that baggage bare Out of their home, Jerusalem ; The lions meekly went with them, 270 And did no harm to ox or ass. Or any beast that with them was. Then was fulfilled the prophecy That spoken was by Jeremy : "Wolf and wether, lion and ox. Shall come together, and lamb and fox." ^^ child-sorrow ^^ perfect ^^ must ^^ a lion went with them also ^ leopards ^^ as ^ went ^^ bow ^* she ^^ doubt, fear ^'* terror ^^ show, feel ^ re- gard ''^of ''°to 41 both '*2with ^^ were ^^ country ^5 shall ^Uogether A LUVE RON 19 THOMAS DE HALES (bef. 1300) A LUVE RON! A LOVE LETTER A mayde Cristes - me bit yorne ^ That ich hire ■* wurche ^ a luv ron ; For hwan heo ^ myhte best ileorne " To taken on ^ other soth ^ lefmon ^^ That treowest were of alle berne," And best wyte cuthe ^^ a freo wymrnon. Ich hire nule ^^ nowiht '* werne/^ Ich hire wule '^ teche as ic con. 8 Mayde, her " thu myht ^* biholde This worldes luve nys ^^ bute o res,^*" And is byset so fele-volde,-^ Vikel,^- and frakel,^^ and wok,^^ and les.^^ Theos theines "^^ that her weren bolde Beoth aglyden -''' so -^ wyndes bles ; -^ Under molde ^° hi Kggeth ^^ colde And faleweth ^ so ^* doth medewe gres. 16 A maid of Christ doth plead with me To write her a letter of love to-day, From which she can learn most readily To take another true love, i'fay, WTio faithfiilest of all shall be, And best can guard a lady gay. No wise will I deny her plea, But I will teach her as I may. S O maiden, here thou mayst behold This earthly love is but a race. And is beset so many fold, Fickle and false and weak and base. Those knights that here were once so bold, Like wind have glided from their place ; Under mould they are lying cold, And wither as doth the meadow grass. 16 Nis non ^^ so riche, ne non so freo,^** That he ne scha! heonne ^^ sone away. Ne may hit never his waraunt beo, — Gold ne seolver, vouh ^^ ne gray ; ^'' Ne beo he no the swift ,^^ ne may he flee, Ne weren ^' his lif enne *" day. Thus is thes world, as thu mayht ^^ seo, Al so '"^ the schadewe that glyt ^ away. 32 This world fareth hwilynde.^^ Hwenne ^^ on cumeth, an other goth ; That ^^ wes bi-fore nu is bihynde, That *^ er ■»« was leof ^' nu hit is loth ; ^^ For-thi ^^ he doth as the blynde That in this world his luve doth.^° Ye mowen iseo ^^ the world aswynde ; '"^ 39 That woxih ^ goth forth, abak that soth.^ Theo '"^ luve that ne may her abyde, Thu treowest ^^ hire ^^ myd muchel wouh,=^ Al so ^' hwenne hit schal to-glide,™ Hit is fals, and mereuh,''^ and frouh,''^ And fromward ^^ in uychon tide." Hwile hit lesteth, is seorewe ^^ mouh ; ^^ ^ a love rune (or letter) ^ of Christ's ^ begs me eagerly ^ her ^ make ^ whereby she ^ learn ^ an ' true ^^ lover ^^ men ^ could protect ^^ will not ^* not at all ^^ refuse ^^ will ^^ here ^^ mayst IS not '"' a race ^^ m so manv wars 22 fickle .0 .iv.^ ^^ a race ^^ ^ ugly ^ weak ^* false ^^ these nobles ^" are passed away ^ as ^' breath ^"^ the earth ^* they lie ^* wither ^ there is none ^* free, generous *^ hence There's none so rich and none so free That hence he shall not soon away. Nothing may ever his warrant be, — Gold, nor silver, nor ermine gay ; Be he ever so swift, he may not flee. Nor guard his life a single day. Thus is this world, as thou mayst see. Like as the shadow that glides away. 3* This world fareth like the wind. One thing gone, another here ; What was before is now behind. What now is loath before was dear ; Therefore he doth as doth the blind, Who sets his love on this world's gear. The world is vanishing, ye shall find ; 39 Evil goes forward, truth to the rear. The love that may not here abide, Thou art wrong to trust it now; Away from thee that love will glide, Capricious and frail and false of vow, And hasting away at every tide. The while it lasts, 'tis sorrow enow ; ^® ermine ""^ vair ** be he never so swift ^* protect ^" a single ^ just as ^ glides ''^ swiftly ■*"* when ^^what ^^ formerly *^ dear ^* hated ^Hherefore ^ rilarfs ^ mqA7 cpp ^ vani^Vi ^ thfi wrnnp" ^^ the 20 A LUVE RON 'An ende/ ne werie^ mon [robe] so syde;^ He schal to-dreosen ■* so lef on bouh.^ In the end, none wears a robe so wide, But he shall fall as leaf from bough. 48 Hwer is Paris and Heleyne, That weren so bryht and feyre on bleo ; ^ Amadas and Dideyne, '^ Tristram, Yseude and alle theo ; * Ector, with his scharpe meyne,^ And Cesar, riche of worldes feo ? i" Heo beoth iglyden ^^ ut of the reyne ^ So ^^ the schef ^"^ is of the cleo.^^ 72 Hit is of heom ^^ al so hit nere ; '^ Of heom '^^ me haveth ^* wunder itold, Nere hit reuthe ^^ for to here Hw hi 2° were with pyne aquold,^^ And what hi tholeden ^^ alyve here. Al is heore '^ hot iturnd to cold. Thus is thes world of false fere ; -^ Fol "^^ he is the ^^ on hire is bold. 80 Theyh ^'^ he were so riche mon ^ As Henry ure ^^ kyng. And al so veyr ^'^ as Absalon That nevede ^^ on eorthe non evenyng,®^ Al were sone his prute ^^ agon. Hit nere ^* on ende ^ wurth on heryng.'^ Mayde, if thu wilnest ^^ after leofmon,^'^ Ich teche the enne ^* treowe king. 88 A ! swete, if thu iknowe ^^ The gode thewes * of thisse childe ! He is feyr and bryht on heowe,*^ Of glede chere,*^ of mode ^'^ mylde, Of lufsum lost,"** of truste treowe, Freo of heorte, of wisdom wilde ; ''* Ne thurhte the never rewe,^* Myhtestu do the ^^ in his hylde.'** 96 He is ricchest mon of londe ; So ^' wide so " mon spekelh with muth, Alle heo '^^ beoth ^^ to his honde Est and west, north and suth. Henri, king of Engelonde, Of hym he halt ^^ and to hym buhth.^^ Mayde, to the he send ^^ his sonde, ^'' And wilneth ^^ for to bco the cuth.^* 104 :^ :|( :{c 4: if: :(: ^ at last ^ wear ^ wide * fall * bough ® of face '' Idoyne ® those ' strength ^* wealth " they have slipped away '^ land '^ as ^^ sheaf ^^ from the hillside ^^ them ^^ as if they had not existed '* people have ^^ were it not pity ^^ how they ^^ killed with torture ^^ suffered ^'' their ^ validity ** foolish ^'' who ^'^ though ^* man ^^ our ^^ beauti- Paris and Helen — where are they. That were so bright and fair of face ? Amadas and Ydoine gay, Tristram, Yseult, and all that race? Hector, strong in battle array, And Caesar, great in worldly place? They all have glided from earth away . As sheaf from the hill, that leaves no trace. 72 They're now as though they never were here ; Of them are many wonders told, Were it not pity for one to hear How they were tortured and died of old, And what they suffered in life while here. All their heat is turned to cold. Thus all this world doth false appear ; Foolish is he who in it is bold. 80 Although he were a man as strong As Henry is, our gracious King, And fair as Absalom the young, Whose match no man on earth cotild bring, His pride were soon not worth a song. In value less than a red herring. O maid, if thou wilt love full long, I will show thee a loyal king. 88 Ah, my sweet, if thou but knew The blessed virtues of this Lord ! He is fair and bright of hue, Both glad of cheer and mild of word, Of lovesome grace, of trust most true. Free-hearted, rich in wisdom's hoard ; Never shovddst thou have need to rue, . If thou but trust thee in his ward. 96 He is the strongest man in land, As far as men can speak with mouth. And all are liegemen in his hand, East and west, north and south. Henry, King of English land, Doth hold of him and to him boweth. O maid, he sends thee his command, His will to be thy friend avoweth. 104 ****** ful, fair ^^ had not '^ equal ^^ pride '^ were not '^ a herring '^ longest ^" a lover '* I will teach thee a '^ didst know '*'• qualities *^ hue, appearance ^ coun- tenance ^^ mood ■*** of lovable desire ^^ able ""^ thou wouldst never need to repent ^"^ might'st thou put thyself ^* grace ^^ they ^° are ^^ holds ^^ bows ^ sends ^ messenger ^^ desires ^® known to thee. MIDDLE ENGLISH LYRICS 21 MIDDLE ENGLISH LYRICS {Unknown Authors) ALYSOUN (c. 1300) Bytuene Mersh ^ and Averil, When spray biginneth to springe, The Intel foul ^ hath hire wyl On hyre lud ^ to synge. Ich libbe ■* in love longinge For semlokest ^ of alle thinge. He ^ may me blisse bringe ; Icham ^ in hire baundoun.* x\n hendy hap ichabbe yhent,^ Ichot/" from hevene it is me sent, 10 From alle wjTnmen mi love is lent " And lyht ^- on Alysoun. On heu ^^ hire her is fayr ynoh, Hire browe broune, hire eye blake, — With lossum chere " he on me loh ! ^^ — 15 With middel ^^ smal, and wel ymake.^' Bote ^^ he me wolle ^^ to hire take. Forte buen ^^ hire owen make.-' Longe to lyuen ichulle ^^ forsake, And feye ^ fallen adoun. 20 An hendy hap, etc. Nihtes-when y wende ^ and wake ; Forthi -* myn wonges ^^ waxeth won. Levedi,^" al for thine sake ' Longinge is ylent ^^ me on. 25 In world nis non so wytermon,^' That al hire bounte ^^ telle con.-^' Hire swjnre ^^ is whittore then the swon. And fey rest may ^^ in toune. An hendi, etc. 30 Icham for wowyng al forwake,''' Wery so water in wOre,^^ Lest eny reve ^^ me my make.-' Ychabbe y->'ir yore,^'' Betere is tholien whyle sore ^® 35 Then ^^ mournen evermore. Geynest under gore,"*" Herkne to my roun ! *' An hendi, etc. ' March ^ little bird ' in her language * I live ^ most beautiful ® she ' I am * power ^ a pleas- ant fortune I have got '" I know " departed ^ alighted '^ in color '^ with loving look '^ laughed " waist '^ made '^ unless '' will 2° (for) to be ^' mate ^ I will ^^ ready to die ^'^ at night-time I turn 2^ therefore ^^ cheeks ^'^ ladv ^* descended Betwixt old March and April gay. When sprays begin to spring. The little bird in her own way Follows her will to sing. But I must live in love longing For one who is the fairest thing. 'Tis she who may to bliss me bring, For she my love hath won. A blessed fortune is my lot, 'Tis sent to me from Heaven, I wot, 10 To other women my love turns not But lights on Alison. Fair enough in hue her hair. Her brows are brown, and black her eyne. She smiled on me with lovesome air ; 15 Trim is her waist and neat and fine. Unless thou'lt take me to be thine, Thy own dear love, O lady mine, Of longer living shall I pine. By death shall be undone. 20 A blessed fortune is my lot, etc. Often at night I toss and wake ; For this my cheeks are pale and wan. Lady, 'tis all for thy dear sake Longing has fallen me upon. 25 In world is none so wise a man That all her goodness tell he can. Her neck is whiter than the swan ; I\Iy heart she has undone. A blessed fortune is my lot, etc. 30 Weary as water in weir I wake. And woo thee more and more, Lest some one rob me of my make.-' For I have heard of yore. Better to suffer a while full sore, 35 Than go a-mourning evermore. Gayest under gore. Hear my orison ! A blessed fortune is my lot, etc. ^® there is no so wise man ^^ goodness '' can ^- neck ^^ maid ^* I am for wooing all worn with watch- ing ^^ weary as water in weir ^^ take away from ^" I have heard long ago ^ it is better to endure hurt for a while ^^ than ^^ most gracious one alive (in clothing) '*' secret 22 MIDDLE ENGLISH LYRICS SPRINGTIME (c. 1300:) Lenten ^ ys come with love to toune, i With blosmen and with briddes roune ; ^ That al this bhsse bryngeth. Dayes-eyes in this ^ dales ; Notes suete ^ of nyhtegales ; 5 Uch foul song singeth.^ The threstercoc him threteth 00 ; ^ Awa}' is huere ^ wynter woo When woderoue * springeth. This ^ foules ^ singeth ferly fele/" 10 And wlyteth " on huere wynter wele/* That al the wode ryngeth. The rose rayleth " hire rode/^ The leves on the lyhte wode Waxen al with wille.^^ 15 The mone mandeth ^''' hire bleo/'' The lilie is lossom ^^ to sec, The fenyl and the lille ; i^ Wowes this wilde drakes,^" Miles murgeth huere makes ; ^^ 2o~ Ase strem that striketh ^" stille, Mody meneth, so doht mo ; ^^ Ichot ycham on of tho,^^ For love that likes ille.^^ The mone mandeth ^^ hire lyht, 25 So doth the semly sonne bryht, When briddes singeth breme ; ^'' Deawes donketh ^* the dounes ; ^^ D cores with huere derne rounes,'"* Domes forte deme ; ^^ 30 Wormes woweth under cloude ; ^^ Wymmen waxeth wounder proude, So wel hit wol hem seme. Yef ^^ me shal wonte ^* wille of on,^^ This wunne weole ^® y wole ^' forgon, 35 Ant wyht in wode be fleme.^* ^ spring ^ whisper ' these ^ sweet ^ each bird sings a song ® the throstle cock threatens ever ^ their * woodruff ^ birds ^^ wonderfully many "cry ^^ weal ^^puts on ^^ redness '^vigorously ^^ mends " complexion '^ beautiful '^ thyme ^^ these wild drakes woo ^' beasts gladden their mates '^^ runs '^^ tlie moody man laments, — so do With love is come to town the spring, i With blossoms and birds' whispering; That all this bliss now bringeth. There are daisies in the dales, Pipings sweet of nightingales, 5 His song each warbler singeth. The throstlecock doth strutting go ; Away is all their winter woe When up the woodruff springeth. A thousand birds are smging gay 10 Of winter's sadness passed away, Till all the woodland ringeth. The rose puts on her ruddy hood, The leaves within the greening wood With a will are growing. 15 The moon is brightening her face; Here is the lUy in her grace, With thyme and fennel blowing ; A-wooing go the wilding drakes, Beasts are courting now their mates ; 20 The stream is softly flowing ; Many a wretch bemoans his lot ; I am one of them, I vv^ot. My love for naught bestowing. The moon now mendeth fast her light, 25 So doth the seemly sun shine bright, When birds are bravely chaunling; The dews are falling on the hill ; For pleas of love in whispers still Sweethearts are not wanting ; 30 The worm is wooing in the clod ; Women wax now wondrous proud, Their joy in life a-vaunting. If love of one I may not know, This blissful boon I will forego, 35 Lonely the wild wood haunting. others -^ I know I am one of those ^^ pleases ill 2® mends, increases ^'^ loud ^* dews wet ^^ hills ^o lovers with their secret whispers [come] '^ cases [of love] to judge ^^ worms woo under clod ^^ if ^'' lack ^^ one ^^ boon of joy ^^ will ^* and be a banished wight in the forest MIDDLE ENGLISH LYRICS 23 UBI SUNT QUI ANTE NOS FUERUNT? (c. 1350) Were beth ^ they that biforen us weren, Houndes ladden ^ and havekes beren,^ And hadden feld and wode ? The riche levedies ^ m here ^ hour, That wereden gold in here '" tressour,^ With here ^ brighte rode ; ^ Where are they that hved of yore ? Hounds they led -and hawks they bore, And held both park and chase. The ladies in their bowers fair, Who bound with gold their lovely hair, And winsome were of face ; Eten and drounken, and maden hem glad ; They ate and drank and made them glad ; Here lif was al with gamen ** y-lad, Men kneleden hem ^ biforen ; They beren hem wel swithe heye ; i" And in a twincling of an eye Here soules weren forlorfin.^^ Were is that lawhing ^- and that song, That trayling and that proude gong,^^ Tho havekes ^^ and tho houndes ? Al that joye is went away, That wele ^^ is comen to weylaway ^^ To manye harde stoundes.^^ Here '" paradis they nomen ^* here,^' And nou they lyen in helle y-fere ; ^^ The fyr hit brennes ^^ evere : Long is ay, and long is o, Long is wy, and long is wo ; Thennes ne cometh they nevere. 24 ^ where are ^ led ' hawks bore ^ ladies ^ their ^ head-dress ^ complexion * pleasure ^ them ^^ bore themselves ver>' high ^^ lost Their life was all with pleasure led, Men khelt unto their sway ; They bore themselves full haughty and high ; And in the twinkling of an eye Their souls were lost for aye. 12 Where is that laughing and that song. That swaggering step that strode along, The hawks and all the hounds ? All that joy is passed away, That weal is turned to woe for aye. To woe that hath no bounds. 18 Their heaven they had ere they did die, And now together in hell they lie ; The fire it burneth ever. Long is ay ! and long is oh ! Long is wy ! and long is wo ! Thence escape they never. 24 ^^ laughing ^^ gait ^* those hawks ^^ weal ^^ alas ^^ hours ^* took ^^ here ~° together ^^ bums THE AGE OF CHAUCER WILLIAM LANGLAND? (i332?-i4oo?) PIERS THE PLOWMAN From THE PROLOGUE (A — TEXT) In a somer sesun, whon softe was the sonne, I schop ^ me into a shroud,^ as ^ I a scheep ^ were ; In habite as an hermite unholy of werkes, Wente I wyde in this world wondres to here f Bote ® in a Mayes morwnynge, on Malverne hulles, ^ 5 Me bifel a ferly,* of fairie,^ me-thoughte. I was wery, forwandred,^" and wente me to reste Undur a brod banke bi a bourne " side ; And as I lay and leonede and lokede on the watres, I slumbrede in a slepynge, hit ^^ swyed '^ so murie." lo Thenne gon I meeten ^^ a mervelous sweven," That I was in a wildernesse, wuste ^^ I never where ; And as I beheold into the est an heigh ^^ to the Sonne, I sauh ^® a tour on a toft,-*^ tryelyche ^^ i-maket ; A deop dale bineothe, a dungun ther-inne, 15 With deop dich and derk and dredful of sighte. A feir feld full of folk fond ^^ I ther bitwene, Of alle maner of men, the mene and the riche, Worchinge ^^ and wandringe as the world asketh. Summe putten hem ^^ to the plough, plei- dcn ^^ ful seldene,-^ 20 In settynge and in sowynge swonken ^^ ful harde, And wonnen that "* theos wasturs ^^ with glotonye distruen.^'^ ^ shaped, arrayed ^ garment ^ as if * sheep * hear '' but 'hills * strange thing 'enchant- ment ^'^ worn out with wandering " burn, brook '* it *' whispered, made a low sound ^* merry In a summer season when soft was the sun- shine, I got me into a garment that grew on a sheep's back ; In habit like a hermit unholy in living, I went wide in this world wonders to seek out. But on a May morning, on Malvern hill- side, 5 I met with a marvel, of magic I thought it. I was weary, forvv^andered, and went to refresh me Under a broad bank by the side of a brooklet. And as I lay and leaned there and looked on the v/aters, I slumbered in a sleeping, the sound was so soothing. ID Then came to my mind's eye a marvellous vision. That I was in a wilderness, where wist I never ; And as I looked into the east and up where the sun was, I saw a tower on a toft trimly constructed ; A deep dale beneath a dungeon within it, 1.5 With deep ditch and dark and dreadful to look on. A fair iield full of folk found I between them, Of all manner of men, the mean and the mighty, Working and wandering as the world asketh. Some put hand to the plow, played very seldom, 20 In setting and sowing sweated thev hardly. And won what these wasters with gluttony devour. ^^did I dream ^^ dream *' knew ^* on high ^^ saw ^^ field, building-site ^^ choicely, skilfullj- ^ found '^^ working ^'' them ^^ played ^^ seldom ^' laboured 2'* what ^' these wasters ^° destroy 24 PIERS THE PLOWMAN 25 And summe putten hem to pruide,^ ap- paraylden hem ther-after.- In cuntenaunce ^ of clothinge comen dis- gisid.^ To preyeres and to penaunce putten hem monye,^ 25 For love of ur ® Lord liveden ful streite, In hope for to have hevene-riche blisse ; '^ As ancres * and hermytes that holdeth hem in heore ^ celles, Coveyte ^" not in cimtre to cairen " aboiite, For non likerous lyflode '- heore Hcam ^^ to plese. And summe chosen chaffare, " to cheeven ^^ the bettre, 31 As hit semeth to ure sighte that suche men thryveth. And summe, murthhes "^ to maken, as mun- strals cunne/^ And gete gold with here ^ gle, giltles, I trowe; Bote japers ^^ and jangelers/^ Judas chil- dren, Founden hem fantasyes and fooles hem maaden, And habbeth wit at heore ^ wille to worchen vif hem luste. 37 That ^^ Poul precheth of hem, I dar not preoven ^ heere : Qui loquitur turpiloquiiim he is Liiciferes hyne. ^ Bidders "^^ and beggers faste aboute eoden,^^ Til heor bagges and heore balies ^® weren bretful i-crommet ; -' 41 ' Feyneden hem -* for heore foode, foughten atte 29 ale ; In glotonye, God wot, gon heo ^° to bedde And ryseth up with ribaudye ^^ this roberdes knaves ; ^^ Sleep and sleughthe ^^ suweth ^ hem evere. Pilgrimes and palmers plihten ^^ hem togederes 46 For to seche ^* Seint Jame and seintes at Roome ; Wenten forth in heore wey with mony wyse tales. And hedden ^" leve to lyen al heore lyf aftir. And some pranked them in pride, ap- pareled them accordingly, In quaint guise of clothing came they dis- figured. To prayers and to penance put themselves many, 25 All for love of our Lord lived they most strictly, In hope of having heaven's bliss after ; As nuns and as hermits that in their cells hold them. Covet not careering about through the coun- try, With no lustful luxuries their living to pam- per. _ 30 And some took to trade, to thrive by the better. As to our sight it seemeth that such men prosper. And some, merriments to make, with min- strels' cunning. And get gold with their glee, guiltless, me- thinketh; But jesters and jugglers, Judas' children, Forged them wild fantasies as fools pre- tended, 36 Yet have wit at their will to work, were they willing. What Paid preacheth of them prove here I dare not : Qui loquitur turpiloquium he is Lucifer's henchman. Bidders and beggars fast about bustled. Till their bags and their bellies were brimful and bulging; 41 Faking for their food, and fighting at the alehouse. In gluttony, God wot, go they to slumber, And rise up with ribaldry, these robber rascals ; Sleep and sloth too pursue them forever. 45 Pilgrims and palmers pledged them to- gether To seek St. James's and saints' shrines at Rome too ; Went they forth on their way with many wise stories, x\nd had leave to be liars all their lives after. ^ pride - accordingly ^ fashion "* came disguised ^^ what ^ prove, declare ^^ servant "^^ beggars ^ many ^ our ^ the joy of the kingdom of heaven ^5 ^,gj,j 26 bellies ^^ brimful crammed ^s shammed * nuns 9 their i" desire " roam ^ luxurious food 29 ^t the ^^ go they ^^ ribaldry ^' these robber ^^ body ^* trade ^^ thrive ^^ amusements i" know rascals ^^ sloth ^^ follow ^^ plighted ^^ seek ^' had how ^* jesters " buffoons "^^ to work if they pleased 26 WILLIAM LANGLAND ^ Grete lobres - and longe, that loth weore to swynke,^ 50 Clotheden hem in copes, to beo knowen for bretheren ; And summe schopen hem to * hermytes heore ese to have. I fond there freres,^ all the foure ordres, 55 Prechinge the peple for profyt of heore wombes,® Glosynge ^ the Gospel as hem good liketh,^ For covetyse of copes construeth hit ille ; For monye ^ of this maistres mo wen "* clothen hem at lyking, For moneye ^^ and heore marchaundie meeten togedere ; 60 Seththe ^^ Charite hath be " chapmon/^ and cheef to schriven ^^ lordes, Mony ferlyes han ^^ bifalle in a fewe yeres. But ^^ Holychirche and heo '** holde bet ^* togedere, The moste mischeef on molde ^° is mountyng up faste. Ther prechede a pardoner, as ^^ he a prest were, 65 And brought forth a bulle with bisschopes seles. And seide that himself mighte asoylen ^ hem alle Of falsnesse and fastinge and of vouwes i-broken.2^ < The lewede ^^ men levide -^ him wel and likede his speche. And comen up knelynge to kissen his bulle ; He bonchede ^^ hem with his brevet and blered 2" heore eiyen,-* 71 And raughte ^^ with his ragemon ^° ringes and broches. Thus ye giveth oure ^^ gold glotonis '^ to helpen ; And leveth hit to losels ^^ that lecherie haunten.^"* Weore the bisschop i-blesset and worth bothe his eres,^'' 75 His sel shulde not be sent to deceyve the peple. Hit is not al bi ^'^ the bisschop that the boye precheth, ♦ Bote the parisch prest and the pardoner parte the selver ^ / have omitted two lines, which probably were not in the earliest version. ^ lubbers ^ labour * shaped them to, became ^friars ^ bellies '^ interpreting "■" according to their own desire ^ many ^^ may ^^ money ^^ since ^^ been ^^ trader ^^ shrive, confess Great lubbers and long, that loth were to labour, 50 Clothed themselves in copes, to be counted for "brethren" ; And some entered as anchorites their ease for to purchase. I found there the friars, all the four orders, Preaching to the people for profit of their bellies, 56 Glossing the gospel as good to them seemed. For coveting of copes construe it wrongly ; For many of these masters may dress at their fancy. For money and their merchandise meet oft together ; 60 Since Charity hath been a chapman, and chiefly to shrive nobles. Many freaks have befallen in a few seasons. Save Holy-Church and they hold better to- gether, The worst mischief in the world is mounting up swiftly. There too preached a pardoner, as if he a priest were, 65 And brought forth a bull — • a bishop had signed it — And said that himself could absolve them aU fully Of falseness in fasting and of vows they had broken. The unlettered believed hmi well and liked what he told them, And came up kneelmg to kiss his sealed paper ; He banged them with his brevet and blinded their vision. And raked in with his rigmarole rings and brooches. Thus ye give up your gold gluttons to pamper ; And rain it on rascals that revel in lewdness. Were the bishop blessed and worth both his ears, 75 His seal should not be sent to deceive thus the people. But the blame is not all on the bishop that the boy preaches. But the parish priest and the pardoner part the silver ^^ many wonders have ^^ unless ^^ they = the friars ^^ better ^"^ earth ^^ as if ^^ absolve ^^ broken vows ^^ ignorant ^^ believed ^^ banged ^^ blinded ^* eyes 2^ reached, got ^° license ^' your ^^ gluttons ^ ras- cals ^^ practice ^^ ears '"'■'■ - " >' - '- '- -^ ^^ it is not all the fault of PIERS THE PLOWMAN 27 That the pore peple of the parisch schulde have yif that heo ne weore.^ Persones and parisch prestes playneth ^ to heore bisschops 80 That heore parisch hath ben pore seththe ^ the pestilence tyme, To have a lycence and leve at Londun to dwelle, To singe ther for simonye, for selver is swete. Ther hovide * an hundret in houves ^ of selke, Serjauns hit semide to serven atte barre; 85 Pleden for pens * and poundes the lawe, Not for love of ur Lord unloseth heore lippes ones.'' Thou mightest beter meten * the myst on Malverne hulles Then geten a mom ^ of heore mouth til moneye weore schewed ! I saugh ther bisschops bolde and bachilers of divyne i" 90 Bicoome clerkes of acounte the king for to serven. Erchedekenes and denis," that dignite haven To preche the peple and pore men to feede, Beon lopen '^ to Londun, bi leve of heore bisschopes, To ben clerkes of the Kynges Benche, the cuntre to schende.^^ Barouns and burgeis " and bondages ^* alse 1® 96 I saugh in that semble/' as ye schul heren aftur ; Bakers, bochers, and breusters ^^ monye ; WoUene-websteris ^^ and weveris of I}Tien ; 99 TaiEours, tanneris, and tokkeris '° bothe; ]\lasons, minours, and mony other craftes ; Dykers, and delvers, that don heore dedes ille,2i And driveth forth the longe day with "Deu save Dam Emme!" '^ Cookes and heore knaves-^ cry en "Hote pies, hote ! "Goode gees and grys I '■* Go we dyne, go we !" Taverners to hem tolde the same tale, 106 That the poor people of the parish should have but for these two. Parsons and parish priests complain to their bishops go- That their parish hath been poor since the pestilence season. To have a license and leave in London to linger, To sing there for simony, for sweet is silver. There hovered a hundred in hoods of silk stuff; It seemed they were sergeants to serve in the law courts, 85 To plead for pennies and pounds for ver- dicts. Not for love of our Lord unloose their lips ever. Thou couldst better measure the mist on Malvern hiE sides Than get a mum of their mouths till money were showed them. I saw there bishops bold and bachelors of divinity 90 Become clerks of account and king's own servants. Archdeacons and deans, whose duty binds them To preach to the people and poor men to care for, Have lighted out to London, b}' leave of their bishops, To be clerks of the King's Bench, the country to injure. Barons and burgesses and bondmen also I saw in that assembly, as I shaU show later ; 97 Bakers, butchers, and brewers many ; Woolen-weavers and weavers of linen ; Tailors, tanners, and tuckers likewise ; 100 INIasons, miners, and many other craftsmen ; Dikers and diggers that do their deeds badly, And drive forth the long day with "Dieu save Dame Enime!" Cooks and their cookboys crying, "Hot pies ! hot ! Good geese and piglets! Go we dine, go we!" los Tavern-keepers told them a tale of traffic. ^ if it were not for them ^ complain ^ since ^ lin- gered ° hoods ® pence, money ^ once * thou mightst more easily measure ^ syllable ^^ divinity ^ deans ^ have run ^^ injure ^- burgesses ^^ bond- men '® also ^^ assembly ^^ brewers ^^ woolen- weavers ^^ tuckers, finishers of cloth -^ that do their work badly ^A popular song of the time. ^^ boys ^ pigs 28 WILLIAM LANGLAND With wyn of Oseye ' and win of Gaskoyne, With wine of Alsace and wine of Gascon, Of the Ryn ^ and of the Rochel, the rost to Of the Rhine and the Rochelle, the roast to defye,^ digest well. Al this I saugh slepynge, and seve sithes All this saw I sleeping, and seven times more. more. THE FABLE OF BELLING THE CAT From THE PROLOGUE (B — TEXT) With that ran there a route ^ of ratones ^ With that ran there a rabble of rats all at ones,^ together, And smale mys * with hem,^ mo then a And small mice with them, more than a thousande, thousand, And comen ^^ to a conseille for here " com- And came to a counsel for their common une profit ; profit ; For a cat of a court e cam whan hym lyked, For a cat of a court came when it pleased him, And overlepe hem lyghtlich and laughte ^^ And overleaped them lightly and levied on hem at his wille, 150 them freely, 150 And pleyde with hem perilouslych and And played with them perilously and pushed possed ^^ hem aboute. them about there. "For doute" of dy verse dredes^^ we dar " For drede of divers deeds we dare not once noughte wel loke ; look up ; And yif ^^ we grucche ^"^ of his gamen,^^ he wil And if his game we grudge him, he will grieve greve us alle, us also, Cracche ^^ us, or clawe us and in his cloches ^^ Claw us or clinch us and in his clutches holde, hold us. That us lotheth the lyf or ^^ he lete us passe. Making life to us loathsome ere he let us Myghte we with any witte his wille with- scamper. stonde, 156 Might we with any wisdom his wilfulness We myghte be lordes aloft and lyven at hinder, 156 owre ese." We might be lords aloft and live at our liking." A raton ^ of renon,^^ most renable "^^ of A rat of high renown, most reasonable of tonge, discourse, Seide for a sovereygne help to hymselve : ^^ — Said for a sovereign help for their sorrow : — "I have y-sein ^® segges," ^^ quod he, "in the "I have seen swains," said he, "in the city cite of London of London Beren beighes ^^ f ul brighte abouten here Wear circlets most splendid about their nekkes, necks swinging. And some colers of crafty work ; uncoupled And some collars of crafty work ; uncoupled thei wenden ^'^ 162 they ramble 162 Both in wareine ^^ and in waste, where hem Both in warren and in waste land, e'en Icve lyketh ; ^' where'er it pleases ; And otherwhile thei aren elleswhere, as I And other times are they elsewhere, as I am here telle. advised. Wer(; there a belle on here beighe,^^ bi Jcsu, Were a bell borne on the collar, by Jesu, as as me thynkcth, me thinketh. Men myghte wite ^' where thei went, and One might wit where they went, and away awei renne ! ^■^ 166 scamper! 166 ' Alsatia ^ Rhine ^ digest '* seven times ^ crowd ^* eloquent ^'^ themselves ^^ seen ^'' people (here * rats ^ once * mice " them ^^ came ^' their '^ seized dogs are meant) ^ rings ^' go ^'^ warren '' wher- " pushed ^* fear '* dreads '^ if ^^ grudge '* sport ever they jjlease ''^ collar ^^ know ^* run *' scratch ^^ clutches ^^ before ^ rat ^^ renown PIERS THE PLOWMAN 29 And right so," quod this raton, "reson me sheweth To bugge ^ a belle of brasse or of brighte sylver And knitten on a colere for owre comune profit, And hangen it upon the cattes hals ; "^ than here ^ we mowen * Where * he ritt ^ or rest or rennet h ' to playe. And yif him list for to laike,* thenne loke we mowen, 172 And peren ^ in his presence ther-while hym plaie liketh ; ^^ And yif him wrattheth,'^ be y-war and his weye shonye." ^^ Alle this route of ratones to this reson thei assented. 175 Ac tho ^^ the belle was y-bought and on the beighe hanged, Ther ne was ratoun in alle the route, for alle the rewme '■* of Fraunce, That dorst have y-bounden the belle aboute the cattis nekke, Ne hangen it aboute the cattes hals, al Enge- lond to Wynne ; And helden hem imhardy ^^ and here conseille feble, 180 And leten ^^ here laboure lost and alle here longe studye. A mous that moche good couthe,i^ as me thoughte, Stroke forth sternly and stode biforn hem alle. And to the route of ratones reherced these wordes : "Though we culled ^^ the catte yut '^ sholde ther come another 185 To cracchy us and al owre kynde, though we croupe -° under benches. For-thi ^1 I conseille alle the comune to lat the catte worthe,^ And be we never so bolde the belle hym to shewe ; For I herde my sire seyn,^ is sevene yere y-passed, ' There ^^ the catte is a kitoun the courte is ful elyng' ; '^^ 190 That witnisseth Holi-write, who-so wil it rede : Ve terrc ubi puer rex est, ^^ &C. ' buy - neck ^ hear ^ may ^ whether ® rides " runs * if he wishes to play ^ appear ^^ when he pleases to play " he is angry ^^ shun ^^ but when And right so," said this rat then, "reason doth counsel To buy a bell of brass or of bright silver And clasp on a collar for our common profit, And knit it round the cat's neck; then may we know clearly Whether he rides or rests or runs to disport him. And if he pleases to play then rnay we press forward, 172 And appear in his presence while playing him pleases ; And if wrathful he be, then beware and his way shun well." All this rabble of rats to this reasoning assented. 175 But when the bell had been bought and bound on the collar, There was no rat in all the rout that, for all the realm of France, Durst have bound that same bell about the cat's neck there. Nor have hung it about his head, to have all England ; And found themselves fearful, and of feeble counsel, 180 And allowed their labour lost and their long study. A mouse that much good marked, as me- thinketh. Strode forth sternly and stood out before them. And to that rabble of rats rehearsed this wisdom : "Though we killed the cat, yet would there come another 185 To catch us and our kin, though we crept under benches. Therefore I counsel all the commons to let the cat flourish. And be we never so bold the bell for to show him ; For I heard my sire say — 'tis seven years since then — ' Where the cat is a kitten the court will be ailing'; 190 That witnesseth Holy-writ, whoso will read it : Vae terrae ubi puer rex est, etc. " realm ^^ timid *^ counted *' knew *^ killed " yet 20 should creep ^^ therefore ^^ be ^^ say ^* where ^} ailing ^® woe to the land where the king is a boy 30 SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE For may no renke ^ there rest have for ratones bi nyghte. The while he caccheth conynges ^ he coveiteth nought owre caroyne/ But fet * hym al with venesoun,* defame we hym nevere. For better is a litel losse than a longe sonve, The mase ^ amonge us alle though we mysse '' a shrewe.* 196 For many mannes malt we mys wolde destruye, And also ye route * of ratones rende mennes clothes, Nere " that cat of that courte that can yow overlepe ; For had ye rattes yowre wille, ye couthe " nought reule ^^ yowre-selve. 200 I sey for me," quod the mous, "I se so mykel ^^ after, Shal never the cat ne the kitoun bi my conseille be greved, Ne carpyng " of this coler that costed ^^ me nevre. And though it had coste me catel.^*' biknowen^^ it I nolde,^^ But suffre as hym-self wolde to do as hym liketh, 205 Coupled and uncoupled to cacche what thei mowe.^^ For-thi uche -" a wise wighte I warne wite ^i wel his owne." — What this meteles ^^ bemeneth,^ ye men that be merye, Devine ye, for I ne dar,^'* bi dere God in hevene ! For rest there may no man reap for rats in the night-time. While that he catcheth conies he coveteth not our carcases, But feeds him all with venison, defame we him never. For better is a little loss than a long sorrow. The maze among us all though we miss one rascal. 196 For many a man's malt we mice would destroy. And also ye rabble of rats would rend men's clothing But for that cat of that court that can over- leap you ; For had ye rats your will, ye could not rule your own selves. 200 I say for me," said that mouse, "I see so much after, Shall never the cat nor the kitten by my counsel be grieved. Nor chatter of this collar that cost me noth- ing. And though it had cost me cash, confess it I would not, But suffer him as himself would to do as doth please him, 205 Coupled and uncoupled to catch all they are able. Therefore every v.'ise wight I warn to watch well his havings." — What the mystery means now, ye men that are merry. Divine ye, for I dare not, by dear God of heaven ! SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE? (d. 1371) THE VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE OF SIR JOHN MAUNDEVILE, KT. From CHAP. IV And from Ephesim Men gon ^^ throghc many lies in the See, unto the Cytee of Paterane, where Seynt Nicholas was born, and so to Martha, where he was chosen to ben ^^ Bis- schoppe ; and there growethe right gode Wyn and strong; and that Men callen Wyn of Martha. And from thens " gon Men to the lie of Crete, that the Emperour yaf "^^ som- ' man, person ^ rabbits ^ flesh "feeds ^game * confusion ^ get rid of * tyrant ^ crowd ^° were it not for " could ^^ rule ^^ much ^* talking 1* cost. And from Ephesus men go through many isles in the sea unto the city of Pateran, where St. Nicholas was born, and so to IVIartha, where he was chosen to be bishop ; and there groweth right good wine and strong ; and men call it Wine of Martha. And from thence go men to the isle of Crete, which the Emperor gave formerly to the Genoese. And ^*' property ^^ confess ^^ would not ^^ may '^ each ^1 keep ^' dream ^'■^ means ^'^ dare not ^^ go ^^ be 2" thence ^^ gave THE VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE OF SIR JOHN MAUNDEVILE 31 tyme ' to Janeweys.- And Lhannc passen Men thorghe the Isles of Colos and of Lango ; of the whiche lies Ypocras was Lord offe. And some Men seyn,^ that in the He of Lango is yit ■• the Doughtre of Ypocras, in forme and lykeness of a gret Dragoun, that is a hundred Fadme '•" of lengthe, as Men seyn : For I have not seen hire. And thei of the Isles callen hire. Lady of the Lond.® And sche lyethe in an olde castelle, in a Cave, and schewethe ' twj^es or thryes in the Yeer. And sche dothe none harm to no Man, but-yif ^ Men don hire harm. And sche was thus chaunged and transformed, from a fair Damysele, in-to lyknesse of a Dragoun, be ^ a Goddesse, that was clept ^^ Deane." And Men seyn, that sche schalle so endure in that forme of a Dragoun, unto the tyme that a Knyghte come, that is so hardy, that dar come to hire and kiss hire on the Mouthe: And then schalle sche turne ayen ^- to hire owne Kynde," and ben a Woman ayen : But aftre that sche schalle not liven longe. And it is not long siththen,^^ that a Knyghte of the Rodes, that was hardy and doughty in Armes, seyde that he wolde kyssen hire. And whan he was upon his Coursere, and wente to the Castelle, and entred into the Cave, the Dragoun lifte up hire Hed ayenst ^^ him. And whan the Knyghte saw hire in that Forme so hidous and so horrible, he fleyghe ^^ awey. And the Dragoun bare ^' the Knyghte upon a Roche,^^ mawgre his Hede;'^ and from that Roche, sche caste him in-to tlfe See : and so was lost bothe Hors and Man. And also a yonge ^° Man, that wiste ^^ not of the Dragoun, wente out of a Schipp, and wente thorghe the He, til that he come to the Castelle, and cam in to the Cave ; and wente so longe, til that he fond a Chambre, and there he saughe ^ a Damysele, that kembed -^ hire Hede, and iokede in a JSIyrour ; and sche hadde meche ^* Tresoure abouten hire : and he trowed," that sche hadde ben a comoun Woman, that dwelled there to receyve IVIen to Folye. And he abode, tille the Damysele saughe the Schadewe of him in the Myrour. And sche turned hire toward him, and asked hym, what he wolde. And he seyde, he wolde ben hire Limman ^^ or Paramour. And sche asked him, yif ^' that he were a Knyghte. And he ^ formerly, once upon a time ^ the Genoese ^ say * yet ^ fathom ^ land ' appears * unless * by ^" called " Diana ^ again, back ^^ nature ^* since then men pass through the isles of Colos and Lango; of the which isles Hippocrates was lord. And some men say that in the isle of Lango is yet the daughter of Hippocrates, in form and likeness of a great dragon that is a hundred fathoms in length, as men say ; for I have not seen her. And ihey of the isles call her Lady of the Land. And she lieth in an old castle, in a cave, and appeareth twice or thrice in the year. And she doeth no harm to any man, unless men do harm to her. And she was thus changed and transformed from a fair damsel into likeness of a dragon by a goddess that was called Diana. And men say that she shall so continue in that form of a dragon until the time that a knight shall come who is so hardy that he dares come to her and kiss her on the mouth : and then shall she re- turn to her own nature and be a woman again : but after that she shall not live long. And it is not long since that a knight of the Rhodes that was hardy and doughty in arms said that he would kiss her. And when he was upon his courser, and went to the castle, and entered into the cave, the dragon lifted up her head against him. And v\'hen the knight saw her in that form, so hideous and so hor- rible, he fled away. And the dragon bore the knight upon a rock despite his efforts; and from the rock she cast him into the sea : and so was lost both horse and man. And also a young man, that did not know about the dragon, went out of a ship, and went through the isle till he came to the castle, and came into the cave ; and went on till he found a chamber, and there he saw a damsel that was combing her hair and looking in a mirror ; and she had much treasure about her : and he supposed that she was a common woman, who dwelt there to receive men to folly. And he waited till the damsel saw his shadow in the mirror. And she turned herself toward him. and asked him what he wished. And he said he would be her lover or paramour. And she asked him if he were a knight. And he said, "Nay." And then she said that he could not be her lover : but she bade him go back to his fellows and make himself a^knight, and come again upon the morrow, and she would come out of the cave before him ; and then he should come and kiss her on the ^^ against ^^ fled ^^ bore ^* rock ^® despite his head ( = despite all he could do) -^ 3'oung *^ knew ^ saw ^^ combed ^^much ^^ believed, thought ^'' lover ^^if 32 SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE seyde, nay. And than sche seyde, that he myghte not ben hire Lemman : ^ But sche bad him gon ayen ^ unto his Felowes, and make him Knyghte, and come ayen upon the Morwe, and sche scholde come out of the Cave before him ; and thanne come and kysse hire on the mowthe, and have no Drede ; "for I schalle do the no maner harm, alle be it that thou see me in Lyknesse of a Dragoun. For thoughe thou see me hidouse and horrible to loken onne, I do ^ the to wytene,* that it is made be Enchauntement. For withouten doute, I am non other than thou seest now, a Woman ; and therfore drede the noughte. And yif thou kysse me, thou schalt have alle this Tresoure, and be my Lord, and Lord also of alle that He." x\nd he departed fro hire and wente to his Felowes to Schippe, and leet ^ make him Knyghte, and cam ayen upon the JMorwe, for to kysse this Damysele. And whan he saughe hire comen ® out of the Cave, in forme of a Dragoun, so hidouse and so hor- rible, he hadde so grete drede, that he fleyghe '' ayen to the Schippe ; and sche folewed him. And whan sche saughe, that he turned not ayen, sche began to crye, as a thing that hadde meche ** Sorwe : and thanne sche turned ayen, in-to hire Cave ; and anon the Knighte dyede. And siththen ^ hidre- wards,^° myghte no Knighte se hire, but that he dyede anon. But whan a Knyghte com- ethe, that is so hardy to kisse hire, he schalle not dye ; but he schalle turne the Damysele in-to hire righte Forme and kyndeiy ^^ Schapp, and he schal be Lord of alle the Contreyes and lies aboveseyd. mouth, and have no dread; "for I shall do thee no manner of harm, albeit that thou see me in likeness of a dragon. For though thou see me hideous and horrible to look upon, I give thee to know that it is caused by en- chantment. For without doubt I am none other than thou seest now, a woman ; and therefore dread thee naught. And if thou kiss me, thou shalt have all this treasure, and be my lord and lord also of all the isle." And he departed from her and went to his fellows on the ship, and had himself made a knight, and came back upon the morrow to kiss the damsel. And when he saw her come out of the cave, in the form of a dragon, so hideous and so horrible, he had so great dread that he fled back to the ship ; and she fol- lowed him. And when she saw that he turned not back, she began to cry, as a thing that had great sorrow : and then she turned back into her cave ; and at once the^knight died. And from then until now no knight has been able to see her but that he died very soon. But when a knight comes that is so bold as to kiss her, he shall not die ; but he shall turn the damsel into her right form and natural shape, and he shall be lord of all the countries and isles abovesaid. From CHAP. XXVII In the Lond of Prestre John ben many dyverse thinges and many precious Stones, so grete and so large that men maken of hem ^^ \'esselle; ^^ as Plateres, Dissches, and Cuppes. And many other marveylles ben there ; that it were to ^* combrous and to ^* long to putten it in scripture ^^ of Bokes. But of the princypalle Yles and of his Estate and of his Lawe I schalle telle you som paftye.^'' This Empcrour Prestre John is Cristene ; and a gret partie of his Contree also : but yit thei have not alle the Articles of oure Feythe,'^ as wee have. Thei beleven wcl in the Fadre, in the Sone, and in the Holy Cost : ' lover ^ back ^ cause * know ^ let * come ' fled * much ® since ^^ till now " natural '^ them In the land of Prester John are many di- verse things, and many precious stones so great and so large that men make of them vessels ; as platters, dishes and cups. And many other marvels are there ; that it were too cumbrous and too long to put it in the writing of books. But of the principal isles and of his estate and of his law I shall tell you some part. This emperor Prester John is Christian ; and a great part of his country also : but yet they have not all. the articles of our faith, as we have. They believe well in the Father, in the Son, and in the Holy Ghost : and they are very ^^ vessels ^'^ too ^* writing ^^ part ^'' religion THE VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE OF SIR JOHN MAUNDEVILE 33 and thei ben fuUe devoute and righte trewe on^ to another. And thei sette not be ^ no Barettes,^ ne be Cawteles,* ne of no Disceytes.^ And he hathe undre him 72 Provynces; and in every Provynce is a Kyng. And theise Kynges han ^ Kynges undre hem ; and alle ben tributaries to Prestre John. And he hathe in his Lordschipes many grete mar- veyles. For in his Contree is the See that men clepen ' the Gravely ^ See, that is alle Gravelle and Sond ^ with-outen ony drope of Watre ; and it ebbethe and flowethe in grete \\ awes/" as other Sees don; and it is never stille ne in pes" in no manner ^^ cesoun.^^ And no man may passe that See be Navye ^^ ne be no maner of craft : ^^ and therfore may no man knowe what Lond is beyond that See. And alle-be-it that it have no Watre. yit men fynden ^^ there-in and on the Bankes fuUe gode Fissche of other maner of kynde and schappe thanne men fynden in ony other See ; and thei ben of right goode tast and delycious to mannes mete. And a 3 journeys long fro that See, ben gret Mountaynes ; out of the whiche gothe " out a gret Flood, ^* that comethe out of Paradys ; and it is fulle of precious Stones, withouten ony drope of Water ; and it rennethe ^^ thorghe the Desert, on that -" o ^ syde, so that it makethe the See gravely ; and it berethe i" in-to that See, and there it endethe. And that Flome ^^ rennethe also 3 dayes in the Woke,-^ and bryngethe with him grete Stones and the Roches 22 also therewith, and that gret plentee. And anon as thei ben entred in-to the gravely See, thei ben seyn ^ no more, but lost for evere more. And in tho 3 dayes that that Ryvere rennethe no man dar -^ entren in-to it : but in the other dayes men dar entren wel ynow.-^ Also beyonde that Flome, ^^ more upward to the Desertes, is a gret Pleyn alle gravelly betwene the Mountaynes ; and in that Playn every day at the Sonne risynge begynnen to growe smale Trees ; and thei growen til mydday, berynge Frute ; but no man dar taken of that Frute, for it is a thing of Fayrye.^® And aftre mydday thei discrecen ^^ and entren ayen ^^ in-to the Erthe ; so that at the goynge doun of the Sonne thei apperen no more ; and so thei don every day : and that is a gret marvaylle. * one ^ set not by ( = do not practice) ^ frauds * tricks ^ deceits ^ have ^ call ^ gravelly ® sand *" waves " peace ^ kind of ^^ season ^* ship devout and very true one to another. And they do not practice any tricks, or frauds, or deceits. And he hath under him seventy- two provinces ; and in every province is a king. And these kings have kings under them; and all are tributaries to Prester John. And he hath in his lordships many great marvels. For in his country is the sea that men call the Gravelly Sea, that is all gravel and sand, without any drop of water ; and it ebbeth and floweth in great waves, as other seas do ; and it is never still nor in peace in any season. And no man may pass that sea by ship or by any kind of craft : and therefore may no man know what land is beyond that sea. And albeit that it have no water, yet men find therein and on the banks very good tish of different kinds and shapes from those that men find in any other sea ; and they are all very good to eat and delicious for man's food. And three days' distance from that sea are great mountains ; out of which flows a great river, that comes from Paradise ; and it is full of precious stones, without any drop of water ; and it runs through the desert, on the one side, so that it makes the sea gravelly ; and it flows into the sea and ends there. And this river runs three days in the week, and brings with it great stones and rocks also, and that in great abundance. And as soon as they have entered into the Gravelly Sea, they are seen no more but are lost forever. And during the three days that the river runs, no man dares enter into it : but during the other days one may enter well enough. Also beyond that river, further upward towards the deserts, is a great plain of gravel between the mountains ; and in that plain, every day at the rising of the sun, there begin to grow small trees ; and they grow till midday, bearing fruit ; but no man dares take any of that fruit, for it is a thing of faerie. And after midday they decrease and enter again into the earth ; so that at the setting of the sun they appear no more ; and so they do every day : and that is a great marvel. ^^ device ^^ find "goes, flows 2" the ^^ week ^^ rocks ^ seen 2^ magic ^^ decrease ^^ again ^* river '^ runs ^^ enough 1 *° nv« ^* dare 34 JOHN WICLIF JOHN WICLIF (d. 1384) THE GOSPEL OF MATHEW (first version) CHAP. V Jhesus forsothe/ seynge ^ cumpanyes, wente up in-to an hill ; and when he hadde sete,^ his disciplis camen nighe to hym. And he, openynge his mouthe, taughte to hem, say- inge, "Blessid be the pore in spirit, for the kingdam in hevenes is heren.^ Blessid be mylde men, for thei shuln ^ welde ^ the eerthe. Blessid be thei that mournen, for thei shuln ^ be comfortid. Blessid be thei that hungren and thristen rightwisnesse," for thei shuln ben fulfiUid. Blessid be mercyful men, for thei shuln gete mercye. Blessid be thei that ben ^ of clene herte, for thei shuln see God. Blessid be pesible men, for thei shuln be clepid ^ the sonys of God. Blessid be thei that suffren persecucioun for rightwisnesse,'' for the kyng- dam of hevenes is herun.'* Yee shulen * be blessid, when men shulen curse you, and shulen pursue you, and shulen say al yvel ^° ayeins ^^ you leezing,^- for me. Joye ^^ yee with-yn-forth," and glade yee with-out-forth, for youre meede ^^ is plentevouse ^^ in hevenes ; forsothe so thei han ^' pursued and ^^ prophetis that weren before you. Yee ben ^ salt of the erthe ; that yif ^® the salt shal vanyshe awey, wherynne shal it be saltid ? To no thing it is worth over,-" no ^^ bot ^^ that it be sent out, and defoulid of men. Ye ben ^ light of the world ; a citee putt on an hill may nat be hid ; nether men tendyn -^ a lanterne, and putten it undir a busshel, but on a candilstike, that it yeve ^* light to allc that ben in the hous. So shyyne ^^ youre light before men, that thei see youre good werkis, and glorifie youre Fadir that is in hevens. Nyle ^''' ye gesse, or deme,^' that Y came to undo, or distruye, the lawe, or the prophetis ; I came not to undo the lawe, but to fulfiUe. Forsothe ^^ I say to you trewthe, til heven and erthe passe, oon ^^ i, that is leste •'"' lettre, or titil, shal nat passe fro the lawe, til allc thingis be don. Therfore he that undoth, or breketh, oon of these leste ^" maundcmentis,^^ and techith thus men, shal be clepid ■*- the leste in the rewme ■*■' of hevenes ; ^ indeed ^ seeing ^ sat ■* theirs ^ shall ® rule ^ righteousness ** are ^ called ^° evil ^^ against ^ lying '^ rejoice ^'' with-yn-forth = inwardly ^* reward '*" plenteous " have ^** also '^ if -" besides THE GOSPEL OF MATHEU (second version) CAP. V And Jhesus, seynge ^ the puple, wente up in- to an hil ; and whanne he was set, hise dis- ciplis camen to hym. And he openyde his mouth, and taughte hem, and seide, "Blessed ben pore men in spirit, for the kyngdom of hevenes is heme.'* Blessid ben mylde men, for thei schulen ^ welde ^ the erthe. Blessid ben thei that mornen, for thei schulen be coumfortid. Blessid ben thei that hungren and thristen rightwisnesse, for thei schulen be fulfillid. Blessid ben merciful men, for thei schulen gete merci. Blessid ben thei that ben of clene herte, for thei schulen se God. Blessid ben pesible men, for thei schulen be clepid ^ Goddis children. Blessid ben thei that suffren persecusioun for rightfulnesse, for the kingdam of hevenes is heme.'' Ye schulen be blessid, whanne men schulen curse you, and schulen pursue you, and shulen seie al yvel ^^ ayens " you liynge, for me. Joie ^^ ye, and be ye glad, for youre meede ''^ is plen- tevouse ^'^ in hevenes ; for so thei han ^^ pur- sued also profetis that weren bifor you. Ye ben salt of the erthe ; that if the salt vanysche awey, whereynne schal it be saltid? To no thing it is worth overe,^" no ^^ but ^^ that it be cast out, and be defoulid of men. Ye ben light of the world ; a citee set on an hil may not be hid ; ne me teendith ^^ not a lanterne, and puttith it undur a busschel, but on a candilstike, that it yyve hght to alle that ben in the hous. So schyne youre light befor men, that thei se youre goode werkis, and glorifie youre Fadir that is in hevenes. Nil "^^ ye deme,'^^ that Y cam to undo the lawe, or the profetis ; Y cam not to undo the lawe, but to fulfdle. Forsothe Y seie to you, til hevene and erthe passe, o ^^ lettir or o -^ titel shal not passe fro the lawe, til alle thingis be doon. Thcrfor he that brekith oon of these leeste ^° maundementis;" and techith thus men, schal be clepid ■'" the lesle in the rewme ^ of hevenes ; but he that doith, and techith, schal be clepid greet in the kyngdom of hevenes. And Y seie ^^ not ^^ but ^^ light ^* give ^^ Subj. of command ^^ do not, literally, wish not (Lat. nolite) ^^ think ^ verily ^^ one ^'^ least ^^ commandments ^^ called *^ kingdom THE GOSPEL OF MATHEW 35 forsothe, this^ that doth, and techith, shal be clepid grete in the kyngdame of hevenes. Forsothe Y say to you, no-but-yif - youre rightwisnesse shal be more plentevoiise than of scribis and Pharisees, yee shulen not entre in-to kyngdam of hevenes. Yee han ^ herde that it is said to olde men. Thou shal nat slea; forsothe he that sleeth, shal be gylty of dome.^ But I say to you, that evereche ^ that is wrothe to his brother, shal be gylty of dome ; forsothe he that shal say to his brother, Racha, that is, a word of scorn, shal be gylty of counseile ; ^ sothly he that shal say, Fool, that is, a word of dispisynge, shal be gylti of the lijr ' of helle. Therfore yif thou offrist thi yiit * at the auter,^ and there shalt by- thenke,^" that thi brother hath sum-what ayeins thee, leeve there thi yift before the auter, and go first for to be recounseilid, or acordid, to thi brother, and thanne thou cum- mynge shalt ofifre thi yifte. Be thou consent- ynge to thin adversarie soon, the whijle thou art in the way with hym, lest peraventure thin adversarie take ^^ thee to the domesman,^- and the domesman take thee to the mynystre,^^ and thpu be sente in-to prisoun. Trewely I say to thee. Thou shalt not go thennes, til thou 3^elde " the last ferthing. Ye han herd, that it was said to olde men, Thou shalt nat do lecherye. Forsothe Y say to you, for- why ^^ every man that seeth a w'omman for to coveite hire, now he hath do lecherie by hire in his herte. That yif thi right eiye sclaundre^*' thee, puUe it'out, and cast it fro thee; for it speedith i" to thee, that oon ^^ of thi membris perishe, than al thi body go in-to helle. And yif thi right hond sclaundre thee, kitt ^^ it awey, and cast it fro thee ; for it spedith to thee, that oon of thi membris perishe, than that al thi body go in-to helle. Forsothe it is said, Who-evere shal leeve his wyf , yeve -" he to hir a libel, that is, a litil boke, of for- sakyng. Sothely Y say to you, that every man that shal leeve his wyf, outaken -^ cause of fornicacioun, he makith hire do lecherie and he that weddith the forsaken wijf, doth avoutrie.^ Efte-soonys ^^ yee han herd, that it was said to olde men. Thou shalt not for- swere, sothely 2* to the Lord thou shalt yeeld ^* thin oethis.-^ Forsothe Y say to you, to nat ^ he ^ unless ^ have * judgement ^ every one ^ the council ^ fire * gift ^ altar ^'^ rernember ^ deliver '^ judge ^^ officer ^'^ pay ^^ that ^^ slander to you, that but your rightfulnesse be more plentevouse than of scribis and of Farisees, ye schulen not entre into the kyngdom of hevenes. Ye han ^ herd that it was seid to elde men, Thou schalt not slee ; and he that sleeth, schal be gilti to doom.'' But Y seie to you, that ech man that is wrooth to his brothir, schal be gilti to doom ; and he that seith to his brother, Fy ! schal be gilti to the counseil ; ^ but he that seith. Fool, schal be gilti to the fier of helle. Therfor if thou offrist thi yifte * at the auter, ^ and ther thou bithenkist, that thi brothir hath sum-what ayens thee, leeve there thi yifte bifor the auter, and go first to be recounselid to thi brothir, and thanne thou schalt come, and schalt offre thi yifte. Be thou consentynge to thin adversarie soone, while thou art in the weie with hym, lest peraventure thin adversarie take " thee to the domesman, ^2 and the domesman take thee to the mj'nystre,^^ and thou be sent in-to prisoun. Treuli Y seie to thee, thou shalt not go out fro thennus, til thou yelde ^^ the last ferthing. Ye han herd that it was seid to elde me». Thou schalt do no letcherie.- But Y seie to you, that every man that seeth a womman for to coveite hir, hath now do letcherie bi hir in his herte. That if thi right iye sclaundre ^^ thee, pulle hym out, and caste fro thee ; for it spedith ^'^ to thee, that oon ^* of thi membris perische, than that al thi bodi go in-to helle. And if thi right hond sclaundre thee, kitte ^^ hym aweye, and caste fro thee ; for it spedith to thee that oon ^^ of thi membris perische, than that al thi bodi go in-to helle. And it hath be seyd, Who-evere leeveth his wiif , 3yve he to hir a libel of forsakyng. But Y seie to you, that every man that leeveth his w'iif, outtakun cause of fornycacioun, makith hir to do letcherie, and he that weddith the for- sakun wiif, doith avowtrye. Eftsoone ye han herd, that it was seid to elde men, Thou schalt not forswere, but thou schalt yelde thin othis to the Lord. But Y seie to you, that ye swere not for ony thing ; nethir bi hevene, for it is the trone of God ; nether bi the erthe, for it is the stole 8f his feet ; nether bi Jerusalem, for it is the citee of a greet kynge ; nether thou shalt not swere bi thin heed, for thou maist not make oon heere white ne blacke; 1^ protiteth ^^ one ^^ cut -" give (subj. of com- mand) ^1 except ^^ adultery ^^ again ^ truly ^° oaths 36 JOHN WICLIF swere on al manere; neither by hevene, for it is the trone of God ; nether by the erthe, for it is the stole of his feet ; neither by Jeru- salem, for it is the citee of a greet kyng; neither thou shalt swere by thin heved,^ for thou maist not make oon heer whyt or blak ; but be youre word yea, yea ; Nay, nay ; for- sothe that that is more than this, is of yvel. Yee han herde that it is said, Eiye - for eiye,^ toth for toth. But Y say to you, to nat ayein- stonde ^ yvel ; but yif any shal smyte thee in the right cheeke, yeve to hym and * the tother ; and to hym that wole stryve with thee in dome," and take awey thi coote, leeve thou to hym and * thin over-clothe ; and who- evere constrayneth thee a thousand pacis, go thou with hym other tweyne. Forsothe yif ^ to hym that axith of thee, and turne thou nat awey fro hym that wol borwe '' of thee. Yee han herd that it is said. Thou shalt love thin neighbore, and hate thin enmy. But Y say to you, love yee youre enmyes, do yee wel to hem ^ that hat en ^ you, and preye yee for ftien pursuynge, and falsly chalengynge ^" you ; that yee be the sonys of youre Fadir that is in hevenes, that makith his sune to springe up upon good and yvel men, and rayneth upon juste men and unjuste men. For yif ye loven hem that loven you, what meed " shul ^^ yee have ? whether and * puplicans don nat this thing? And yif yee greten, or saluten, youre bretheren oonly, what more over " shul yee don ? whether and '' paynymmys " don nat this thing? Therfore be yee parfit,i^ as and"* youre hevenly Fadir is parfit. Take yee hede, lest ye don your rightwisnesse before men, that yee be seen of hem, ellis "" ye shule nat han meed' at youre Fadir that is in hevenes. Ther- fore when thou dost almesse," nyle ^* thou synge byfore thee in a trumpe, as ypocritis don in synagogis and streetis, that thei ben maad worshipful of men ; forsothe Y saye to you, thei han re^eyved her '^ meede. But thee doynge almesse,'^ knowe nat the left hond what thi right hond doth, that thi almes be in hidlis,^" and thi Fadir that_seeth in hidlis, shal yclde '■" to thee." but be youre word, yhe, yhe ; Nay, nay ; and that that is more than these, is of yvel. Ye han herd that it hath be seid, lye for iye, and tothe for tothe. But Y seie to you, that ye ayenstonde ^ not an yvel man ; but if ony smyte thee in the right cheke, schewe to him also the tothir ; and to hym that wole stryve with thee in doom,'' and take awey thi coote, leeve thou to him also thi mantil ; and who- ever constreyneth thee a thousynde pacis, go thou with hym othir tweyne. Yyve ^ thou to hym that axith of thee, and turne not awey fro hym that wole borewe ^ of thee. Ye han herd that it was seid. Thou shalt love thi neighbore, and hate thin enemye. But Y seie to you, love ye youre enemyes, do ye wel to hem that hatiden you, and preye ye for hem * that pursuen, and sclaundren you ; that ye be the sones of your Fadir that is in hevenes, that makith his sunne to rise upon goode and yvele men, and reyneth on just men and unjuste. For if ye loven hem * that loven you, what mede ^^ schulen ye han ? whether pupplicans doon not this? And if ye greten youre britheren oonli, what schulen ye do more? ne doon not hethene men this? Ther- fore be ye parfit, as youre hevenli Fadir is parfit." [It will be observed that the Second Version agrees with the Authorized Version in the division into chapters, while the First Version con- tains a few verses usually assigned to Chapter VI.l ' head '^ eye ^ resist * also ^ a lawsuit ^ give '^ shall ^^ besides ^* heathen ^^ perfect ^ borrow ^ them * hate ^^ accusing ^' reward " alms ^^ do not ^^ their 2" secret -' pay ^^ else GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 37 SYR GAWAYN AND THE GRENE KNYGHT {Unknoimi Author) FYTTE THE FIRST XI Ther wacz ^ lokyng on lenthe,- the lude ^ to beholde, For uch ^ mon had mervayle qual ^ hit mene myght, That a hathel ^ and a horse myght such a hwe lach.7 As growe grene as the gres ** and grener hit semed, Then ' grene aumayl ^° on golde lowande " bryghter. Al studied that ther slod, and stalked hym nerre/- Wyth al the wonder of the worlde. what he worch ^^ schulde ; For fele sellyez ^^ had thay sen, hot such never are/^ For-thi for fantoum and fayryye ^^ the folk there hit demed. 240 Ther-fore to answare wacz arghe ^" mony athel freke/« And al stouned ^^ at his steven,-" and ston-stil set en, In a swoghe sylence -^ thurgh the sale -' riche ; As ^^ al were slypped upon slepe, so slaked hor lotez ^^ In hyye ; ^^ I deme hit not al for doute,^^ Bot sum for cortaysye. Let hym that al schulde loute '^'' Cast ^^ unto that wyye.^ XI Long was there looking, that lord to behold, For each man had marvel what might be the meaning That a horsem.an and a horse might such a hue catch. As grow-green as the grass and greener yet seemed they, Than green enamel on gold glowing brighter. All studied that stood there, and stalked to him nearer, ' With all the wonder in the world what wiles he was planning ; For many sights had they seen, but such a sight never ; So for phantom and faerie the folk there did deem it. Therefore to answer was fearful many a fine fellow, 240 And all were stunned by his speech and stone- still sat they. In a sheer silence through the haU splendid ; As if they had slipped into sleep, so slacked they their talking. That day ; Not all for fear, I trow, But some in courteous way, Let him to whom all bow The stranger first assay. XII Thenn Arthour bifore the high dece ^^ that aventure ^° byholdez,'*^ 250 And rekenly hym reverenced,^- for rad ^' was he never, And sayde, "Wyye, welcum iwys ^'^ to this place ; The hede of this ostel ^^ Arthour I hat.^^ ^ was ^ for a long time "* man ■* each ^ what ® knight ' catch such a colour * grass ^ than ^° enamel ^^ gleaming ^^ nearer ^'^ do ^'^ many strange things '^ before ^^ therefore as ilkision and magic ^" timid ^* many a noble knight ^^ were amazed ^^ voice ^^ in a swoon-Hke silence ^ hall XII Then Arthur before the high dais that inci- dent beholdeth, And courteously accosted him, for cowed was he never, And said, "Warrior, welcome i-wis to this place ; The head of this hostel Arthur I hight. 253 -^ as if '^^ so slackened their noises ^^ suddenly 2^ fear ^" but let him to whom all should bow ( = Arthur) ^* speak 2* dais ^° happening ^^ ob- serves ^^ courteously greeted him ^^ afraid ^^ in- deed ^^ house ^® I am called 38 GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT Light luflych ^ adoun, and lenge,- I the praye. And quat-so thy wylle is, we schal wyt ^ after." "Nay, as help me," quoth the hathel, "He that on hyghe syttes, To wone ^ any quyle ^ in this won,^ hit wacz not myn ernde ; ^ Bot for ^ the los ^ of the lede ^° is lyft up so hyghe, And thy burgh and thy burnes " best ar holden, Stifest under stel-gere ^^ on stedes to ryde, 260 The wyghtest ^^ and the worthyest of the world es kynde, Preve " for to play wyth in other pure laykez ; ^^ And here is kydde 1® cortaysye, as I haf herd carp '' — And that hacz wayned '* me hider, iwyis, at this tyme. Ye may be seker ^^ bi this braunch that I bere here That I passe as in pes, and no plyght seche.^" For, had I founded ^^ in fere, in feghtyng wyse, I have a hauberghe ^^ at home and a helme ^^ bothe, A schelde, and a scharp spere, schinande bryght, Ande other weppenes to welde,^* I wene wel als.^^ Bot for ^ I wolde no were,^^ my wedez -" ar softer. Bot if thou be so bold as alle burnez " tellen, Thou wyl grant me godly ^^ the gomen ^* that I ask, 273 Bi ryght." Arthour con onsware '" And sayd, "Syr cortays knyght, If thou crave batayl bare. Here faylez thou not to fyght." Alight lovesomely down and linger here, so please thee. And whatso thy will is we shall wit later." "Nay, so help me," quoth the horseman, "He that on high sits, To dwell any while in this dwelling is not my due errand ; But that the praise of thy people is published so widely, And thy castle and thy comrades choicest are counted, Stiffest under steel-gear on steeds to en- counter, 260 The wightest and the worthiest of this world's kindred. Proven to play with in other pleasant contests ; And here is kept courtesy, as I have heard recounted — ■ 'Tis this has drawn me hither, indeed, at this season. You may be certain by this bough that I bear with me That I pass as in peace, and press for no quarrel. For had I faced you in fear or in fighting hu- mour, I have a hauberk at home and a helmet also, A shield and a sharp spear, shining brightly. And other weapons to wield, I ween well like-wise. But as I coveted no combat, my clothing is softer. But if thou be as bold as all barons call thee, Thou wilt grant me graciously the game I shall ask thee, 273 By right." Arthur gave answer there And said, "Sir courteous knight, If thou crave battle bare, Here fail'st thou not to fight." XIII "Nay, frayst ^^ I no fyght, in fayth I the telle ; Hit arn -^'^ aboute on this bench bot berdlez chylder. If I were hasped ^^ in armes on a heghe ^'^ stede. Here is no mon me to mach,''^ for myghtez so wayke.'^" ^ alight graciously ^ remain ' know ^ dwell * while '' place ' errand * because ^ fame ^° people " knights ^^ steel-gear, armour ^''stoutest ^^ proven ^^ fine sports ^'' shown ^' declare "* has drawn XIII "Nay, to fight am I not fain, in faith as I tell thee ; There are about on this bench but beardless children. If I were clasped in armour on a high charger. Here is no man to match me, for in might are they weaklings. ^' sure ^" seek no danger ^^ come ^^ hauberk '^ helmet ^* wield ^^ also ^'' war ^^ garments '^^ graciously ^* game ^° answered ^^ ask ^- there are '^ clasped '*'* high, tall ^^ match ^^ weak GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 39 For-thy ^ I crave in this court a Crystemas gomen,^ For hit is Yol and Nwe Yer, and here are yep ^ mon}- ; 284 If any so hardy in this hous holdez hym-selven, Be so bolde in his blod, bra>Ta ^ in hys hede, That dar stifly strike a strok for an other, I schal gif hym of my gyft thys giserne ^ ryche, — ■ This ax, that is heve innogh, — to hondele ^ as hym lykes, 289 And I schal bide ^ the fyrst bur,* as bare as I sitte. If any freke ^ be so felle i" to fonde " that 12 I telle, Lcpe 1^ lyghtly me to, and lach ^* this weppen — I quit-clayme hit for ever, kepe hit as his auen ^^ — And I schal stonde hym a strok, stif on this flet,i6 EUez thou wyl dight me the dom i' to dele hym an other ; Barlay ; ^* And yet gif hym respite A twelmonyth and a day ; Now hyghe," and let se tite ^° Dar any her-inne oght say." 300 Therefore I crave in this court a Christmas gambol. For it is Yule and New Year, and here are many young braggarts ; If any in this house holds him so hardy, If he be so bold in his blood, hot-brained of temper That he dare stiffly strike one stroke for an- other, I shall give him of my gift this gisarme splendid — This axe, that is heavy enough — ■ to handle as he pleases ; And I shall bide the first blow, as bare as I sit here. If any man be so mad as to make such a trial Let him leap to me lightly and lay hold of this weapon — 292 I^ quit-claim it for ever, keep it as his own — Xnd I shall stand him a stroke, stiff on this floor, If thou wilt but grant me the grace to give him another, In fay ; Yet respite shall there be A twelvemonth and a day; Now hasten and let us see If any here dare aught say." 300 XIV If he hem stowned -^ upon fyrst ,22 stiller were ihanne Alle the hered-men ^ in halle, the hygh and the iowe. The renk ^ on his rounce ^* hym ruched ^^ in his sadel And runischly ^^ his rede yyen -^ he reled aboute ; Bende his bresed ^^ browez, blycande ^^ grene : Wayved his berde for to wayte ^° quo-so ^^ wolde ryse. When non wolde kepe hym with carp,^- he coghed ful hyghe ^^ .\nde rimed hym ful richley ^* and ryght hym ^^ to speke : "What, is this Arthures hous," quoth the hathel ^^ thenne, "That al the rous rennes of ^'^ thurgh ryalmes so mony? 310 ^ therefore ^ game, amusement ^ bold, read}' * mad ^ pole-axe ® handle " abide, endure ^ blow ^ man ^° fierce ^^ try ^- what ^^ let him leap ^^ seize ^^ own ^® floor ^^ provided thou wilt give me the right ^* I claim this ^^ hasten ^° quickly ^i amazed XIV If they were astounded at first, now were they stiller. All the henchmen in hall, the high and the lowly. The stranger on his steed then settled him in his saddle And ragingly his red eyes he rolled upon them ; Bent his bushy brows, green and bristling ; Waved his beard as he watched whether any would offer. When none would come at his challenge, he coughed full loudly And stretched himself starkly and stayed not in speaking : "What? is this x\rthur's house," quoth then the horseman, "Whereof all the renown runs through realms unnumbered? 3^° 22 at first 23 retainers 24 horse 25 settled 26 furi- ously 27 eyes 28 bristly 29 glittering ^o observe 31 who-so =^2 when none would reply ^^ coughed aloud ^^ and made full preparation ^^ got ready 2** knight 3^ of which all the fame goes 40 GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT Where is now your sourquydrye ^ and your conquest es, Your gryndel-laykr and your greme,^ and your grete wordes? Now is the revel and the renoun of the Rounde Table Over-wait ■* wyth a worde of on wyyes ^ speche ; For al dares ^ for drede, withoute dynt ^ schewed ! " Wyth this he laghes * so loude, that the lorde greved; The blod schot for scham in-to his schyre ^ face And lere.i" He wex as wroth as wynde ; So did alle that ther were. 320 The kyng, as kene bi kynde," Then stod that stif mon nere ^^ Where is now your arrogance and all your conquests, Your fierceness and your fellness and your fine boasting? Now is the revel and the renown of the Round Table Overthrown by a word of one man's speech ; For all quail for cowardice, tho' no combat threatens !" With this he laughed so loud that the lord was grieved ; The blood shot for shame into his fair cheek And face. As wrathful then as wind Grew all men in that place. 320 The king, as bold by kind, Neared that stout man apace XV Ande sayde, "Hathel, by heven thyn askyng is nys,^^ • And as thou foly hacz frayst,^'* fynde the be- hoves.^* I know no gome ^'^ that is gast " of thy grete wordes. Gif me now thy geserne,^* upon Godez halve, ^^ And I schal bay then thy bone, 2° that thou boden " habbes." Lyghtly lepez he hym to, and laght -^ at his honde ; Then feersly that other freke ^^ upon fote lyghtis. Now hacz Arthure his axe, and the halme ^^ grypez. And sturnely sturez ^ hit aboute, that stryke wyth hit thoght. 331 The stif mon hym bifore stod upon hyght 2" — Herre "^^ then ani in the hous by the hede and more ; Wyth sturne chere ^'' ther he stod, he stroked his berde, And wyth a countenaunce dryye ^' he drow doun his cote, No more mate ^^ ne dismayd for hys mayn dintez ^^ Miauj;htiness ^fierceness ^grimncss ''overturned ' one man's '' all are frightened ^ stroke * laughs * bright ^^ cheek " as one bold by nature '^ nearer ^^ foolish '■' asked '^ it behooves thee to find XV And said, "Horseman, by heaven thy asking is foolish, And as thou folly hast craved, it behooves that thou find it. I know no man that is aghast at thy great boasting. Give me now thy gisarme, in God's name be it, And I will bestow the boon that thou hast bidden." Lightly he leaps to him and lays hand on the weapon ; Then fiercely the other man on foot alights there. Now has Arthur his axe, and by the handle holds it. And sternly stirs it about, to strike with it thinks he. 331 The stalwart man before him stood at his full height — Higher than any in the house by a head and more ; With stern look there he stood, stroking his beard. And with countenance calm he drew down his collar, 335 No more moved nor dismayed for the king's mighty blows '^ man " frightened ^* axe ^' in God's name -" grant thy boon ^' grasped ^ shaft ^^ fiercely moves -■* stood tall ^^ taller ^g fierce look ^^ dry, without emotion ^* dispirited ^^ strong blows GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 41 Then any burne ^ upon bench hade broght hym to drynk Of wyne. Gawan, that sate bi the quene. To the kyng he can - cnclyne, 340 "I be-seche now with sawez sene,^ This melly mot ^ be myne. "Wolde ye, worthilych = lorde," quoth Gawan to the kyng, "Bid me bowe ® fro this benche, and stonde by yow there, That I wyth-oute vylanye myght voyde ' this table. And that my legge * lady lyked not ille, I wolde com to your cotmseyl, bifore your cort ryche ; ^ For me think hit not semly,^" as hit is soth knawen," Ther ^^ such an askyng is hevened ^^ so hyghe in your sale,^^ Thagh ye your-self be talenttyf ^^ to take hit to your-selven, 350 Whil mony so bolde yow about e upon bench sytten. That under heven, I hope,'^ non hagher ^~ er ^^ of wylle, Ne better bodyes on bent,^^ ther '- baret ^'' is rered. I am the wakkest,-^ I wot, and of wyt feblest. And lest lur ~ of my lyf , quo laytes the sothe ; "^ Bot for as much as ye ar myn em,-^ I am only to prayse — No bounte ^^ bot your blod I in my bode knowe — And sythen this note-'' is so nys -" that noght hit yow falles,-* And I have frayned ^^ hit at yow fyrst, foldez ^" hit to me ! And if I carp ^^ not comlyly, let alle this cort rych 32 Bout 33 blame." 361 Ryche ^ to-geder con roun,3^ And sythen thay redden alle same,^^ To ryd the kyng wyth croun,^" And gif Gawan the game. ' than if any man ^ did ^ courteous words ■* this encounter may ^ worthy ® move " leave * liege ^ rich (splendid) court '" fitting " is known for truth '- where ^^ raised ^* hall ^^ desirous ^^ think ^' apter, fitter ^* are ^^ in field -" strife ^^ weakest ^ least loss ^ if any one seeks the truth ^ imcle Than if any baron on the bench had brought him to drink Of wine. Gawain, who sat by the queen, To the king he did encline, 340 "Let bounty now be seen. And let this game be mine ! X\'I "Would you, most gracious lord," quoth Gawain to the king, "But bid me leave this bench and bide by you there, So that I without rudeness might rise from this table. And that to my liege lady there were lacking no courtesy, I would come to your counsel, before your court splendid ; For methinks it is unseemly, as sage men weigh things. When such an asking is honoured so high in your hall — Though you yourself be eager for all under- takings — _ 350 While about you on bench sit so many bold ones, Than whom under heaven, I think none hard- ier are of temper. Nor better bodies in battle when banners are lifted. I am the weakest, I wot, and of wit feeblest, And least the loss of my life, if no lie shall be spoken ; But forasrnuch as you are my uncle I am only of merit — No desert but your blood I in my body reckon — And since this affair is so foolish that you it befits not. And I have sued for it first, let my suit be granted ! .\nd if my conduct is not comely, let all this court judge me To blame." 361 Nobles 'gan whispering ; Their verdict was the same, To exempt the crowned king And give Gawain the game. 2» goodness ^^ affair ^^ foolish ^^ becomes "^^ re- quested 30 grant 3i if I speak 32 judge 33 without 3^ the great ones 3^ did whisper 36 and afterwards they decided unanimously 3' to set aside the crowned king 42 GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT XVII Then comaunded the kyng the knyght for to ryse ; And he ful radly ^ up ros, and ruchched hym fayre,- Kneled doun bifore the kyng, and cachez ^ that weppen ; And he luflyly hit hym laft/ and lyfte up his honde, And gef hym Goddez blessyng, and gladly hym biddes 370 That his hert and his honde schulde hardi be bothe. "Kepe the, cosyn," quoth the kyng, "that thou on kyrf sette,^ And if thou redez ^ hym ryght, redly I trowe That thou schal byden the bur ^ that he schal bede » after." Gawan gocz * to the gome,^'' with giserne ^^ in honde. And he baldly hym bydez,^- he bayst never the helder.i^ Then carppez to Syr Gawan the knyght in the grene : "Refourme we oure forwardes," er we fyrre "^ passe. Fyrst I ethe ^^ the, hathel, how that thou hattes," That thou me telle truly, as I tryst ^^ may." "In god fayth," quoth the goode knyght, "Gawan I hatte," 381 That bede * the this buffet, quat-so bi-faUez after. And at this tyme twelmonyth take at the ^° another, Wyth what weppen so thou wylt, and wyth no wy ellez ^^ On lyve." "^ That other onswarez -^ agayn, " Sir Gawan, so mot -'' I thryve, As I am ferly fayn,-^ This dint that thou schal dryve.^^ XVII Then kindly the king commanded him to rise; And he came forward quickly and curtsied duly. Kneels down before the king and catches the weapon ; And he releases it lovingly and lifts up his hand And gives him God's blessing and gladly bids him 370 That his heart and his hand should both be hardy. "Take care, cousin," said the king, "that thou carve him once, And if thou touchest him tidily, truly I trow That thou canst endure any dint that he will deal thee." Gawain goes to the green man, with gisarme in hand ; And he boldly abides him, abashed was he never. Then calls to Sir Gawain the champion in green : "Let us canvass our compact ere we carry this further. First, knight, I must know what thy name is; That tell thou me truly that I may trust to it." "In good faith," quoth the good knight, " Gawain men call me, 381 Who shall bid thee this buffet, whate'er be- falls after, And at this time twelve month take from thee another. With what weapon so thou wilt, and from no wight else :\live." That other answers again, "Sir Gawain, so may I thrive As I am wondrous fain 'Tis thou this dint shalt drive.' XVIII "Bi Gog," quoth the grene knyght, "Syr Gawan, me lykes,^^ 390 That I schal fange at thy fust ^s that ^9 I haf frayst ^" here ; ^ quickly ^ stooped courteously ^ seizes ^ left, gave * take care, cousin, that thou give one stroke • treatest ^ blow * offer ^ goes ^° man " axe ** awaits '^ he quailed never the more ''' agree- ments ^^ further ^'' ask ^^ what is thy name ^* be- XVIII "By God," quoth the Green Knight, "Sir Gawain, I like it 390 That I shall have from thy hand what I here sought for ; lieve '^ Gawain is my name ^^ from thee ^' no man else ^2 alive ^ answers -* may ^^ wonderfully glad 2'^ that thou shalt deliver this blow 2" it pleases me "^^ take from thy fist -* what ^^ asked for GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 43 And thou hacz redily rehersed, bi resoun ful trwe, Clanly ^ al the cove/iaunt that I the kynge asked, Saf that thou schal siker ^ me, segge,^ by thi trawthe, That thou schal seche * me thi-self, where-so thou hopes '" I may be funde upon folde,*' and foch '• the such wages As thou deles me to day, bifore this douthe ® ryche." "Where schulde I wale ■* the?" quoth Gauan, "Where is thy place? I wot never where thou wonyes,^ bi Hym that me wroght, Ne I know not the, kynght, thy cort, ne thi name. Bot teche me truly ther-to, and telle me howe thou hattes,''' 401 And I schal ware " alle my wyt to w>Tine me theder,^- And that I swere the for sothe, and by my seker ^ traweth." "That is innogh in Nwe Yer, hit nedes no more," Quoth the gome in the grene to Gawan the hende,^^ " Gif 15 1 the telle trwly, quen I the tape^*^ have, And thou me smothely hacz i' smjlen, smartly I the teche Of my hous, and my home, and myn owen nome,^^ Then may thou frayst my fare," and for- wardez -'' holde. And if I spende no speche, thenne spedez thou the better, 410 For thou may leng -^ in thy londe, and layt no fyrre,^ Bot slokes.23 Ta ^* now thy grymme tole ^^ to the, And let se how thou cnokez." ^^ "Gladly, syr, for sothe," Quoth Gawan ; his ax he strokes. XIX The grene knyght upon grounde graythely hym dresses,^*^ A littel lut 2s with the hede, the lere ^^ he diskoverez, 1 entirely ^ promise ^ man •* seek ^ believest ® earth ^ fetch ^ nobility ^ dwellest ^° what is thy name ^^ use ^ to get there ^^ sure ^^ courteous ^^ if And thou hast rightly rehearsed, as reason was truly. Clearly all the covenant that of the king I asked. Save that thou must assure me, sir, by thy honour, That thou wilt seek me thyself in what spot soever Thou thinkst to find me, in faith, and fetch thee such wages As thou dealest me to-day before these doughty nobles." "In what climes shall I seek thee? In what country is thy dwelling? Of thy habitation have I ne'er heard, by Him that wrought me ; Nor know I thee, knight, thy court, nor thy name ; 400 But direct me to thy dwelling and disclose how men call thee, And I shall strive with my strength to steer my steps thither ; And that I swear thee surely and by my sacred honour." "That is enough at New Year; no more is needful," Quoth the grim man in green to Gawain the courteous ; "If I tell thee truly, when I the tap have taken And thou hast smoothly smitten me, if smartly I teach thee Of my house and my home and how men call me, Then mayst thou enqvure my country and hold our covenant. And if I spend then no speech, thou shalt speed the better, 410 For thou mayst stop in this stead and step no further, But stay. Take now thy grim tool duly ; Let's see thee hack away ! " "Yea, sir," quoth Gawain, "truly;" His axe he strokes in play. XIX The Green Knight on the ground goodly pre- pares him ; Lightly lowers his head and loosens his collar, 1^ tap, stroke ^^ hast ^^ name ^^ ask my state, condition 2" the agreements -^ remain - seek no further ^^ but cease ^'^ take ^^ instrument -^ knock- est '^ readily prepares himself ^^ bowed ^^ cheek 44 GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT His longe lovelych lokkez he layd over his croun, Let the naked nee to the note ^ schewe. 420 Gauan gripped to his ax, and gederes hit on hyght,- The kay ^ fot on the folde '' he be-fore sette, Let hit doun lyghtly lyght on the naked, That the scharp of the schalk ^ schyndered ^ the bones And schrank ^ thrugh the schyire grece,* and scade ^ hit in twynne,^'' That the bit of the broun stel bot " on the grounde. The fay re hede fro the halce '-^ hit ^^ to the erthe. That fele ^^ hit foyned ^^ wyth her fete, there ^^ hit forth roled. The blod brayd ^' fro the body, that blykked i« on the grene ; And nawther ^^ faltered ne fel the freke 2" never-the-helder,-^ 430 Bot stythly 22 he start forth upon styf schonkes,^^ And runyschly^'* he raght ^^ out, there-as ^^ renkkez -" stoden, Laght "^ to his lufly ^^ hed, and lyf t hit up sone f^ And sythen bowez ^" to his blonk,^i the brydel he cachchez, Steppez in to stel-bawe ^' and strydez alofte. And his hede by the here in his honde haldez ; And as sadly ^^ the segge ^* hym in his sadel sette. As ^^ non unhap had hym ayled, thagh ^^ hedlez nowe, In stedde.^" He brayde ^* his blunk ^^ aboute, 440 That ugly bodi that bledde ; . Moni on of hym had doute,^^ Bi that his resounz were redde.^" His long lovely locks he lays over backward, Let the naked neck to the nape glisten. 420 Gawain gripped to his axe and gathered it on high, His left foot on the floor he thrusts before him. Let the axe lightly light on the bare neck. So that the bright blade all the bones severs And slices the sinews and slits them asunder. So that the edge of the axe entered the earth. The bright head from the body bounded to the floor. And many fifliped it with their feet as it rolled forward. The blood gushed from the body and glistened on the green ; But neither faltered nor fell the fearsome stranger, 430 But sturdily strode forth on his stifT shanks. And roughly he reached forth among the ranked courtiers, Laid hold of his lovely head, and lifted it up quickly ; And then strides to his steed, the bridle he seizes, Steps into the stirrup and straddles aloft, His head by the hair in his hand holding ; And as steadily the stranger settled him in his saddle As if no harm had happened, though he was headless I' the stead. He turned his steed about, 440 That ugly body that bled ; Many had dread and doubt Ere all his words were said. XX For the hede in his honde he haldez up even, To-ward the derrest ""^ on the dece ^ he dres- sez ^^ the face , And hit lyfte up the yye-lyddez,"*^ and loked ful brode. And meled *^ thus much with his muthe, as ye may now here. ^ head ^ high ' left ^ ground '' edge ^ sun- dered ' cut * pure gristle ^ divided ^^ two ^^ bit, cut '^ neck " fell " many ^•' thrust ^^ where " spouted ^* shone ^^ neither ^° man ^^ never the more ^^ sturdily ^^ shanks ^'' roughly ^^ reached XX For the head in his hand he holds up even, Toward the most daring on the dais he addresses the face ; And it lifted up its eyelids and looked about it, And held discourse high, as you shall now hear. 2^ where ^' men ^* lovely ^^immediately '" goes ^^ horse ^^ stirrup ^^ steadily ^'' fellow '^ as if ^^ though ^^ in the place ^^ turned ^^ fear *" by the time his remarks were made ^ bravest ^ dais ^' directs ** eye-lids *^ spoke GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 45 "Loke, Gawan, thou be graythe ^ to go as thou hettez, - .\nd layte ^ as lelly '' til thou me, lude,^ fynde, As thou hacz hette '^ in this halle, herande ^ thise kxiyghtes. 45° To the grene chapel thou chose, ^ I charge the, to fotte ; 3 Such a dunt " as thou hacz dalt ^^ disserved thou habbez,'^ To be yederly yolden ^^ on Nw Yeres morn. The Knyght of the Grene Chapel, men knowen me mony ; ^'^ For-thi ^^ me for to fynde, if thou fraystez,^^ faylez thou never ; Ther-fore com, other i' recreaunt be calde the be-hoves." With a runisch route ^'^ the raynez he tornez, Hailed " out at the hal-dor, his hed in his hande. That the fyr of the flynt flawe -^ from fole hoves.-^ To quat kyth he be-com,- knewe non there. Never more then thay wyste from quethen ^ he wacz wonnen.^^ 461 What thenne? The kyng and Gawen thare, At that Grene thay lage and grenne, Yet breved ^^ wacz hit f ul bare ^® A mervayl among tho ^' menne. "See, Gawain, that thou be sedulous to seek as thou saidest. And search assiduously till thou, sir, dost find me, As thou has promised in this presence before these proven knights. To the Green Chapel do thou go, I charge thee truly. Such a dint as thou hast dealt deserved hast thou, 452 To be yarely yielded on New Year's morning. As the Knight of the Green Chapel, I am known to many ; Thou shalt not fail to find me if faithfully thou triest ; Therefore come or coward to be called shall behoove thee." With reckless roughness the reins he twitches, Hurls out of the hall-door, his head in his hand, So that tire from the flint flew from his steed's hoofs. To what region he rode none could say rightly, 460 Any more than they wist by what way he had come. What then? The king and Gawain there Did laugh at the Knight in Green. 'Twas counted a marvel rare Such as men had never seen. XXI Thagh^^ Arther the hende^^ kyng at hert hade wonder. He let no semblaunt be sene, bot sayde ful hyghe ^" To the comlych Queue, wyth cortays speche, "Dere dame, to-day demay ^^ yow never ; 470 Wei bycommes ^- such craft upon Crist- masse, ■ Laykyng ^^ of enterludez, to laghe and to syng Among ^■^ thise kynde ^^ caroles of knyghtez and ladyez. Never-the-lece ^^ to my mete ^' I may me wel dres,^* For I haf sen a sellv,^^ I may not for- sake." « ^ ready ^ didst promise ' seek * faithfully ^ man ^ promised ^ hearing * go 'on foot ^^ blow ^^ hast dealt ^^ hast ^^ promptly paid ^^ many men know me ^^ therefore ^^ enquirest ^' or ^* sudden noise ^' rushed ^^ flew ^^ from the horse's hoofs ^ to XXI Though Arthur the high king in his heart had wonder. He let no semblance be seen, but spoke full gayly To the comely Queen with courteous phrases, "Dear Lady, to-day dismay you never. 470 Such crafts are becoming at the Christmas season. Listening to such interludes and laughing and singing. While these lords and ladies lead forth their carols. But now have I license and leave to look on my food, • For strange is the sight ' that I have seen truly." what land he went ^^ whence ^* come ^* accounted ^^ entirely ^^ those ^ though ^ courteous ^^ loud ^^ dismay ^ suits ^^ playing ^^ now and then ^^ suitable ^^ nevertheless ^^ food ^* address ^^ mar- vel ■''* deny 46 PEARL He glent i upon Syr Gawen, and gaynly ^ he sayde, "Now, syr, heng vip thyn ax, that hacz innogh he wen." And hit wacz don ^ abof the dece, on doser "• to henge, Ther alle men for mervayl myght on hit loke^ And bi trwe tytel ther-of ^ to telle the wonder. Thenne thay bowed ^ to a borde,^ thise burnes ^ to-geder, 481 The kyng and the gode knyght ; and kene * men hem served Of alle dayntvez double, as derrest ^° myght falle — Wyth alle maner of mete and mynstralcie bothe ; Wyth wele wait thay that day, til worthed an ende ^^ In londe. Now thenk wel, Syr Gawan, For wothe ^^ that thou ne wonde ^^ This aventure/orto frayn ^'^ That thou hacz tan ^^ on honde 490 He glanced at Sir Gawain and graciously said he, "Now, sir, hang up thine axe, it has had enough hewing." And it was hung on high behind the dais, Where all men for a marvel might look upon it And take it as true witness when they told of the wonder. 480 Then they turned to the table, these two lords together. The king and the good knight ; and gentle squires served them Of all dainties double that were to them dearest — ■ With all manner of meat and minstrelsy also ; With all delights did they deal until that day ended In land. Now think Avell, Sir Gawain, That thou hast taken in hand The adventure to maintain. Whatever may withstand. 490 PEARL (c. 1350) {Unknown Author) Perle plesaunte to prynces paye ^' To clanly clos " in golde so clere ; Oute of oryent, I hardyly saye, Ne proved I never her precios pere,^' So roundc, so reken in uche araye,^' So smal, so smothe her sydez were ; Queresoever I jugged gemmez gaye, I sette hyr sengeley in synglere.^" Alas ! I leste ^^ hyr in on erbere ; ^^ Thurgh gresse to grounde hit fro me yot ; 2^ I dewyne, for-dolked of luf-daungere ^' Of that pryvy perle withouten spot. 12 A radiant pearl for royal array Clean to enclose in gold so clear ; Out of the Orient, I boldly say, Found have I never her precious peer, So pure, so perfect at each assay. So small, so smooth that blissful sphere ; Wherever I judged of jewels gay, I set her apart as the prize most dear. Alas! in an arbor I lost her here, Slipping through grass to earth, I wot ; I pine, cut off from the loying cheer Of my own pearl without a spot. 12 II Sythen ^^ in that spote hit fro me sprange, Ofte haf I wayted, wyschand'e -^ that wele,^^ That wont wacz whyle ^ devoyde ^' my wrange ^ glanced ^ kindly ^ put * tapestry ^ and on the evidence of it ^ went ^ table * knights * brave ^^ dearest " in joy they spent the day, till it came to end ^^ injury ^^ hesitate ^^ seek '^ taken ^^ de- light ^^ cleanly to enclose ^* equal ^^ fit in every II There where I lost it, since have I long Waited and wished for return of the weal That whilom made me forget my wrong respect ^^ alone in uniqueness ^^ lost ^ an ar- bor ^^ departed ^^ I pine away, deprived of the love-dominion ^^ since ^® wishing ^^ weal ^ was formerly '■^'■' to remove PEARL 47 And heven ^ my happe and al my hele ; ^ That docz bot thrych my herte thrange,^ My breste in bale * bot bolne and bele.^ Yet thoght me never so swete a sange As sty lie stounde ^ let to me stele ; 20 Forsothe ther fleten ' to me fele ^ — To thenke hir color so clad in clot ! ^ O moul ^° thou marrez a myry juele," My privy perle withouten spotte. And brought me comfort, my spirit to heal, That now is oppressed with passions strong Till all my senses whirl and reel. Yet me-thought was never so sweet a song As the quiet hour to me let steal ; 20 Many strange fancies did it reveal — • To think that her fairness earth shoijd clot! O grave, the rarestof gems thou dost seal, My own dear pearl without a spot. Bifore that spot my honde I spennd,^^ For care ful colde that to me caght ; ^^ 50 A denely dele in my herte denned,^^ Thagh resoun sette my selven saght.^^ I playned ^"^ my perle that ther wacz spenned,^' Wyth fyrte skyllez ^^ that faste faght ; " Thagh kynde of Kryst me comfort kenned,^" My wreched wylle in wo ay wraghte.''^ I felle upon that floury flaght ; -^ Suche odour to my hernez "^ schot, I slode upon a slepyng-slaghte ^^ On that precios perle withouten spot. V Before that spot my hands I spread, For care full cold that me had caught ; 50 In my heart dark sorrow made its bed. Though reason reconciled my thought. I prayed for my pearl that thence had sped, With timid pleas, and fast they fought ; Though the godhead of Christ me comforted, My wretched will in woe still wrought. A bed among the flowers I sought ; Such fragrance pierced my brain, I wot, Me into a sleep of dreams it brought Of that precious pearl without a spot. XIV More mervayle con my dom adaunt ; ^ I segh ^^ by-yonde that myry mere ^^ A crystal clyffe ful relusaunt,^ IVIony ryal ray con fro hit rere ; ^ 160 At the fote thereof ther sete a faimt,^" A mayden of menske,^^ ful debonere, Blysnande whyte wacz hyr bleaunt ; ^^ I knew hyr wel, I hade sen hyr ere.^^ As glysnande golde that man con schere ^* So schon that schene anunder schore ; ^ On lenghe ^^ I looked to hyr there ; The lenger, I knew hyr more and more.^^ XV The more I frayste ^* hyr fayre face, Her tigure fyn quen I had fonte,"^^ 170 Suche gladande glory con to me glace ^ Mift up 2 prosperity ^does but oppress my heart grievously * distress * swell and burn ^ the quiet hour ^ float * many things ^ clod ^"^ earth " jewel ^2 stretched out ^^ that seized upon me ^^ a secret sorrow lay in mj^ heart ^^ though rea- son reconciled all difficulties ^^ lamented ^^ was taken away ^^ timid reasons *' fought hard ^ though Christ's nature taught me comfort ^^ wrought 22 bed of flowers ^ brains ^'* I slided XIV More wonder my judgment stole away ; I saw beyond that' river fair A crystal cliff as clear as day. Its royal rays gleamed through the air ; 160 At its foot there sat a child full gay, A mannerly maiden, debonair, All argent white was her array ; I knew her well, I had seen her ere. As glistening gold, refined and rare, So sheen she shone upon the shore ; Long while I looked upon her there ; The longer, I knew her more and more. XV The more I questioned her fair face And came to know her figure bright, 170 Such joy shed over me its grace into a dream ^ a greater* wonder daunted my judgment ^ saw ^ pleasant water ^ gleaming ^ many a royal gleam arose from it ^^ child ^^ grace ^^ gleaming white was her attire ^^ before ^* that one has refined ^^ so shone that beautiful one beneath the cliff ^^ a long time ^^ the longer I looked the more certainly I knew her ^^ ques- tioned ^^ when I had examined *' such delight came to me 48 PEARL As lyttel byfore therto wacz wonte ; To calle hyr lyste con me enchace/ Bot baysment ^ gef myn hert a brunt ; ' I segh hyr in so strange a place^ Such a burre myght make myn herte blunt. '' Thenne verez ho up her fay re frount,^ Hyr vysayge whyt as playn yvore,® 178 That stonge myn hert ful stray atount/ And ever the lenger, the more and more. That scarce before I had known dehght ; Desire to address her grew apace, But abashment filled my heart with fright ; Seeing her in so strange a place Full well my heart astonish might. Then lifts she up her forehead white, Her visage fairer than e'er before; 178 Bewildered my heart was at the sight And ever the longer, the more and more. XX Pyght ^ in perle, that precios pyece On wyther-half water ^ com doun the schore ; ^° No gladder gome hethen " into Grece 231 Then I quen ho on brymme wore.^^ Ho wacz me nerre ^^ then aunte or nece, My joy forthy wacz ^* much the more. Ho profered me speche, that special spece,i^ Enclynande lowe in wommon lore,^^ Caghte of her coroun of grete tresore, And haylsed me wyth a lote lyghte.^^ Wei wacz me that ever I wacz bore, To sware ^^ that swete in perlez pyghte. XX All decked with pearls that precious piece Beyond the water came down the shore; None gladder than I hence unto Greece 231 When she stood on the bank there me before. She was nearer to me than aunt or niece, And my joy was therefore much the more. That special treasure spoke words of peace, With womanly grace herself she bore. Took off the wondrous crown she wore, And greeted me with look full bright. What happy fortune for me in store — ■ To answer that sweet with pearls be- dight. XXI "O Perle," quoth I, "in perlez pyght, 241 Art thou my perle that I haf playned,^' Regretted by myn one, on nyghte? -° Much longeyng haf I for the layned,^^ Sythen in-to gresse thou me aglyghte ; ^^ Pensyf, payred,^^ I am for-payned,^'' And thou in a lyf of lykyng lyghte ^^ In paradys erde,^^ of stryf unstrayned. What wyrde hacz hyder my juel vayned,^'' And don me in thys del ^^ and gret daunger ? Fro we in twynne wern towen and twayned ^^ I haf ben a joylez jueler." ^^ 252 ^ desire to speak to her seized me ^ timidity ' attack ^ such a surprise might well astound me ^ then she lifts her fair face ^ ivory ^ that struck me into bewilderment ^ set ® on the opposite side of the water ^° cliff " person from hence ^^ than I when she was at the bank ^^ she was nearer to me ^'* on that account was '^ she spoke to me, that rare one ^® bowing low as women XXI "0 Pearl," quoth I, "with pearls bedight, 241 Art thou my pearl that I still mourn, Regretted by me alone at night? With longing for thee am I outworn ; Since in the grass thou wert lost to sight, Pensive and pining am I forlorn. And thou, in a life of glad delight, Strife-free, dost Paradise adorn. What Weird hath hither my jewel borne. Me here in sorrow and stress to find ? I have been, since we apart were torn, A joyless jeweler 'mid my kind." 252 are taught ^^ greeted me pleasantly ^* answer ^^ lamented ^ alone by night ^^ suffered secretly ^" since thou didst slip away from me into the grass ^'^ weakened ^* worn with grief -* and thou in a life of delightful pleasure "^ land "^ what fate has brought my jewel hither ^* put me in this grief ^' since we were drawn apart and separated ^° possessor of jewels PEARL 49 xxn That juel thenne in gemmez gente ^ \'ered up her vyse ^ with yghen ^ graye. Set on hyr coroun of perle orient, And soberly after thenne con ho say : '' " Syr, ye haf your tale myse-tente,* To say your perle is al awaye. That is in cofer, so comly clente,^ As in this gardyn gracios gaye, 260 Here-inne to lenge ' for-ever and play, Ther mys nee mornyng ^ com never nere; Her were a forser ^ for the, in faye, If thou were a gentyl jueler. XXII That jewel in gems so wondrous wrought Up lifted her face with eyes of grey. Set on her crown of pearls far-sought, And soberly after began to say : "Oh, sir, your mind is all distraught To say that your pearl hath passed away, That into so comely a coffer is brought As in this garden gracious-gay, 260 Herein to dwell for ever and play, Where moan or mourning none shall find; Here were a casket for thee, in fay, If thou, my jeweller, wert kind. XXIII "Bot, jueler gente, if thou schal lose Thy joy for a gemme that the wacz lef,^" ]Me thynk the put " in a mad porpose, And busyez the aboute a raysoun bref ; ^^ For that thou lestez ^^ wacz bot a rose, That fiowred and fayled as kynde " hit gef ; Now thurgh kynde " of the kyste ^^ that hyt con ^^ close, 271 To a perle of prys hit is put in pref ; ^'^ And thou hacz called thy wyrde^^ a thef. That oght of noght hacz mad the cler ; ^^ Thou blamez the bote '" of thy meschef, Thou art no kynde jueler." XXIII "But, jeweller gentle, if thus is crossed Thy joy for a gem that was dear to thee, Methinks thou art by madness tossed, O'er a trifle to fret so busily ; It was only a rose that thou hast lost. Which flowered and faded naturally; 270 By charm of the chest that it embossed It was changed to a pearl of price, dost see? Thou callest a thief thy destiny. That aught of naught has made thee. Blind, Thou blam'st of thy hurt the remedy ; My jeweller, thou art not kind !" LXIII "O maskelez ^i perle, in perlez pure, That berez," quod I, "the perle of prys, Quo ^ formed the thy fa>Te fygure? That wroght thy wede,^ he wacz f ul wys ; Thy beaut e com never of nature ; Pymalyon pajmted never thy vys ; -^ 750 Ne Arystotel nawther by hys lettrure Of carped the kynde these propertez.-^ Thy colour passez the flour-de-lys, Thyn angel-ha\'ymge so clene" cortez ; ^^ Breve -^ me, brj^ght, quat-kyn offys -^ Berez the perle so maskellez." ^ beautiful ^ lifted her face ^ e^-es * she said ^ distorted ^ set ^ remain * where lack nor mourning * jewel-box ^'^ was dear to thee ^^ I regard thee as put ^^ small affair ^^ didst lose ^* nature ^^ chest ^* did ^" put in proof = turned ^^ fate ^^ that has LXIII "O spotless pearl, in pearls so pure. That the priceless pearl," quoth I, "dost bear, Who formed for thee thy beauty's lure, Or wrought thee the weeds that thou dost wear ? Nature was never so cunning, sure ; Pygmalion to paint thee would never dare ; Aristotle, for all his literature, 751 Could never recount thy virtues rare ; Than the^^^r de lys thou art more fair, In gracious bearing the angels' mate. TeU me what troth in heaven there Is pledged to the pearl immaculate?" clearly made for thee something of nothing -'remedy -^spotless ^ who -^garment -^far^ ** described thy beauties of nature ^' inform ^^ what office or position face ■^ courteous 50 PEARL LXIV, "M)' maskelez Lambe that al may bete," Quod scho,2 "my dere destyne, Me ches ^ to hys make,^ al-thagh unmete. Sum tyme semed that assemble, When I wente fro yor worlde wete ; ^ He calde me to hys bonerte : ® ' Cum hyder to me, my lemman ^ swete. For mote ne spot is non in the.' He yef * me myght and als ^ bewte ; In hys blod he wesch my wede ^^ dese," And coronde clene in vergynte, And pyght me in perlez maskellez.' LXIV ^ "My spotless Lamb, who far and wide Heals all — my Master dear," quoth she, "Me all unworthy chose for his bride ; 760 Oh! long that waiting seemed to me, 760 When I from your damp world did glide! He called me to his charity : ' Come hither, sweetheart, to my side. For mote or spot is none in thee.' Beauty and strength he gave to me, In his blood he washed me, with sin bespate, He crowned me clean in virginity. And decked me with pearls immacu- late." LXXXI "Motelez ^^ may, so meke and mylde," Then sayde I to that lufly flor,^^ 962 "Bryng me to that bygly bylde,^^ And let me se thy blysful bor." ^^ That schene ^*^ sayde, that ^^ God wyl schylde, "Thou may not enter with-inne hys tor,!^ Bot of the Lombe I have the " aquylde ^° For a syght ther-of thurgh gret favor. Ut-wyth 21 to se that clene cloystor. Thou may ; bot in-wyth '^ not a fote, To strech in the strete thou hacz no vygour, . 971 Bot thou wer dene with-outen mote." LXXXI "Spotless maid, so mild and meek," Then said I to that flower bright, 962 "Me to thy palace bring, and eke Of thy blissful bower give me sight." Sweetly — God shield her ! — did she speak : "That tower may enter no earthly wight; But of the Lamb did I favour seek That thou from afar shouldst see its light ; From without that cloister see aright Thou mayest indeed; but within, step not ; To walk in the street thou hast no might. Unless thou wert clean, without a spot." 972 XCVT The Lombe delyt non lyste to wene ; ^^ Thagh he were hurt and wounde hade. In his sembelaunt ^^ wacz never sene ; So worn his glentez '^■' gloryous glade. I loked among his meyny schene,^^ How thay wyth lyf wern laste and lade," Then sagh I thcr my lyttcl quene. That I wende ^* had standen by me in sclade.^^ Lorde ! much of mirtbe wacz that ho ^° made, Among her ferez ^^ that wacz so quyt ! ^^ That syght me gart •'•'' to think to wade. For luf-longyng in gret delyt. 1152 .ijiend ■^ said she ' chose * mate ^ wet ^ good- ness ' sweetheart •* gave ^ also '*^ Rarment ^^ dais '- spotless *^ flower ^* great building ^^ bower -^ beautiful one " whom ^* tower ^'•* for thee ^^ ob- ■ ame XCVI The Lamb lacked no delight, I ween ; 1141 Hurt though he was, by wounds betrayed, In his semblance this was no whit seen ; So did his glorious looks persuade. I looked among his comrades clean. How brimming life upon them he laid. Then saw I there my little queen. That I thought stood near me in the glade. Lord ! much of mirth was that she made. Among her sisters all so white ! That vision moved me to think to wade. For love-longing in great delight. 1152 tained ^' from without "^ within ^^ wished to doubt ^■^ appearance ^^ looks ^"^ beautiful company ^^ sup- plied and laden ^ thought ^* valley ^" she ^^ com- panions ^^ white ^^ caused CONFESSIO A^IANTIS 51 xc\ai Delyt me drof in yghe ^ and ere ; ]\Iy manez - mynde to madd}^lg make.' Quen I segh ■* my frely,^ I wolde be there, By-yonde the water thagh ho ^ were waited I thoght that no-thyng myght me dare,* To fech me bur and take me hake; ^ And to start m the strem schulde non me St ere/" To swymme the remnaunt, thagh I ther swake ; ^^ Bot of that munt ^- 1 wacz bi-tak ; ^' 1 1 6 1 When I schulde start in the strem astraye, Out of that caste " I wacz by-cak ; ^' Hit wacz not at my prjmcez paye.^® XC\TII Hit payed ^" hym not that I so flonc *^ Over mervelous merez," so mad arayde ; Of raas -° thagh I were rasch and ronk,-i Yet rapely - ther-inne I wacz resta^^ed ; For ryght as I sparred un-to the bone, That brat the -' out of my drem me brayde ; -* Then wakned I in that erber wlonk,^ 11 71 My hede upon that hylle wacz layde Ther as my perle to grounde strayd ; I raxled ^ and fel in gret affray,^ And sykyng ^* to myself I sayd : "Now al be to that pryncez paye." ^^ xcvn Delight me drove in eye and ear ; My earthly mind was maddened nigh. When I saw my darling, I would be near, Beyond the water that she stood by : "Nothing," methought, "can harm me here, Deal me a blow and low make lie ; To wade the stream have I no fear. Or to swim the deeps, though I should die." ii6o But from that purpose withheld was I ; As unto the stream I started still, Clean from that plan I was turned awr}^ ; It was not at my Prince's will. XCV1II It pleased him not I should pass quite, O'er marvellous meres, so mad arrayed ; Though in my rush I had strength and might, Yet hastily therein I was stayed; For as I strove to the bank aright, j\Iy haste me of my dream betrayed ; 1 1 70 Then waked I in that arbor bright, My head upon that mound was laid Where my own pearl to ground had strayed. I roused me, with many a fear a-thrUl, And sighing to myself I said : "Now all be at that Prince's will." JOHN GOWER (i325?-i4o8) From CONFESSIO AMANTIS Bk. V Jason, which sih * his fader old. Upon Medea made him bold Of art magique, which sche couthe,^ And preith hire that his fader '° youthe Sche wolde make ayeinward '^ newe. And sche, that was toward him trewe, 3950 Behihte '- him that sche wolde it do Whan that sche time sawh ■• therto. Bot '' what sche dede in that matiere It is a wonder thing to hiere, Bot yit for the noveUerie ^* I thenke tellen a partie.'^ ^ eye - man's ' meked ^ saw ^ gracious one ^ she ' kept ^ injure ^ to fetch me an assauk and take me lame ^" prevent ^^ perished ^' purpose '^ shaken ^* intention ^^ recalled ^® pleasure ^^ pleased Jason, who saw his father old, Upon jNIedea made so bold — Of magic art she knew, in sooth — And prays her that his father's youth She would bring back again as new. And she, that was to him fuU true, 3950 Promised him that she would it do When that she saw her time thereto. But how she wrought this for his cheer It is a wondrous thing to hear, Yet for the novelty of it I think to tell you just a bit. ^^ should fling ^' waters ^ onset -^ strong " quickly ^' haste "■* moved ^* fair -® roused -" fear -* sighing ^^ knew '" father's *^ again ^ promised ^^ but ^ novelty '^ part 52 JOHN GOWER Thus it befell upon a nyht Whan ther was noght bot sterreliht,^ Sche was vanyssht riht as hir liste,^ That no wyht bot hirself it wiste, 3960 And that was ate ^ mydnyht tyde. The world was stille on every side ; With open ■* hed and fot al bare, Hir her tosprad,^ sche gan to fare; Upon hir clothes gert ^ sche was ; Al specheles and ^ on the gras Sche glod ^ forth as an addre doth — Non otherwise sche ne goth — Til sche cam to the freisshe flod, And there a while sche withstod.^ 3970 Thries sche torned hire aboute, And thries ek sche gan doun loute ^" And in the flod sche wette hir her, And thries on the water ther Sche gaspeth with a drecchinge " onde/^ And tho ^^ sche tok hir speche on honde. Ferst sche began to clepe ^'^ and calle Upward unto the sterres alle, To Wynd, to Air, to See, to Lond Sche preide, and ek hield up hir hond 3980 To Echates ^^ and gan to crie, Which is godesse of sorcerie. Sche seide, "Helpeth at this nede, And as ye maden me to spede,^*^ Whan Jason cam the Flees ^'' to seche, So help me nou, I you beseche." With that sche loketh and was war, ^^ Doun fro the sky ther cam a char,^^ The which dragouns aboute drowe. And tho i'^ sche gan hir hed doun bowe. And up sche styh,-° and faire and wel 3991 Sche drof forth bothe char and whel Above in thair -^ among the skyes.-^ The lond of Crete and tho parties ^^ Sche soughte, and faste gan hire hye,^^ And there upon the hulles ^^ hyhe Of Othrin and Olimpe also. And ek of othre hulles mo, Sche fond and gadreth herbes suote.^^ Sche pullcth up som be the rote, 4000 And manye with a knyf sche scherth,^^ And alle into hir char sche berth. ^ Thus whan sche hath the hulles sought, The flodes ^ ther forgat '^ sche nought, Eridian and Amphrisos, Thus it befell upon a night. When there was nought but starry light, She stole away right as she list, So that none but herself it wist, 3960 And that was at the midnight tide, The world was still on every side. With head uncovered, feet all bare. Her hair unbound, she gan to fare ; High up her clqthes she girded has ; And, speechless, forth upon the grass She glided as an adder does — And in no other wise she goes — Till she came to the flowing flood. And there a while full still she stood. 3970 Three times about she turned her now. And thrice also she low did bow, And in the flood she wet her hair. And thrice upon the water there She with a troubling breath blew fast, And then unto her speech she passed. First she began to cry and call Unto the stars of heaven all ; To Windj'vto Air, to Sea, to Land She prayed there, holding up her hand, 3980 And unto Hecate did she cry. Who goddess is of sorcery. She said : "Oh, help me in this need, And as ye once made me to speed, W^hen Jason came, the Fleece to seek, So now your aid I do bespeak." With that she looked and saw on high A chariot gliding from the sky. Which, dragons drawing, downward sped. And then she bowed adown her head, 3990 And up she rose, drove well and fair Both car and wheel on through the air, Above and through the clouds of sky. The land of Crete and parts near by She sought, and fast began her hie ; And there upon the mountains high Of Othrim and Olympus too, And other mountains eke thereto. She found and gathers herbs of boot. She pulleth some up by the root, 4000 And many with a knife she shears. And all unto her car she bears. Thus when she hath the mountains sought, The rivers there forgot she not ; Eridian and Amphrisos, * starlight ^ as it pleased her '' at the * un- ^^ bow " troubling ^^ breath ^^ then '^ cry '^ Hec vered ^ her hair unbound '' irirded ^ Gower ate ^^ succeed '^ fleece ^^ aware ^^ chariot "^^ ros( covered ^ her hair unbound '' girded iier iiair uiiuouiiu girucu \juwer often gives and a strange position in the sentence; we should place it before al. ** gUded ^ stood still ate ^'' succeed " fleece ^^ aware ^^ chariot ^'^ rose ^^ the air ^- clouds '^^ those parts -' hasten -'" hills 26 sweet ^^ cuts -* bears, carries ^^ rivers ^° forgot CONFESSIO AMANTIS S3 Peneie and ek Spercheidos. To hem sche wente and ther sche nom ^ Bothe of the water and the fom, The sond and ek the smale stones, Whiche-as sche ches - out for the nones ; ^ And of the Rede See a part 401 1 That was behovelich to hire art Sche tok, and after that aboute Sche soughte sondri sedes oute In feldes and in many greves,^ And ek a part sche tok of leves ; Bot thing which mihte hire most availe Sche fond in Crete and in Thessaile. In daies and in nyhtes nyne. With gret travaile and with gret pyne, 4020 Sche was pourveid of every piece, And torneth homward into Grece. Before the gates of Eson Hir char sche let awai to gon, And tok out ferst that was therinne ; For tho sche thoghte to beginne Suche thing as semeth impossible, And made hirselven invisible. As sche that was with air enclosed And mihte of noman be desclosed. 4030 Sche tok up tur\'es of the lond Withoute helpe of mannes hond, Al heled ^ with the grene gras. Of which an alter mad ther was Unto Echates, the goddesse Of art magique and the maistresse, And eft ^ an other to Juvente, As sche which dede hir hole entente.' Tho tok sche fieldwode and verveyne — Of herbes ben noght betre tueine ; ^ 4040 Of which anon withoute let These alters ben aboute set. Tvio sondri puttes ® faste by Sche made, and with that hastely A wether which was blak sche slouh,^" And out ther-of the blod sche drouh ^^ And dede ^- into the pettes ^ tuo ; Warm melk sche putte also ther to With hony meynd ; ^^ and in such wise Sche gan to make hir sacrifice. 4050 And cride and preide forth withal To Pluto, the god infernal, And to the queene Proserpine. And so sche soghte out al the line Of hem that longen to that craft, Behinde was no name laft,^'* Peneie and eke Spercheidos. To them she went and there took some Both of the water and the foam, The sand and eke the little stones, Whereof she chose out special ones ; 4010 And of the Red Sea too a part That was behooveful for her art She took, and, after that, about She sought there sundry seeds then out In many a wood and many a field ; Their leaves she made the trees to yield ; But that which best her need did meet She found in Thessaly and Crete. Nine days and nights had passed before, With labour great and pain full sore, 4020 She was purveyed with every piece, And turneth homeward unto Greece. At Eson's gates then did she stay, And let her chariot go away ; But took out first what was therein, For then her plan was to begin Such things as seemed impossible, And made herself invisible. As she that was with air enclosed And might to no man be disclosed. 4030 She took up turfs from off the land, Without the help of human hand, All covered with the growing grass, Of which an altar made she has To Hecate, who was the goddess Of magic art and the mistress. And still another to Juvente, As one fulfilling her intent. Then took she wormwood and vervain — Of herbs there be no better twain ; 4040 With which anon, without delay, She set these altars in array. Two sundry pits quite near thereby She made, and with that hastily, A wether which was black she slew, .And out thereof the blood she drew, .\nd cast in the pits without ado ; And warm milk added she thereto W^th honey mixed ; and in such wise Began to make her sacrifice. 4050 And cried and prayed aloud also To Pluto, god of all below. And to the queen's self, Proserpine. And so she sought out all the line Of those that to that craft belong — Forgot she none of all the throng — ^ took "^ chose ^ for the purpose * groves ered ^ again ^ entire purpose * twain, two AE ' pits ' slew " drew ^^ put ^^ mixed ^^ left 54 JOHN GOWER And preide hem alle, as sche wel couthe,^ To grante Eson his ferste youthe. This olde Eson broght forth was the ; ^ Awei sche bad alle othre go, 4060 Upon peril that mihte falle ; And with that word thei wenten alle, And leften there hem tuo al-one. And tho sche gan to gaspe and gone,^ And made signes many-on. And seide hir wordes therupon ; So that with spellinge of hir charmes Sche took Eson in both hire armes, And made him forto slepe faste, And him upon hire herbes caste. 4070 The blake wether tho sche tok, And hiewh * the fleissh, as doth a cok ; On either alter part sche leide. And with the charmes that sche seide A fyr doun fro the sky alyhte And made it forto brenne lyhte. Bot whan Medea sawh it brenne, Anon sche gan to sterte and renne ^ The fyri aulters al aboute. Ther was no beste which goth oute 4080 More wylde than sche semeth ther : Aboute hir schuldres hyng ^ hir her, As thogh sche were oute of hir mynde And torned in an other kynde.'^ Tho 2 lay ther certein wode cleft, Of which the pieces nou and eft ^ Sche made hem in the pettes wete, And put hem in the fyri hete. And tok the brond with al the blase, And thries sche began to rase 4090 Aboute Eson, ther-as ^ he slepte ; And eft with water, which sche kepte, Sche made a cercle aboute him thries, And eft with fyr of sulphre twyes. Ful many an other thing sche dede. Which is noght writen in this stede.^** Bot tho ^ sche ran so up and doun, Sche made many a wonder soun, Somtime lich " unto the cock, Somtime unto the laverock,^^ 4100 Somtime kacleth as a hen, Somtime spekth as don the men ; And riht so as hir jargoun strangeth,^' In sondri wise hir forme changeth, Sche semeth faie " and no womman ; For with the craftes that sche can Sche was, as who seith, a goddesse. ^ could ^ then ^ walk '' hewed ^ run * hung '' nature ** now and again ^ where ^° place ^^ I'tp like And prayed them all, as she well could. To grant Eson his young manhood. This old Eson was brought forth, lo ! Away she bade all others go, 4060 On peril of what might befaU ; And with that word then went in all, And left out there alone those two. Gasping and pacing, with much ado, She made her signs full many a one. And said her magic words thereon ; So that with spelling of her charms She took Eson in both her arms. And caused him to sleep full fast, And on the herbs him sleeping cast. 4070 The wether black then next she took. And hewed the flesh as doth a cook ; On either altar part she laid. And with the charms that she hath said A fire down from the sky did light And made the flesh to burn full bright. But when JNledea saw it burn. Anon she leaped and ran in turn The fiery altars all about. There was no beast which goeth out 4080 More wild than she herself seemed there ; About her shoulders hung her hair. As though she were out of her mind And turned into another kind. There certain wood lay cleft in twain. Of which the sticks, now and again, She made them in the pits full wet. And in the fiery heat them set ; And took the brand with all the blaze, And thrice with it, as in a race, 4090 Ran about Eson as he slept. And then with water which she kept She made a circle round him thrice. And then with fire of sulphur twice. And other things she did, I wot. Which in this place are written not. But, running up and down the ground, She made full many a wondrous sound ; Sometimes like unto the cock, Sometimes like the laverock, 4100 Sometimes cackleth as a hen. Sometimes speaketh as do men. And as she made her jargon strange. Her form in sundry wise did change, She seemed no woman but a fay ; For with the crafts she did assay She was, ,as one might say, goddess. ^^ lark ^^ becomes strange ''' fairy CONFESSIO AMANTIS 55 And what hir liste, more or lesse, Sche dede, in bokes as we finde, That passeth over manneskinde.^ 41 lo Bot who that wole of wondres hiere, What thing sche wroghte in this matiere, To make an ende of that sche gan,^ Such merveile herde nevere man. Apointed in the newe mone, Whan it was time forto done, Sche sette a caldron on the f>T, In which was al the hole atir,^ Whereon the medicine stod, Of jus, of water, and of blod, 4120 And let it buile * in such a plit, Til that sche sawh the spume whyt ; And tho sche caste in rynde ^ and rote, And sed and ilour that was for bote,^ With many an herbe and many a ston, Whereof sche hath ther many on. And ek Cimpheius fhe serpent To hire hath alle his scales lent, Chelidre hire yaf his addres skin, And sche to buUen caste hem in ; 413c A part ek of the horned oule, The which men hiere on nyhtes houle ; And of a raven, which was told Of nyne hundred wynter old, Sche tok the hed with al the bQe ; ' And as the medicme it wile, Sche tok therafter the bouele * Of the seewolf , and for the hele ^ Of Eson, with a thousand mo Of thinges that sche hadde tho, 4140 In that caldroun togedre as blyve ^'* Sche putte ; and tok thanne of olyve A drie branche hem with to stere," The which anon gan floure and bere And waxe al freissh and grene ayein. WTian sche this vertu hadde sein, Sche let the leste drope of alle Upon the bare flor doun falle ; Anon ther sprong up flour and gras, WTiere-as the drope falle was, 4150 And wox anon al medwe ^^ grene. So that it mihte wel be sene. Medea thanne knew and wiste Hir medicine is forto triste,^^ And goth to Eson ther ^^ he lay, And tok a swcrd was of assaj' ^^ With which a wounde upon his side Sche made, that therout mai slyde And whatso pleased her, more or less, She did. as we in books may find. Deeds that pass skill of human kind. 41 10 But whoso will of wonders hear, WTiat things she wrought by magic clear To make an end of aU her spell, Of crafts like hers heard no man tell. Just as the moon had changed to new. When it was time her task to do. She laid a cauldron on the fire. In which was placed the mass entire WTierein the magic virtues stood Of juice, of water, and of blood, 4120 And let it boil therein aright Till she could see the bubbles white ; And then she cast in bark and root, And seed and flovver both to boot. With man}' a herb and many a stone, Whereof she hath there many a one. And eke Cimpheius, the serpent, To her hath all his scales now lent, Chelidre, the adder, gave his skin. And she to the boiling cast them in ; 4130 A part too of the horned owl. The which men hear at night-time howl ; And of a raven which had told His full nine hundred winters old She took the head with all the bill; And as the medicine it wUl, Of sea wolf she the bowel took. And for the healing did it cook Of Eson ; — and a thousand more Of things that she had still in store 4140 Within that cauldron cast full quick. Of olive then a withered stick She took, to stir that mixture rare. And lo, the stick did flower and bear, And waxed again all fresh and green ! When she this virtue weU had seen, She let the smallest drop of all Upon the barren earth down fall ; At once there sprang up flower and grass. Just where the falling drop did pass, 4150 And waxed at once all meadow-green. So that it clearly might be seen. Medea then full surel}- knew Her medicine was strong and true ; And goes to Eson Vv-here he lay, And took a sword of good assay, With which a wound within his side She made, that so thereout may slide ^ that surpasses human nature ^ began ^ equip- ® healing ^^ quickly " stir ^ meadow ^^ trust ment ^ boil ^ bark ® remedy '^ bill * intestine ^* where ^^ proof 56 GEOFFREY CHAUCER The blod withinne, which was old 4159 And sek and trouble and fieble and cold. And tho sche tok unto his us * Of herbes al the beste jus, And poured it into his wounde ; That made his veynes fuUe and sounde. And tho sche made his wounde clos, And tok his hand, and up he ros. And tho sche yaf ^ him drinke a drauhte, Of which his youthe ayein he cauhte. His hed, his herte and his visage Lich ^ unto twenty w}aiter age ; 4170 Hise hore heres were away. And lich unto the freisshe Maii, Whan passed ben the colde schoures, Riht so recovereth he his fioures. The blood within him, which was old And sicls. and troubled and feeble and cold. And then she took unto his use 4161 Of all the herbs the potent juice, And poured it all into his wound, That made his veins all full and sound ; And then she made his wound to close ; And took his hand, and up he rose. A draught to drink she gave him then, From which his youth he caught again, His head, his heart, and his visage, Like unto twenty winters' age; 4170 His hoary hairs vanished away ; And like unto the lusty May, When passed are all the chilling showers, Right so recovereth he his flowers. GEOFFREY CHAUCER (1340 ?-i4oo) TROILUS AND CRISEYDE 'From BOOK I And so bifel,* whan comen was the tyme Of A'peril, whan clothed is the mede ^ With newe grene, of lusty Ver ^ the pryme, And swote ^ smellen floures whyte and rede, , In sondry wyses shewede, as I rede. The folk of Troye hir * observaunces olde, Palladiones ^ feste for to holde. 161 And to the temple, in al hir * beste wyse, In general, ther wente many a wight, To herknen of Palladion the servyse ; And namely,^" so many a lusty knight, 165 So many a lady fresh and mayden bright, Ful wel arayed, bothe moste " and leste, Ye,^^ bothe for the seson and the feste. 170 Among thise othere folk was Criseyda, In widewes habite blak ; but Jiathelees, Right as our iirste lettre is now an A, In beautee first so stood she, makelees ; ^' Hir goodly looking gladede al the prees.'* Nas ^^ never seyn thing to ben preysed derre,^® Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre 175 As was Criseyde, as folk seyde everichoon ^^ That hir bihelden in hir blake wede ; ^* And yet she stood ful lowe and stille alloon, Bihinden othere folk, in litel brede,'^ ^ use ^ gave ■'' like '' it happened ^ meadow ® spring ^ sweet ^ their ^ of the Palladium ^^ espe- cially " greatest '^ yea " peerless ^* crowd ^^ was not ^® more dearly ^^ every one "^ garment ^^ space And neigh the dore, ay under shames drede, Simple of atyr, and debonaire of chere, 181 With ful assured loking and manere. This Troilus, as he was wont to gyde His yonge knightes, ladde hem up and doun In thilke ^ large temple on every syde, 185 Biholding ay the ladyes of the toun. Now here, now there, for no devocioun Hadde he to noon, to reven ^ him his reste. But gan to preyse and lakken ' whom him leste.* And in his walk full fast he gan to wayten ^ If knight or squyer of his companye 191 Gan for to syke,® or lete his eyen bayten ^ On any woman that he coude aspye ; He wolde smyle, and holden it folye, 194 And seye him thus, " God wot, she slepeth softe For love of thee, whan thou tornest ful ofte. "I have herd told, pardieux, of your livinge, Ye lovers, and your lewede ^ observaunces. And which ^ a labour folk han ^° in winninge Of love, and in the keping which ^ dou- taunces ; " And whan your preye is lost, wo and pen- aunces ; O verrey foles ! nyce ^^ and blinde be ye ; 202 Ther nis ^' not oon can war ^'' by other be." * that same ^ take away ^ blame * it pleased was ^ observe ® sigh ^ feast * silly ^ what sort of ^^ have *' perplexities *^ foolish ^^ is not ^* cautious TROILUS AND CRISEYDE 57 And with that word he gan cast up the browe, Ascaunces,^ "Lo ! is this nought wysly spoken?" At which the god of love gan loken rowe ^ Right for despyt, and shoop ^ for to ben wroken ; ■* 207 He kidde ^ anoon his bowe nas not broken ; For sodeynly he hit him at the f ulle ; — ■ And yet as proud a pekok can he puUe ! ® bhnde world, O blinde entencioun ! ^ 211 How ofte falleth al theffect ^ contraire Of surquidrye ^ and foul presumpcioun ; For caught is proud, and caught is debonaire. This Troilus is clomben on the staire, 215 And litel weneth that he moot descenden. But al-day '" falleth thing that foles ne wen den. 11 As proude Bayard ginneth for to skippe Out of the wey, so priketh him his corn,^^ Til he a lash have of the longe whippe, 220 Than thenketh he, "Though I praunce al biforn, First in the trays, ful fat and newe shorn, Yet am I but an hors, and horses lawe 1 moot endure, and with my feres ^^ drawe." From BOOK II ******* With this he ^* took his leve, and hoom he wente ; And lord, how he was glad and wel bigoon ! ^* Criseyde aroos, no lenger she ne stente,^^ But straught in-to hir closet wente anoon, And sette here ^^ doun as stille as any stoon. And every word gan up and doun to winde, That he hadde seyd, as it com hir to minde; And wex somdel ^* astonied in hir thought. Right for the newe cas ; but whan that she Was ful avysed,!* tho 2° fond she right nought Of peril, why she oughte afered be. 606 For man may love, of possibilitee, A womman so his herte may to-breste,^^ And she nought love ayein, but-if hir leste.^^ ^ as if to say ^ cruel ^ planned * avenged ^ made known ^ pluck " purpose * result ^ overweening ^^ constantly ^^ did not expect ^^ food ^^ fellows " i.e. Pandarus ^^ happy '^ delayed ^^ her ^* some- what ^' had considered thoroughly ^^ then ^^ burst ^ unless it please her But as she sat allone and thoughte thus, 610 Thascry ^ aroos at skarmish al with-oute, And men cryde in the strete, "See, Troilus Hath right now put to flight the Grekes route !" ^ With that gan al hir meynee ^ for to shoute, " A ! go we see, caste up the latis '' wyde ; 615 For thurgh this strete he moot ^ to palays ryde; "For other wey is fro the yate ^ noon Of Dardanus, ther " open is the cheyne." ^ With that come he and al his folk anoon An esy pas rydinge, in routes ^ tweyne, 620 Right as his happy day was, sooth to seyne, For which men say, may nought disturbed be That shal bityden of necessitee. This Troilus sat on his baye stede, Al armed, save his heed, ful richely, 625 And wounded was his hors, and gan to blede, On whiche he rood a pas, ful softely ; But swych a knightly sighte, trewely. As was on him, was nought, with-outen faile, To loke on Mars, that god is of batayle. 630 So lyk a man of armes and a knight He was to seen, fuliild of heigh prowesse ; For bothe he hadde a body and a might To doon that thing, as wel as hardinesse ; And eek to seen him in his gere ^^ him dresse, So fresh, so yong, so weldy '^ semed he, 636 It was an heven up-on him for to see. His helm to-hewen ^^ was in twenty places, That by a tissew heng, his bak bihinde, His sheld to-dasshed was with swerdes and maces, 640 In which men mighte many an arwe finde That thirled " hadde horn and nerf " and rinde ; ^* And ay the peple cryde, "Here cometh our joye. And, next his brother, holdere up of Troye ! " For which he wex a litel reed for shame, 645 When he the peple up-on him herde cryen, That to biholde it was a noble game, How sobreliche he caste doun his yen. Cryseyda gan al his chere aspyen, ^ the shout ^ crowd ' household ^ lattice ^ must ;ate ' where * chain * companies '" gear, equip- ent " active ^ cut through ^^ pierced " sinew 58 GEOFFREY CHAUCER And leet ^ so softe it in hir herte sinke, 650 That to hir-self she seyde, "Who yaf ^ me drinke?" '' For of hir owene thought she wex al reed, Remembringe hir right thus, "Lo, this is he Which that myn uncle swereth he moot be deed,"* But ^ I on him have mercy and pitee ;" 655 And with that thought, for pure a-shamed," she Gan in hir heed to pulle, and that as faste, Whyl he and al the peple for-by paste. And gan to caste and rolen up and doun With-inne hir thought his excellent prowesse. And his est at, and also his renoun, 66i His wit, his shap, and cek his gentillesse; But most hir favour was for ' his distresse Was al for hir, and thoughte it was a routhe * To sleen ^ swich oon, if that he mente trouthe. Now mighte some envyous jangle thus, 666 " This was a sodeyn love, how mighte it be That she so lightly lovede Troilus Right for the firste sighte; ye, pardee?" Now who-so seyeth so, mote ^^ he never thee ! " 670 For everything, a ginning ^^ hath it nede Er al be wrought, with-outen any drede. For I sey nought that she so sodeynly Yaf ^ him her love, but that she gan enclyne To lyk him first, and I have told yow why ; And after that, his manhood and his pyne 676 Made love with-inne hir herte for to myne. For which, by proces and by good servyse, He gat hir love, and in no sodeyn wyse. From BOOK V ******* The morwe '^ com, and goostly ^* for to speke, This Diomede is come un-to Criseyde, 1031 And shortly, lest that ye my tale breke, So wel he for him-selve spak and seyde, That alle hir sykes ^-^ sore adoun he leyde. And fynally, the sothe for to scyne, 1035 He refte ^'^ hir of the grete ^^ of al hir payne. * let ^ gave ^ a potion "• must die ^ unless •* for very shame ' because ** pity ' slay ^"^ may '^ thrive ^^ beginning ^^ morrow ^■'spiritually '''sighs '® de- prived '^ great (most) And after this the story telleth us, That she him yaf ^ the faire baye stede, The which she ones wan of Troilus ; And eek ^ a broche (and that was litel nede) That TroUus was, she yaf ^ this Diomede. And eek, the bet " from sorwe him to releve, She made him were ^ a pencel ^ of hir sieve. 1043 I finde eek in the stories elles-where. Whan through the body hurt was Diomede Of ® Troilus, tho weep ^ she many a tere. Whan that she saugh his wyde woundes blede ; 1047 And that she took to kepen him good hede ; And for to hele him of his sorv/es smerte. Men seyn, I not,* that she yaf him hir herte. But trewely, the story telleth us, 1051 Ther made never womman more wo Than she, whan that she falsed Troilus. She seyde, "Alias ! for now is clene a-go ^ My name of trouthe in love, for ever-mo ! For I have falsed oon the gentileste 1056 That ever was, and oon the worthieste ! "Alias, of me, un-to the worldes ende, Shal neither been y-writen nor y-songe No good word, for thise bokes wol me shende.^" O, rolled shal I been on many a tonge ; 1061 Through-out the world my belle shal be ronge ; And wommen most wol hate me of alle. Alias, that swich a cas me sholde faUe ! "They wol seyn, in as muche as in me is I have hem " don dishonour, weylawey ! 1066 Al be I not the firste that dide amis, What helpeth that to do ^^ my blame awey ? But sin '^ I see there is no bettre way, And that to late is now for me to rewe,'^ 1070 To Diomede algate '^ I wol be trewe. "But, Troilus, sin " I no better may, And sin *' that thus departen ye and I, Yet preye I God, so yeve ^'^ yow right good day • As for the gentileste, trewely, 1075 That ever I say," to serven feithfully. And best can ay his lady '* honour kepe : " — And with that word she brast '^ anon -" to wepe. small flag wepe. 'gave ^ also ^better * wear ^pencil, small flag ' by ^ then wept * know not ^ gone ^" shame '^ them '^ put '^ since ''* repent '^ at an}'' rate ^6 givg 17 gg^^ 18 lady's '^ burst ^^ at once THE CANTERBURY TALES 59 "And certes, yow ne haten shal I never, And freendes love, that shal ye han of me, And my good word, al ^ mighte I liven ever. And trewely, I wolde sory be 1082 For to seen yow in adversitee. And giltelees, I woot - wel, I yow leve ; ' But al shal passe; and thus take I my leve." 1085 But trewely, how longe it was bitwene, That she for-sook him for this Diomede, Ther is non auctor telleth it, I wene.^ Take every man now to his bokes hede ; He shal no terme finden, out of drede.^ 1090 For though that he bigan to wo we hir sone, Er he hir wan, yet was ther more to done.'' THE CANTERBURY T.ALES From THE PROLOGUE Whan that Aprille with hise shoures soote ' The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote And bathed every veyne ^ in swich ^ licour Of which vertu engendred is the flour ; Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 5 Inspired hath in every holt ^** and heeth The tendre croppes,^^ and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours ^- y-ronne, And smale foweles ^^ maken melodye That slepen al the nyght with open eye, — So priketh hem Nature in hir corages," — ^11 Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,^^ To feme halwes/® kowthe ^^ in sondry londes ; And specially, from every shires ende 15 Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende. The hooly blisful martir for to seke. That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. Bifil ^* that in that seson on a day. In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 20 ; Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,^* At nyght was come into that hostelrye Wel ^° nyne-and-twenty in a compaignye. Of sondry folk, by aventure ^^ y-falle 25 ^ although 2 know ^ abandon * think ^ without doubt ^ do ^ showers sweet ^ vein ^ such ^'^ forest *^ twigs ^- In April the sun's course lies partly in the zodiacal sign of the Ram atid partly in that of the Bull. ^ birds " in their hearts ^^ foreign strands ^^ dis- tant shrines ^^ known ^* it happened *^ heart ^^ full "^ chance In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle, That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde. The chambres and the stables weren wyde, And wel we weren esed atte beste.^ And, shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 30 So hadde I spoken with hem everychon, That I was of hir felaweshipe anon. And made forward ^ erly for to ryse, To take oure wey, ther-as I yow devyse.^ But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space, Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 36 Me thynketh it accordaunt to resoun To telle yow al the condicioun * Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, And whiche ^ they weren and of what degree, And eek in what array that they were inne ; And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne. 42 A Knyght ther was and that a worthy man, That fro the tyme that he first bigan To riden out, he lovede chivalr-ie, 45 Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie. Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre. And thereto ^ hadde he riden, no man ferre,' As wel in Cristendom as in hethenesse. And ever honoured for his worthynesse. 50 At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne ; Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne * Aboven alle nacions in Pruce.^ In Lettow 1° hadde he reysed " and in Ruce,'^ No Cristen man so ofte of his degree.^* 55 In Gernade ^^ at the seege eek hadde he be Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye.^^ At Lyeys ^^ was he, and at Satalye,^^ Whan they were wonne; and in the Crete Seei^ At many a noble armee ^* hadde he be. 60 At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene. And foughten for ovire feith at Tramyssene '® In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo. This ilke ^^ worthy knyght hadde been also Somtyme with the lord of Palatye ^^ 65 Agayn ^° another hethen in Turkye ; And evermoore he hadde a sovereyn prys.^^ And though that he were worthy, he was wys, And of his port ^^ as meeke as is a mayde. He never yet no vile3mye ^ ne sayde 70 ^ made comfortable ^ agreement ^ describe ■* character ^ what sort *" besides "" farther * begun the board (sat at the head of the table) ^ Prussia ^^ Lithuania ^* made expeditions ^^ Russia '^ rank 1"* Granada ^^ A district in Africa. ^^ Places in Asia Minor. ^'' Mediterranean ^^ armed expedition ^^ same -^ against '^^ high esteem ^^ bearing ^ dis- courtesy 6o GEOFFREY CHAUCER In al his lyf unto no maner wight. He was a verray, parfit, gentil knyght. But for to tellen yow of his array, His hors were goode, but he was nat gay ; Of fustian ^ he wered a gypon ^ 75 Al bismotered ^ with his habergeon ; "* For he was late y-come from his viage,* And wente for to doon his pilgrymage. With hym ther was his sone, a yong Squier, A lovyere and a lusty bacheler, 80 With lokkes cruUe,^ as ^ they were leyd in presse. Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. Of his stature he was of evene lengthe,* And wonderly delyvere ^ and greet of strengthe ; And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachye,i° In Flaundres, in Artoys and Pycardye, 86 And born hym weel, as of so litel space. In hope to stonden in his lady " grace. Embrouded was he, as it were a meede ^^ Al ful of fresshe floures whyte and reede ; 90 Syngynge he was or floytynge ^^ al the day ; He was as fressh as is the monthe of May. Short was his gowne, with sieves longe and wyde; Wei coude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde ; He coude songes make and wel endite," 95 Juste and eek daunce and weel purtreye and write. So hoote he lovede that by nyghtertale ^^ He sleep namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale. Curteis he was, lowely and servysable, And carf ^^ biforn his fader at the table. 100 A Yeman " hadde he,^^ and servants namo " At that tyme, for hym liste ride soo ; And he was clad in cote and hood of grene ; A sheef ^° of pocok ^^ arwes bright and kene Under his belt he bar ful thriftily — 105 Wel coude he dresse ^^ his takel ^^ yemanly ; His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe 2* — And in his hand he bar a myghty bowe. A not-heed '^^ hadde he with a broun visage. Of woodecraft wel koude he al the usage, no Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer. And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler,^^ ^ coarse cloth ^ shirt ' soiled * coat of mail ^ voyage ^ curly ' as if * medium height ' active *" cavalry expeditions " lady's '^ meadow ^^ whis- tling ^^ compose ^^ night-time ^'' carved ^' yeoman ^^ the knight ''•'no more ^° bundle of twenty-four " peacock ^^ take care of ^^ equipment ^'* worn and clipped short ^^ closely cut hair ^'' small shield And on that oother syde a gay daggere Harneised wel and sharpe as point of spere ; A Cristofre ^ on his brest of silver sheene ; An horn he bar, the bawdryk ^ was of grene. A forster was he soothly, as I gesse. ii> Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy ; ^ Hire gretteste 00th was but by Seiint Loy,* And she was cleped ^ madame Eglentyne. 121 Ful weel she songe the service dyvyne, Entuned in hir nose ful semely ; And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly ^ After the scole of Stratford-atte-Bowe,^ 125 For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe. At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle, She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe ; Wel coude she carie a morsel and wel kepe That no drope ne fiUe upon hire breste. 131 In curteisie was set ful muchel hir leste.* Hire over-lippe wyped she so clene. That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. Ful semely after hir mete she raughte,' 136 And sikerly 1° she was of greet desport,^^ And ful plesaunt and. amyable of port ,'^ And peyned hire ^^ to countrefete i"* cheere '^ Of court, and been estathch ^^ of manere, 140 And to ben holden digne " of reverence. But, for to speken of hire conscience. She was so charitable and so pitous She wolde wepe if that she saugh '* a mous Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. Of smale houndes ^^ hadde she, that she fedde With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel-breed ; ^^ But sore wepte she, if oon of hem were deed,^^ Or if men ^^ smoot it with a yerde ^^ smerte ; ^^ And al was conscience and tendre herte. 150 Ful semyly '^^ hir wympul ^'^ pynched ^'^ was ; Hire nose tretys,^* hir eyen greye as glas, Hir mouth ful smal and ther-to softe and reed; But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed ; It was almoost a spanne brood I trowe, 155 For, hardily,-^ she was nat undergrowe. ^ an image of his patron saint ^ cord ' quiet ^ By St. Eligius, a very mild oath ^ named ® skilfully ^ A convent near London. * pleasure ' reached '" certainly " good humour ^^ bearing ^^ exerted herself ^'' imitate '^ fashions ^^ dignified '^ worthy ^^ saw ^^ little dogs ^° cake bread ^' died "^ any one ^^ stick ^"^ sharply ^^ neatly ^^ face-cloth ^' pinched, plaited ^'^ well-formed ^^ certainly THE CANTERBURY TALES 6x Ful fetys ^ was hir cloke, as I was war ; - Of smal coral aboute hire arm she bar ^ A peire ^ of bedes gauded * al with grene, And ther-on heng a brooch of gold ful sheene,^ On which ther was first write a crowned A, And after Amor vine it omnia. 162 Another Nonne with hire hadde she. That was hire chapeleyne ; and Preestes thre. A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrie,'' An outridere that lovede venerie/ 166 A manly man, to been an abbot able. Ful many a deyntee ^ hors hadde he in stable. And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heere Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd as cleere 1 70 And eek as loude as dooth the chapel-belle Ther-as this lord was kepere of the celle.^ The reule of Seint Maure or of Seint Beneit, By-cause that it was.old and som-del streit '" — This ilke monk leet olde thynges pace 175 And heeld after the newe world the space. He yaf nat of that text a pulled ^^ hen That seith that hunters beth nat hooly men, Ne that a monk when he is recchelees ^' Is likned til a fissh that is waterlees ; 180 This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre. But thilke text heeld he nat worth an oystre ; And I seyde his opinioun was good ; What sholde he studie and make hym-selven wood,^^ Upon a book in cloystre alwey to poure, 185 Or swynken 1* with his handes and laboure As Austyn bit ? ^^ How shal the world be served ? Lat Austyn have his swynk ^^ to him reserved. Therfore he was a pricasour ^''' aright ; Grehoundes he hadde, as swift as fowel in flight : Of prikyng ^' and of huntyng for the hare 191 Was al his lust,^^ for no cost wolde he spare. I seigh '^ his sieves purfiled -" at the bond With grys,^^ and that the fyneste of a lond; And for to festne his hood under his chyn 195 He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pyn ; A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was. His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas. And eek his face as it hadde been enoynt. He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt ; "^^ ^ well-made ^ as I perceived ^ set * Every eleventh bead was a large green one. ^ beautiful ^ an extremely fine one " hunting ^ fine ^ A cell is a branch monastery. '" strkrt ^' plucked ^^ vagabond '^ crazy " work ^^ bids ^^ hunter ^^ tracking ^^ pleasure*^' saw 2" edged ^^ grey fur .^ en ban point, fleshy Hise eyen stepe ^ and rollynge in his heed, That stemed ^ as a forneys of a leed ; ' His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat. Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat. He was nat pale, as a forpyned ■* goost ; 205 A fat swan loved he best of any roost. His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. A Frere ther was, a wantown and a merye, A lymytour,^ a ful solempne '' man. In alle the ordres foure ' is noon that can * So muchel of daliaunce and fair langage; 211 He hadde maad ful many a mariage Of yonge wommen at his owene cost. Unto his ordre he was a noble post ; Ful wel biloved and famulier was he 215 With frankeleyns ^ over-al in his contree ; And eek with worthy wommen of the toun, For he hadde power of confessioun, As seyde hym-self, moore than a curat, For of his ordre he was licenciat. 220 Ful swetely herde he confessioun, And plesaunt was his absolucioun. He was an esy man to yeve penaunce Ther-as ^^ he wiste " to have a good pit- aunce ; ^' For unto a povre ordre for to yive 225 Is signe that a man is wel y-shryve. For, if he ^^ yaf, he ^* dorste make avaunt He wiste that a man was repentaunt ; For many a man so harde is of his herte He may nat wepe al-thogh hym soore smerte. Therfore instede of wepynge and preyeres Men moote yeve silver to the povre freres. His typet was ay farsed ^^ full of knyves 233 And pynnes, for to yeven faire wyves. And certeinly he hadde a murye ^^ note ; 235 Wel coude he synge and pleyen on a rote ; ^^ Of yeddynges ^^ he bar outrely the pris. His nekke whit was as the flour-de-lys ; Ther-to he strong was as a champioun. He knew the tavernes well in every toun 240 And everich hostiler and tappestere ^^ Bet 2" than a lazar ^^ or a beggestere ; ^^ For unto swich a worthy man as he Acorded nat, as by his facultee, To have with sike lazars aqueyntaunce ; 245 It is nat honeste,^^ it may nat avaunce ^ large ^ gleamed ^ cauldron * tortured to death ^ licensed to beg in a certain district ® imposing " Dominican, Franciscan, Carmelite and Austin friars. * knows ^ rich farmers ^'^ where '^ knew ^^ pittance, gift ^^ the man ^^ the friar '^ stuffed ^^ merry ^^ fiddle ^* popular songs ^* bar-maid ^^ better ^^ beggar ^ female beggar ^^ becoming 62 GEOFFREY CHAUCER For to deelen with no swiche poraille,* But al with riche and selleres of vitaille, And over-al,^ ther-as ^ profit sholde arise Curteis he was and lowely of servyse. 250 Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous ; ■* He was the beste beggere in his hous, For thogh a wydwe hadde noght a sho,* So plesaunt was his hi principio,^ Yet wolde he' have a ferthyng ' er he wente : His purchas * was wel bettre than his rente.' And rage he koude, as it were right a whelpe.^" In love-dayes " ther coude he muchel helpe, For there he was nat lyk a cloysterer With a thredbare cope, as is a povre scoler, But he was lyk a maister, or a pope ; 261 Of double worstede was his semi-cope, ^^ That rounded as a belle, out of the presse.'^ Somwhat he lipsed for his wantownesse," To make his Englissh swete upon his tonge ; And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde songe, 266 Hise eyen twynkled in his heed aryght As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght. This worthy lymytour was cleped Huberd. A Marchant was ther with a forked berd, In mottelee,^^ and hye on horse he sat ; 271 Upon his heed a Flaundrish bever hat, His botes clasped faire and fetisly.^® His resons ^^ spak he ful solempnely,^* Souning ^^ alway thencrees '^° of his winning. He wolde the see were kept for anything ^^ Betwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle. Wel coude he in eschaunge ^' sheeldes ^ seUe. This worthy man ful well his wit bisette ; ^* Ther wiste -'' no wight that he was in dette. So estatly was he of his governaunce 281 With his bargaynes and with his chevisaunce.^^ For sothe he was a worthy man withalle. But sooth to seyn,^' I noot ^^ how men him calle. A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also 285 That unto logyk hadde longe y-go. As leene was his hors as is a rake. And he nas nat right fat, I undertake, ^ poor folk ^ everywhere ^ where ■* full of good qualities ^ shoe ^ St. John i, i, used as a greeting. '' bit * gettings ^ what he paid for his begging privi- leges or his regular income '" puppy ^^ arbitration days ^"^ short cape ^' the press in which the semi-cope was kept. ^^ jollity ^^ a sober grey ^^ neatly ^^ re- marks, declarations ^* pompously ^' sounding, proclaiming ^^ the increase ^^ at any cost ^ ex- change ^^ French coins, ecus ^'* employed ^^ knew ** borrowing ''■'' say ^* don't know But looked holwe * and ther-to ^ sobrely. Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy,^ 290 For he hadde geten hym yet no benefice, Ne was so worldly for to have office ; For hym was levere * have at his beddes heed Twenty bookes clad in blak or reed Of Aristotle and his philosophie 295 Than robes riche, or fithele,^ or gay sautrie.^ But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre ; But al that he myghte of his freendes hente On bookes and his lernynge he it spente, 300 And bisily gan for the soules preye Of hem that gaf hym wher-with to scoleye.® Of studie took he moost cure ^ and moost heede ; Noght o word spak he moore than was neede, And that was seyd in forme and reverence. And short and quyk and iul of by sentence.^ Sownynge in ^ moral vertu was his speche, And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche. A Sergeant of the Lawe, war ^^ and wys, That often hadde been at the parvys,^^ 310 Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. Discreet he was, and of greet reverence — He semed swich, his wordes weren so wyse. Justice he was ful often in assyse,^^ By patente, and by pleyn ^^ commissioun ; 315 For his science, and for his heigh renoun, Of fees and robes hadde he many oon. So greet a piu'chasour ^^ was nowher noon ; Al was fee simple to him in effect. His purchasing mighte nat been infect. ^^ 320 Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas,^'' And yet he semed bisier than he was. In termes hadde he caas " and domes ^* alle That from the tyme of king William were falle. Therto he coude endyte and make a thing,^' Ther coude no wight pinche at ^^ his wryting ; And every statut coude he pleyn -^ by rote.^ He rood but hoomly in a medlee ^^ cote Girt with a ceint ^ of silk, with barres smale ; Of his array telle I no lenger tale. 330 A Frankeleyn ^^ was in his compaignye ; Whit was his berd as is the dayesye ; ^ hollow "^ besides ^ outer short coat * he had rather * musical instrument ® go to school ^ care * meaning ^ tending to ^° cautious '^ the porch of St. Paul's, where lawyers met clients ^^ court of assize ^^full ^*conveyancer ^^invalidated ^^ was not ^^ cases '^decisions ^^ compose and draw up a docu- ment ^^ find a defect in ^^ fully ^^ by heart -^ sober grey *■* girdle ^^ rich landowner THE CANTERBURY TALES 63 Of his complexioun ^ he was sangwyn. Wei loved he by the morwe - a sope ' in wyn ; To lyven in delit was evere his wone,^ 335 For he was Epicurus owne sone, That heeld opinioun that pleyn delit Was verraUy fehcitee pariit. An housholdere, and that a greet, was he ; Seint Julian ^ he was in his contree ; 340 His breed, his ale, was alwey after oon ; * A bettre envyned " man was no-wher noon. Withoute bake-mete * was nevere his hous. Of fissh and flessh, and that so plentevous It snewed ^ in his hous of mete and drynke. Of alio deyntees that men coude th>'nke. 346 After the sondry sesons of the yeer, So chaunged he his mete and his soper. Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in muwe,^" And many a breem " and many a luce " in stuwe.^^ 350 Wo was his cook but-if ^^ his sauce were Po>Tiaunt and sharpe, and redy al his geere. His table dormant ^■^ in his halle alway Stood redy covered al the longe day. At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire; 355 Ful ofte tyme he was knyght of the shire. An anlaas,^^ and a gipser ^^ al of silk Heeng at his girdel whit as mome milk. A shirreve hadde he been and a countour ; ^" Was no-wher such a worthy vavasour.^* 360 An haberdassher ^^ and a carpenter, A webbe,2" a dyere, and a tapicer,-i And they were clothed alle in o liveree,^ Of a solempne and greet fraternitee. Ful fresh and newe hir gere ^^ apyked ^* was ; Hir knyves were y-chaped ^^ noght with bras, But al with silver; wroght ful clene and weel Hir girdles and hir pouches everydeel. Wei semed ech of hem a fair burgeys. To sitten in a yeldhalle ^^ on a deys.^^ 370 Everich, for the wisdom that he can,^* Was shaply for to been an alderman ; For catel -^ hadde they ynogh and rente,-^** And eek hir wy ves wolde it wel assente ; And elles certein were they to blame. 375 It is ful fair to been y-clept ^ tna dame, And goon to vigilyes ' al bifore. And have a mantel roialliche y-bore. A Cook they hadde with hem,^ for the nones * To boille chiknes with the mary-bones 380 And poudre-marchant tart ^ and galingale.® Wel coude he knowe a draughte of London ale. He coude roste, and sethe,^ and broiUe, and frye, Maken mortreux,^ and wel bake a pye. But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me, 385 That on his shine ^ a mormal ^^ hadde he. For blankmanger," that made he with the beste. A Shipman was ther, wonynge ^^ fer by weste ; For aught I woot " he was of Dertemouthe. He rood upon a rouncy " as he couthe,^^ 390 In a gowne of faldyng ^'^ to the knee. A daggere hang^mge on a laas ^^ hadde he Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun. The hoote somer hadde maad his hewe al broun. And certeinly he was a good felawe ; ^^ 395 Ful many a draughte of wyn hadde he i- drawe Fro Burdeuxward, whil that the chapman ^^ sleep. Of nyce conscience took he no keep. 2" If that he f aught, and hadde the hyer hond. By water he sente hem hoom to every lond. 400 But of his craft to rekene wel his tydes, His stremes ^- and his daungers hym bisides, His herberwe and his m-oone, his lodemenage,^^ Ther nas noon swich from HuUe to Cartage. Hardy he was, and wys to undertake ; ^ 405 With many a tempest hadde his herd been shake ; He knew wel alle the havenes, as they were. From Gootlond ^^ to the Cape of Fynystere, ^ temperament ^ in the morning * sop ^ custom ^ patron saint of hospitality ^ always of the same quality ^ provided with wines * pasties ^ snowed ^° coop 1^ a kind of fish ^- pond ^^ unless " a per- manent table ^^ knife ^® pouch ^" treasurer ^* land- holder ^^ keeper of a shop for hats or furnishings ^ weaver ^^ upholsterer ^- one uniform ^ apparel ** trimmed ^° sheathed -® guild-hall ^^ dais ^? knows ^' property ^^ income ^ called 2 meetings on the eve of saints' daj^s ^ them * of the right sort, ver>^ skilful * a tart flavouring powder ^ a root for flavoiiring ' boil * chowders ^ shin ^^ sore " minced capon with sugar, cream, and flour ^^ dwelling ^' know ^^ hack- ney ^° as well as he could ^^ cheap cloth ^' lace, cord ^* goodfellow = rascal ^^ merchant ^° heed ^ threw them into the sea *^ currents -^ steersman- ship ^^ skilful in his plans '^ Denmark 64 GEOFFREY CHAUCER And every cryke * in Britaigne and in Spayne. His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 410 With us ther was a Doctour of Phisyk, In al this world ne was ther noon him lyk To speke of ^ phisik and of surgerye ; For he was grounded in astronomye. He kepte his pacient a ful greet del 415 In houres, by his magik naturel. Wei coude he fortunen the ascendent Of his images for his pacient.^ He knew the cause of everich maladye, Were it of hoot or cold, or moiste, or drye, And where engendred, and of what humour ; ^ He was a verrey/ partit practisour. The cause y-knowe, and of his harm the rote,® Anon he yaf the seke man his bote.' Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries, 425 To sende him drogges and his letuaries,^ For ech of hem made other for to winne ; Hir frendschipe nas nat newe to biginne. Wei knew he the olde Esculapius,^ And Deiscorides, and eek Rufus ; 430 Old Ypocras, Haly, and Galien ; Serapion, Razis, and Avicen ; Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn; Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn. Of his diete mesurable was he, 435 For it was of no superlluitee, But of greet norissing and digestible. His studie was but litel on the Bible. In sangwin ^° and in pers " he clad was al, Lyned with taffata ^- and with sendal ; ^^ 440 And yet he was but esy ^^ of dispence ; ^^ He kepte that he wan in pestilence.^^ For gold in phisik is a cordial,^® Therfor he lovede gold in special. A Good-wif was ther of biside Bathe, 445 But she was som-del deef and that was scathe.^' Of cloolh-makyng she hadde swich an haunt ^* She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. In al the parisshe, wif ne was ther noon That to the offrynge bifore hire sholde goon ; ^ creek, inlet ^ in regard to, if one is speaking of * For II. 415-18, on the use of astrology in treating patients, see the Notes. ■* For the humours as related to diseases, see the Notes. * true ® root, cause ^ remedy ** medicinal syrups ^ The men named in II. 420-J4 were famous writers on medi- cine, ancient and modern. ^^ red '^ blue ^'^ light silk ^^ moderate ^^ expenditure ^^ the plague *® remedy for heart-disease ^" harni '^ skill And if ther dide, certeyn so wrooth was she That she was out of alle charitee. 452 Hir coverchiefs ful fyne weren of ground ; I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound. That on a Sonday weren upon hir heed. 455 Hir hosen weren of fyn'scarlet reed, Ful streite y-teyd, and shoes ful moyste ^ and newe. Boold was hir face and fair and reed of hewe. She was a worthy womman al hir lyve ; Housbondes at chirche dore she hadde fyve, Withouten oother compaignye in youthe, 461 But ther-of nedeth nat to speke as nowthe.^ And thries hadde she been at Jerusalem ; She hadde passed many a straunge strem ; At Rome she hadde been and at Boloigne, In Galice at Seint Jame, and at Coloigne ;466 She coude ^ muche of wandrynge by the weye : Gat-tothed ^ was she, soothly for to seye. Upon an amblere esily she sat, Y-wympled ^ wel, and on her heed an hat 470 As brood as is a bokeler or a targe ; ® A foot-mantel ^ aboute hir hipes large, And on hire feet a paire of spores sharpe. In felaweshipe wel coude she laughe and carpe ; 474 Of remedies of love she knew per chaunce,^ For she coude of that art the olde daunce.* A good man was ther of religioun. And was a povre Persoun of a toun ; But riche he vvas of hooly thoght and werk ; Fie was also a Icrned man, a clerk, 480 That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche. Hise parisshens devoutly wolde he teche ; Benygne he was and wonder diligent. And in adversitee ful pacient ; And swich he was y-preved ^"^ ofte sithes." 485 Ful looth were hym to cursen ^^ for hise tithes, But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, Unto his povre parisshens aboute. Of his offryng and eek of his substaunce. He coude in litel thyng have sufifisaunce. 490 W^yd was his parisshe, and houses fer asonder, But he ne lafte ^^ nat for reyn ne thonder In siknesse nor in meschief to visite The ferreste " in his parisshe, muche and lite,i* * soft 2 at present ^ knew ^ teeth set wide apart, a sign that one will travel. ^ with a wimple about her face ^ shield ''' riding-skirt * doubtless ^ This is a slang phrase. ^^ proved '' times '" excommuni- cate ^^ neglected '^^ farthest ^^ rich and poor THE CANTERBURY TALES 65 Upon his feet, and in his hand a staf. 495 This noble ensample to his sheepe he gaf, That firste he wroghte and afterward he taughte. Out of the gospel he tho ^ wordes caughte, And this figure he added eek ^ therto, That if gold ruste, what shal iren doo ? 500 For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste, No wonder is a lewed ^ man to ruste ; And shame it is, if a prest take keep/ A [filthy] shepherde and a clene sheep. Wei oghte a preest ensample for to yeve 505 By his clennesse, how that his sheepe sholde lyve. He sette nat his benefice to hyre And leet his sheep encombred in the myre, And ran to London unto Seint Poules To seken hym a chaunterie for soules, 510 Or with a bretherhed to been withholde ; ^ But dwelte at hoom and kepte wel his folde, So that the wolf ne made it nat myscarie ; He was a shepherde, and noght a mercenarie. And though he hooly were and vertuous, 515 He was to synfid man nat despitous,^ Ne of his speche daungerous ' ne digne,^ But in his techyng descreet and benygne ; To drawen folk to hevene by fairnesse, By good ensample, this was his bisynesse. But it were any persone obsttnat, 521 What so he were, of heigh or lowe estat, Hym wolde he snybben ^ sharply for the nonys.^" A bettre preest I trowe that no-wher noon ys ; He waited after no pompe and reverence, 525 Ne maked him a spiced conscience, But Cristes loore, and his apostles twelve, He taughte, but first he folwed it hym-selve. With him ther was a Plowman, was ^^ his brother. That hadde y-lad ^- of dong ful many a fother,^^ 530 A trewe swinkere ^^ and a good was he, Livinge in pees and parfit ^^ charitee. God loved he best with al his hole herte At alle tymes, thogh him gamed or smerte,^^ And thanne his neighebour right as him- selve. 535 He wolde thresshe, and ther-to dyke and delve, ^ those ^ also ^ ignorant •• heed ^ maintained * pitiless ^ overbearing * haughty ^ snub, rebuke ^^ for the nonys means very, extremely " who was '^ carried ^^ load ^* labourer ^^ perfect ^^ whether he was happy or unhappy For Cristes sake, for every povre wight, Withouten hyre, if it lay in his might. His tythes payed he ful faire and wel, Bothe of his propre ^ swink ^ and his catel.^ In a tabard "* he rood upon a mere. 541 Ther was also a Reve ^ and a Millere, A Somnour ® and a Pardoner also, A Maunciple,' and my-self ; ther were namo. The Millere was a stout carl for the nones,^ Fid byg he was of brawn and eek of bones ; That proved wel, for over-al ^ ther he cam. At wrastlynge he wolde have alwey the ram.^" He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre,^^ Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of harre ^- Or breke it at a renn3mg with his heed. 551 His herd, as any sowe or fo.x, was reed, -And therto brood, as though it were a spade. Upon the cop ^^ right of his nose he hade A werte, and theron stood a tuft of herys,555 Reed as the bristles of a sowes erys ; ^" His nosethirles ^* blake were and wyde. A swerd and a bokeler bar he by his syde. His mouth as wyde was as a greet forneys ; He was a janglere ^^ and a goliardeys," 560 And that was moost of synne and harlotries. Wel coude he stelen corn and tollen thries. And yet he hadde a thombe of gold,^^ pardee ! A whit cote and a blew hood wered he ; A baggepipe wel coude he blowe and sowne. And therwithal he broghte us out of towne. A gentU JMaunciple was ther of a temple,'' Of which achat ours -'^ mighte take exemple For to be wyse in bying of vitaille. 569 For whether that he payde, or took by taille,^^ Algate he wayted - so in his achat ^ That he was ay bifom -^ and in good stat. Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace. That swich a lewed -^ mannes wit shal pace ^ The wisdom of an heep of lerned men? 575 Of maistres hadde he mo -'' than thryes ten, That were of lawe expert and curious ; Of which ther were a doseyn in that hous, Worthy to been stiwardes of rente and lond Of any lord that is in Engelond, 580 ' own ^ labour ' property ^ short sleeveless jacket ^ foreman of the laborers on a manor ® bailiff of an ecclesiastical court " steward of a college or inn of court ^ for the nones means very, extremely ^everywhere ^'^ the prize ''knot '^ heave off its hinges '^ end '■* ears '^ nostrils ^^ loud talker '' jester '^.4^ all honest millers have, '^inn of court -" buyers ^' tally, i.e. on credit ^ alwaj's he watched ^■' purchase ''■* ahead •" ignorant ^® surpass -• more 66 GEOFFREY CHAUCER To make him live by his propre good, In honour dettelees, but he were wood/ Or Hve as scarsly ^ as him Ust desire ; And able for to helpen al a shire 5^5 In any cas that mighte falle or happe ; And yit this maunciple sette hir alJer cappe.^ The Reeve was a sclendre colerik * man. His berd was shave as ny as ever he can,; His heer was by his eres round y-shorn ; His top was dokked ^ lyk a preest biforn. I'ul longe were his legges, and ful lene, 591 Y-lyk a staf, ther was no calf y-sene. Wei coude he kepe a gerner *^ and a binne ; Ther was noon auditour coude on him winne. Wei wiste he, by the droghte, and by the reyn, The yeldyng of his seed, and of his greyn. 596 His lordes sheep, his neet,*" his dayerye. His swyn, his hors, his stoor,^ and his pultrye, Was hooly in this reves governing ; And by his covenaunt yaf the rekening ^ 600 Sin ^° that his lord was twenty yeer of age ; Ther coude no man bringe him in arrerage." Ther nas baillif, ne herde,^^ ne other hyne,^^ That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyne ; " They were adrad of him, as of the deeth. 605 His woning ^^ was ful fair up-on an heeth ; With grene trees shadwed was his place ; He coude bettre than his lord purchace. Ful riche he was astored prively ; His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly, 610 To yeve and lene him of his owne good, And have a thank, and yet a cote, and hood.^^ In youthe he lerned hadde a good mister ; " He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter. This reve sat up-on a ful good stot,^^ 615 That was al pomely ^^ grey, and highte Scot. A long surcote of pers -'^ up-on he hade. And by his syde he bar a rusty blade. Of Northfolk was this reve of which I telle, Bisyde a toun rnen clepen Baldeswelle.. 620 Tukked ^^ he was, as is a frere, aboute, And evere he rood the hindreste of our route. A Somnour was ther with us in that place, That hadde a fyr-reed cherubmnes face. For sawceflem ^^ he was, with eyen narwe, ****** 4: * crazy ^ economically * cheated them all (slang) ^ irascible ^ cut short ® granary ^ cattle ^ stock of tools, etc. ' rendered account ^^ since ^^ find him in arrears ^^ herdsman ^^ servant ^* whose craft and deceit he did not know ^^ dwelling ^'' lend his lord's own property to him and receive thanks and gifts ^^ trade ^^ cob ^" dappled ^^ blue "^ his coat was tucked up with a girdle ^^ pimpled With scalled ^ browes blake, and piled ^ berd ; Of his visage children were aferd. Ther nas quik-silver, litarge," ne brimstoon, Boras,"* certice,-* ne oille of tartre noon, 630 Ne oynement that wolde dense and byte, That him mighte helpen of his whelkes * whyte, Ne of the knobbes sittinge on his chekes. Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes, And for to drinken strong wyn, reed as blood. Thanne wolde he speke and crye, as he were wood.^ And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn, Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn. A fewe termes hadde he,, two or thre. That he had lerned out of some decree ; 640 No wonder is, he herde it al the day ; And eek ye knowen wel, how that a Jay Can clepen 'Watte,' ^ as well as can the pope. But who-so coude in other thing him grope,^ Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophye ; Ay "Qiiestio quid iuris" ^ wolde he crye. 646 He was a gen til harlot ^^ and a kynde ; A bettre felawe " sholde men noght fynde ; He wolde suffre for a quart of wyn A good felawe to have his [wikked sin] 650 A twelf-month, and excuse him atte fuUe ; And prively a finch eek coude he puUe.^^ And if he fond owher ^^ a good felawe,* He wolde techen him to have non awe, In swich cas, of the erchedeknes curs,i* 655 But-if '^ a mannes soule were in his purs ; ^'' For in his purs he sholde y-punisshed be. "Purs is the erchedeknes helle," seyde he. But wel*! woot he lyed right in dede ; 659 Of cursing oghte ech gidty man him drede " — ■ For curs wol slee, right as assoilling ^^ saveth — And also war him of a signijicavit}^ In daunger 2° hadde he at his owne gyse ^^ The yonge girles -^ of the diocyse. And knew hir counseil,^^ and was al hir reed.^^ A gerland hadde he set up-on his heed, 666 * scurfy ^ scraggy ^ a lead ointment * borax * bumps ^ mad ' call "Walter," as a parrot calls "Poll" ^ test ^"The question is what is the law" ^° rascal ^^ good fellow ivas slang for a "dis- reputable person." ^^ slang for "rob a greenhorn." ^^ anywhere ^'* excommunication ^^ unless ^® purse *^ be afraid ^* absolving ^^ writ for arresting an excommunicated person ^^ under his influence ^* adviser Liiiicaniu perbuii uiiuci lua muuciiLc ^ young people of either sex ^ secrets THE CANTERBURY TALES 67 As greet as it were for an ale-stake ; ^ A bokeier hadde he maad him of a cake. With him ther rood a gentU Pardoner Of Rouncivale, his frend and his compeer,67o That straight was comen fro the court of Rome. Fill loude he song, 'Com hider. love, to me.' This somnour bar to him a stif burdoun,^ Was nevere trompe ^ of half so greet a soun. This pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex. But smothe it heng, as doth a strike of flex ; ^ By ounces ^ henge his lokkes that he hadde. And ther-with he his shuldres overspradde ; But thinne it lay, by colpons *" oon and oon ; But hood, for johtee," ne wered he noon, 680 For it was trussed up in his walet. Him thoughte ^ he rood al of the newe jet ; ^ Dischevele, save his cappe, he rood al bare. S\\"iche glaringe eyen hadde he as an hare. A vernicle ^" hadde he sowed on his cappe. 685 His walet lay biforn him in his lappe, Bret-ful " of pardoun come from Rome al hoot. A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot. No herd hadde he, ne nevere sholde have. As smothe it was as it were late y-shave ; 690 ^ ***** :(: But of his craft, fro Berwik imto Ware," Ne was ther swich another pardoner ; For in his male ^^ he hadde a pUwe-beer," Which that, he seyde, was our lady veyl ; ^^ He seyde, he hadde a gobet ^'^ of the seyl ^^ That Seynt Peter hadde, whan that he wente Up-on the see, tU lesu Crist him hente ; ^^ He hadde a croys ^^ of latoun,^ fid of stones. And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 700 But with thise relilies, whan that he fond A povre person dwelling up-on lond,^ Up-on a day he gat him more moneye Than that the person gat in monthes tweye. And thus with feyned flaterye and japes, ^^ 705 He made the person and the peple his apes.^^ But trewely to tellen, atte laste, He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste. ^ a pole projecting from the wall of an inn and usually bearing a garland ^ accompani- ment ^ trumpet "* hank of flax " small portions * handfuls ' for sport ^ it seemed to him ^ new fashion ^^ a duplicate of the handkerchief of St. Veronica, on which the face of Jesus was im- printed. ^^ brimful ^^ from one end of England to the other " bag " pillow-case ^^ Our Lady's veil '^ bit ^~ sail ^^ seized ^^ cross ^^ brass ^^ in the coun- try " tricks -^ fools Wei coude he rede a lessoim or a storie. But alderbest ^ he song an offer torie ; 710 For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe, He moste preche, and wel affyle ^ his tonge, To winne silver, as he ful wel coude ; Therfore he song so raeriely and loude. Now have I toold you shortly, in a clause, Thestaat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the cause 716 Why that assembled was this compaignye In Southwerk at this gentil hostelrye. That highte ^ the Tabard, faste by the Belle. But now is tyme to you for to telle 720 How that we baren us that Uke nyght, Whan we were hi that hostelrie alyght ; And after wol I telle of our viage * And al the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage. But first, I pray yow of youre curteisye, That ye narette it nat ^ my vileynye,^ 726 Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere To telle yow hir wordes and hir cheere, Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely ; ^ For this ye knowen al-so wel as I, 730 Whoso shal telle a tale after a man, He moote reherce, as ny as evere he can, Everich a word, if it be in his charge, Al * speke he never so rudeliche and large,' Or elhs he moot telle his tale untrewe 735 Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe ; He may nat spare, althogh he were his brother, He moot as wel seye o word as another. Crist spak hymself ful brode in hooly writ, And wel ye woot no vileynye i" is it. 740 Eek Plato seith, v.'hoso that can hym rede, "The Avordes moote be cosyn " to the dede." Also I prey yow to foryeve it me Al * have I nat set folk in hir degree Heere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde; My wit is short, ye may wel understonde. 746 Greet chiere made oure hoste us everichon,^^ And to the soper sette he us anon, And served us with vitaille at the beste ; Strong >vas the wyn, and wel to drynke us leste.^^ 750 A semely man oure Hooste was with-alle For to han been a marshal in an halle. A large man he was. with eyen stepe,^'* A fairer burgeys was ther noon in Chepe ; ^^ ^ best of all ^ polish, smooth ^ was called * jour- ney * do not ascribe it to ^ lack of breeding '' accurately * although ^ coarsely ^^ vulgarity ^^ cousin ^ every one ^^ it pleased us ^^ big ^* Cheapside 68 GEOFFREY CHAUCER Boold of his speche, and wys and wel y-taught, And of manhod hym lakkede right naught. Eek therto ^ he was right a myrie man, 757 And after soper pleyen he bigan, And spak of myrthe amonges othere thynges, Whan that we hadde maad our rekenynges ; And seyde thus: "Now, lordynges, trewely, Ye been to me right welcome, hertely ; 762 For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye, I ne saugh this yeer so myrie a compaignye At ones in this herberwe - as is now ; 765 Fayn wolde I doon yow myrthe, wiste I how.^ And of a myrthe I am right now bythoght, To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght. "Ye goon to Canterbury; God yow speede, The blisful martir quite yow youre meede ! '^ And, wel I woot,^ as ye goon by the weye, Ye shapen yow to talen '' and to pleye ; 772 For trewely comfort ne myrthe is noon To ride by the weye doumb as a stoon ; And therfore wol I maken yow disport, 775 As I seyde erst,^ and doon yow som comfort. And if you liketh alle, by oon assent, Now for to stonden at my juggement, And for to werken as I shal yow seye, To-morwe, whan ye riden by the weye, 780 Now by my fader soule that is deed. But * ye be myrie, I wol yeve yow myn heed ! Hoold up youre hond withouten moore speche." Oure conseil was nat longe for to seche ; Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it wys, 785 And graunted hym withouten moore avys,^ And bad him seye his verdit, as hym leste.^" "Lordynges,"" quod he, "now herkneth for the beste. But taak it nought, I prey yow, in desdeyn ; This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn, That ech of yow, to shorte with your weye, In this viage shal telle tales tweye 792 To Caunterburyward, — I mean it so, — And homward he shal tellen othere two, Of aventures that whilom ^^ han bifaUe. 795 And which of yow that bereth hym beste of alle. That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas Tales of best sentence '"' and moost solaas, Shal have a soper at oure aller cost,^'' Heere in this place, sittynge by this post, 800 ^ besides '^ inn ^ if T knew how * give you your reward ^ know ^ tell tales ^ before * unless * con- sideration '" pleased him " gentlemen ^^ formerly ^ meaning ''' cost of us all Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury. And, for to make yow the moore mury,' I wol myselven gladly with yow ryde Right at myn owne cost, and be youre gyde. And whoso wole my juggement withseye ^ 805 Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye. And if ye vouche-sauf that it be so, Tel me anon, withouten wordes mo, And I wol erly shape me * therfore." This thyng was graunted, and oure othes swore 810 With ful glad herte, and preyden hym also That he would vouche-sauf for to do so, And that he wolde been oure governour. And of our tales juge and reportour. And sette a soper at a certeyn pris, 815 And we wol reuled been at his devys In heigh and lowe ; and thus by oon assent We been acorded to his juggement. And therupon the wyn was fet ■* anon ; We dronken and to reste wente echon 820 Withouten any lenger taryynge. Amorwe, whan that day bigan to sprynge. Up roos oure Hoost and was oure aller cok,^ And gadrede us togidre alle in a flok, And forth we riden, a litel moore than paas,^ Unto the Wateryng of Seint Thomas ; 826 And there oure Hoost bigan his hors areste, And seyde, "Lordynges, herkneth, if yow leste ! Ye woot youre forward,^ and I it yow re- corde. If even-song and morwe-song accorde, 830 Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale. As evere mote I drynke wyn or ale, Whoso be rebel to my juggement Shal paye for all that by the wey is spent ! Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twynne.' He which that hath the shorteste shal bi- gynne. 836 Sire Knyght," quod he, "my mayster and my lord. Now draweth cut, for that is myn accord. Cometh neer," ^ quod he, " my lady Prioresse, And ye, sire Clerk, lat be your shamefast- nesse, 840 Ne studieth noght ; ley hond to, every man." Anon to drawen every wight bigan, And, shortly for to tellen, as it was. Were it by aventure, or sort,^° or cas," ^ merry * gainsay ' prepare myself * fetched * cock — • waked us all. * a little faster than a walk '' agreement ** farther depart ^ come nearer ^" fate " chance THE COMPLEINT OF CHAUCER TO HIS EMPTY PURSE 69 The sothe is this, the cut lil to the knyght, Of which ful bhthe and glad was every wyght : 846 And telle he moste his tale, as was resoun, By forward ' and by composicioun,^ As ye han herd ; what nedeth wordes mo ? And whan this goode man saugh that it was so, 850 As he that wys was and obedient To kepe his forward ^ by his free assent, He seyde, ''Syn ^ I shal bigynne the game, What, welcome be the cut a ^ Goddes name ! Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye." And with that word, we ryden forth oure weye; And he bigan with right a myrie cheere 857 His tale anon, and seyde in this manere. Tempest ^ thee noght al croked to redresse, In trust of hir 2 that turneth as a bal ; Gret reste stant ^ in litel besinesse. 10 And eek be war ^ to sporne ^ ageyn an al ; ^ Strive noght, as doth the crokke ^ with the wal. Daunte thy-self , that dauntest otheres dede ; And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse,^ 15 The wrastiing for this worlde axeth a fal. Her nis non hom, her nis but wildernesse : Forth, pilgrim, forth ! Forth, beste,^ out of thy stal ! Know thy contree ; lok up, thank God of al ; Hold the hye-wey,^° and lat thy gost " thee lede ! 20 And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. A ROUNDEL From THE PARLEMENT OF FOULES "Now welcom, somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres weders " over-shake,^ And driven awey the longe nightes Make! " Seynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte,^ Thus singen smale foules ^ for thy sake : 5 "Now welcom, somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres weders over-shake." Wei han ^ they cause for to gladen ofte, Sith ^ ech of hem recovered hath his make ; '" Ful blisful may they singen whan they wake : "Now welcom, somer, with thy sonne softe. That hast this wintres weders over-shake, And driven awey the longe nightes blake!" BALADE DE BON CONSEYL Fie fro the prees," and dwelle with sothfast- nesse,^ Sufifyce unto thy good, though hit be smal ; For hord hath hate, and clymbing tikelnesse,''' Frees " hath envye, and wele blent overal ; " Savour no more than thee bihove shal ; 5 Werk wel thy-self, that other folk canst rede ; ^^ And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.^*" ^ agreement ^ compact ^ since * in ^ storms avertumed ^ above * little birds ^ have ^"^ mate the crowd ^^ truth ^^ insecurity ^* prosperity ® overturned ' aoove ^ nttie Diras ' " the crowd ^^ truth ^^ insecurity blinds everywhere ^* advise ^^ doubt AE Envoy Therfore, thou Vache,'^ leve thyn old wrecch- ednesse ; Unto the worlde leve ^' now to be thral ; Crye Him mercy that i"* of His hy goodnesse Made thee of noght, and in especial 25 Draw unto Him, and pray in general For thee, and eek for other, hevenlich mede ; ^^ And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 28 Explicit Le bon counseill de G. Chaucer THE COMPLEINT OF CHAUCER TO HIS EMPTY PURSE To you, my purse, and to non other wight ^^ Compleyne I, for ye be my lady dere ! I am so sory, now that ye be light ; For certes, but " ye make me hevy chere,^^ Me were as leef be leyd up-on my bere ; '^ 5 For whiche un-to your mercy thus I crye : Beth -^ hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye ! Now voucheth sauf this day, or -^ hit be night, That I of you the blisful soun may here. Or see your colour lyk the sonne bright, 10 That of yelownesse hadde never pere. Ye be my lyf , ye be myn hertes stere,^ ^ disturb ^ i.e. Fortune ^ stands, resides * cau- tious ^ kick ^ awl ^ crock, earthen pot * willing obedience * beast ^^ highway " spirit ^ Sir Philip la Vache ^^ cease ^* thank him who ^^ reward prosperity ^^ creature ^^ unless ^* cheer ^* bier ^^ be ^ '"'•p ^ guide ere 70 GEOFFREY CHAUCER Quene of comfort and of good companye, Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye ! Now purs, that be to me my lyves light, 15 And saveour, as doun in this worlde here, Out of this toune help me through your might. Sin that ye wole nat ben my tresorere ; For I am shave as nye ^ as any frere."-^ But yit I pray un-to your curtesye : 20 Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye ! Lenvoy de Chaucer O conquerour of Brutes Albioun ! Which that by lyne and free eleccioun Ben ^ verray kmg, this song to you I sende ; And ye, that mowen ■* al myn harm amende, Have mynde up-on my supplicacioun ! 26 A TREATISE ON THE ASTROLABE ^ PROLOGUS Lit el Lowis ® my sone, I have perceived wel by certeyne evidences thyn abilite to leme sciencez touchinge noumbres and propor- ciouns ; and as wel considere I thy bisy ^ preyere ^ in special to lerne the Tretis of the Astrolabie. Than,^ for as mechel ^* as a phil- osof re seith , " he wrappet h him in his f rend, that condescendeth to the rightful preyers of his frend," therfor have I yeven ^^ thee a sufifisaunt Astrolabie as for oure orizonte,^- compowned ^^ after the latitude of Oxenford; upon which, by mediacion ^'* of this litel tretis, I purpose to teche thee a certein nombre of conclusions ^^ apertening ^^ to the same mstrument. I seye a certein of conclusiouns, for three causes. The furste cause is this : truste wel that alle the conclusiouns that han " ben founde, or elles ^* possibly mighten be founde in so noble an instrument as an Astrolabie, ben ^ un- knowe perfitly to any mortal man in this regioun, as I suppose. Another cause is this : that sothly,^^ in any tretis of the Astrolabie that I have seyn,^° there ben •'' some conclu- sions that wole ^^ nat in alle thinges performen hir ^^ bihestes ; ^^ and some of hem ben ^ to ^'* ^ shaven as close ^ friar ^ are * may ^ astro- nomical instrument; consult the dictionary ^ Lewis '' eager * prayer, request ^ then ■"* much '^ given '^ horizon '•'' composed '■* means ^^ problems and their solutions "^ pertaining '^ have ^'*else ^^ truly *" seen ^^ will ^ their ^^ promises ^ too harde to thy tendre age of ten yeer to con- seyve.^ This tretis, divided in fyve parties ^ wole ^ I shewe thee under ful lighte * rewles ^ and naked wordes m English ; for Latin ne canstow ^ yit but smal, my lyte ' sone. But natheles,* sufifyse to thee thise trewe con- clusiouns in English, as wel as suffyseth to thise noble clerkes Grekes thise same conclu- siouns in Greek, and to Arabiens in Arabik, and to Jewes in Ebrev/, and to the Latin folk in Latin ; whiche Latin folk han ^ hem ^° furst out of othre diverse langages, and writen in hir ^^ owne tonge, that is to sein,^^ in Latin. And God wot,^^ that in alle thise langages, and in many mo,^** han ^ thise conclusiouns ben ^^ suffisantly lerned and taught, and yit by diverse rewles,^ right as diverse pathes leden diverse folk the righte wey to Rome. Now wol I prey meekly every discret persone that redeth or hereth this litel tretis, to have my rewde ^^ endyting ^^ for excused, and my superfiuite of wordes, for two causes. The firste cause is, for-that ^* curious ^^ endyting '' and hard sentence ^^ is ful hevy -^ atones ^^ for swich ^^ a child to lerne. And the seconde cause is this, that sothly -^ mesemeth ^^ betre to wryten unto a child twyes -® a good sentence, than he forgete it ones. 2' And, Lowis, yif ^* so be that I shewe thee in my lighte ^^ English as trewe conclusiouns touching this matere, and naught ^° only as trewe but as many and as subtil conclusiouns as ben ^^ shewed in Latin in any commune tretis of the Astrolabie, con me the more thank ; ^^ and preye God save the king, that is lord of this langage, and alle that him feyth bereth ^^ and obeyeth, everech ^* in his degree, the more ^^ and the lasse.^*^ But considere wel, that I ne usurpe nat to have founde this werk of my labour or of myn engin.^". I nam ^^ but a lewd ^^ compilatour ^^ of the labour of olde Astrologiens, and have hit translated in myn English only for thy doc- trine ; and with this swerd *^ shal I sleen *^ envye. ^ understand ^ parts ^ will ^ easy ^ rules * know- 5t thou ^ little * nevertheless ® have ^^ them their ^ say ^^ knows ^'* more ^^ been ^^ rude sense est thou ^ little * nevertheless ® have ^^ them ^^ their ^ say ^^ knows ^'* more ^^ been ^^ rude ''composition ^* because ^^ elaborate *" meaning, sense ^^ difficult ^' at once ^^ such ^^ truly ^^ it - _ •)l\ - _ • 97 _ 9S T M Sll i Liicir s>uy K.11UWS) luuic — uccu luuc ''composition ^* because ^^ elaborate *" meaning, sense ^^ difficult ^' at once ^^ such ^^ truly ^^ it seems to me ^''' twice ^' once "■^* if ^® easy *" not ^^ are ^ con thank means thank, be gratefiil ^ bear ^■' every one ^^ greater ^'' less ^'^ ingenuity ^^ am "ot. '^ ignorant •"* compiler ^ sword ^ slay m not HIGDEN'S POLYCHRONICON 71 JOHN DE TREVISA (1326-1412) HIGDEN'S POLYCHRONICON BOOK I. CHAPTER LIX This apajnynge ^ of the burthe of the tunge is bycause of tweie thinges ; oon is for children in scole ayenst the usage and manere of alle othere naciouns beeth compelled for to leve - hire ^ owne langage, and for to construe hir ^ lessouns and here ^ thynges in Frensche, and so they haveth '' seth ' the Normans come ^ first in-to Engelond. Also gentil-men children beeth i-taught to speke Frensche from the tyme that they beeth i-rokked in here cradel, and kunneth ^ speke and playe with a childes broche ; ^ and uplondisshe ^ men wU likne hym-self to gentil-men, and fonde'th i" with greet besynesse for to speke Frensce, for to be i-tolde " of. TrevisaP This manere was moche i-used to-for ^^ [the] FirsteDeth " and is siththe ^^ sumdeP^ i-chaunged; for John Cornwaile, a maister of grammer, chaunged the lore in gramer scole and construccioun of ^^ Frensche in-to Englische ; and Richard Pencriche lerned the manere ^' techynge of hym and othere men of Pencrich ; so that now, the yere of oure Lorde a thowsand thre himdred and foure score and fyve, and of the secounde kyng Richard after the Conquest nyne, in alle the gramere scoles of Engelond, children leveth Frensche and const rueth and lerneth an ^* Englische, and haveth ^ therby avaiintage in oon side and disavauntage in another side ; here ^ avauntage is, that they lerneth her ^ gramer in lasse '^ tyme than children were i-woned '° to doo ; disavaimtage is that now children of gramer scole conneth ^^ na more Frensche than can -- hir ^ lift ^ heele, and that is harme for hem ^ and ^' they schulle passe the see and travaiUe in straunge landes and in many other places. Also gentil-men haveth now moche i-left -^ for to teche here ^ children Frensche. ^ deterioration ^ leave, give up ^ their * have * since ^ came ^ can * brooch (ornament in gen- eral) ' country ^° attempt ^ accounted ^ What This deterioration of the birth of the tongue is because of two things : one is because chil- dren in school, against the usage and custom of all other nations, are compelled to give up their own language and to construe their les- sons and their exercises in French, and so they have since the Normans came first into Eng- land. Also gentlemen's children are taught to speak French from the time that they are rocked in their cradles and can talk and play with a baby's brooch ; and countrymen wish to be like gentlemen and attempt with great ^ effort to speak French, in order to be highly regarded. Trcvisa: This custom was much used be- fore the first plague and has since been some- what changed ; for John CornwaUe, master of grammar, changed the teaching in gram- mar school and the translation of French mto English ; and Richard Pencriche learned this sort of teaching from him, and other men from Pencriche, so that now, the year of Our Lord 1385 and of the second King Richard after the Conquest nine, in all the grammar schools of England, children give up French and construe and learn in Enghsh, and have thereby advantage on one side and disadvan- tage on another side ; their advantage is that they learn their grammar in less time than children were accustomed to do; the dis- advantage is that now children in grammar school know no more French than does their left heel; and that is harm for them if they shall pass the sea and travel in strange lands and in many other places. Also gentlemen have now in general ceased to teach their chil- dren French. follows is Trevisa's addition. ^^ before " the First Plague, 1348-1349 ^^ somewhat ^^ from ^~' kind of ^^ in ^^ less ^^ accustomed ^^ know ^ knows 23 left 24 them ^^ if 26 ceased THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES THOMAS HOCCLEVE (i37o?-i45o?) From DE REGIMINE PRINCIPUM ON CHAUCER O maister deere and fadir reverent, 1961 Mi maister Chaucer, flour of eloquence, Mirour of fructuous entendement,' O universel fadir in science, Alias, that thou thyn excellent prudence In thi bed mortel might ist noght by- quethe ! What eiled Deth alias ! why wold he sle the? O Deth, thou didest naght harme singuleer ^ In slaughtere of him, but al this land it smertith. 1969 But nathelees yit hast thou no power His name sle ; his hy vertu astertith ^ Unslayn fro the, whiche ay us lyfly hertyth ^ With bookes of his ornat endytyng, That is to al this land enlumynyng. 1974 The steppes of Virgile in poesie Thow folwedist eeke, men wot wel ynow. That combre-world ^ that the, my maistir, slow,- Would I slayne were ! Deth was to hastyf, To rene ^ on the, and reve * the thi lyf . Deth hath but smal consideracion 2094 Unto the vertuous, I have espied, No more, as shewith the probacion,^ Than to a vicious maister losel ^ tried ; Among an heep '^ every man is maistried ^ With ^ hire, as wel the porre ^° as is the riche ; Lerede " and lewde '^ eeke standen al yliche.^^ She mighte han taryed hir vengeance a while TU that some man had egal to the be.^"* 2102 Nay, lat be that ! sche knew wel that this yle May never man forth brynge lyk to the, And hir ofhce ^^ nedes do mot ^® she ; God bad hir do so, I truste as for the beste ; O maister, maister, God thi soule reste ! My dere maistir (God his soule quyte !) 2077 And fadir Chaucer fayn wolde han me taght. But I was dul, and lerned lite or naght. Alias ! my worthi maister honorable, 2080 This landes verray tresor and richesse ! Dethe, by thi deth, hath harme irreparable Unto us doon ; hir vengeable duresse '" Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse Of rethorik, for unto Tullius Was never man so lyk ^ amonges us. 2086 Also who was hier ' in philosophic 2087 To Aristotle in our tongc but thow ? ' fruitful understanding ^ affecting only one 8 escapes * heartens * cruel aflSiction ® like ^ heir The firste fyndere of our faire langage 4978 Hath seyde in caas semblable,^' and ofthir moo,^** So hyly wel, that it is my dotage For to expresse or touche any of thoo.^^ Alasse ! my fadir fro the wo ride is goo. My worthi maister Chaucer, hym I mene : Be thou advoket ^" for hym, Hevenes Queue ! As thou wel knowest, O Blissid Virgyne, 4985 With lovyng hert and hye devocion In thyne honour he wroot ful many a lyne ; O now thine helpe and thi promocion ! ^ world-cumberer ^ slew ^ run * bereave ^ ex- perience ^ rascal ' in a crowd * overcome ^ by '" poor " learned ^^ ignorant ^^ alike ^* had been equal to thee ^^ duty ^^ must " like cases ^^ others also ^' those ^^ advocate 72 THE STORY OF THEBES 73 To God thi Sone make a mocion How he thi servaunt was, Mayden JVIarie, And lat his love floure and fructiiie ! 4991 Al-thogh his lyfebequeynt,^ the resemblaunce Of him hath in me so fressh lyflynesse, That, to putte othir men in remembraunce Of his persone, I have heere his lyknesse Do make,'- to this ende, in sothfastnesse, That thei that have of him lest thought and mynde, 4997 By this peynture may ageyn him fynde. JOHN LYDGATE (i37o?-i45i ?) From THE STORY OF THEBES HOW FALSLY ETHYOCLES LEYDE A BUSSHEMENT3 IN THE WAY TO HAVE SLAYN TYDEUS At a posterne forth they gan to ryde By a geyn ■* path, that ley oute a-side, Secrely, that no man hem espie, Only of " tresoun and of felonye. They haste hem forth al the longe day, Of cruel malys, forto stoppe his way, Thorgh a forest, aUe of oon assent, Ful covartly to leyn a busshement Under an hiHe, at a streite passage, To falle on hym at mor avantage,^ mo The same way that Tydeus gan drawe At thylke " mount wher that Spynx was slawe.* He, nothing war in his opynyoun ^ Of this compassed ^° conspiracioun. But innocent and lich " a gentyl knyght, Rood ay forth to ^^ that it drowe ^^ to nyght, Sool by hym-silf, with-oute companye, Havyng no man to wisse " hym or to g>'e.'^ But at the last, lifting up his hede. Toward evej he gan taken hede ; 11 20 Mid of his waye, right as eny lyne, Thoght he saugh, ageyn the mone shyne, Sheldes fresshe and plates borned ^^ bright, The which environ ^' casten a gret lyght ; YmagjTiyng in his fantasye Ther was treson and conspiracye Wrought by the kyng, his journe ^^ forto lette." And of al that he no-thyng ne sette,^'^ ^ quenched - had made ^ ambush * convenient ^ purely because of '^ greater advantage ^ the same * slain ' not at all aware in his thought ^^ ar- ranged, formed " like ^^ till ^^ drew " direct ** guide ^^ burnished ^" around ^* journey ^* hinder ^he cared nothing for all that But wel assured in his manly herte, List ^ nat onys a-syde to dyverte, 1130 But kepte his way, his sheld upon his brest, And cast his spere manly in the rest, And the first platly ^ that he mette Thorgh the body proudely he hym smette, That he fille ded, chief mayster of hem alle ; And than at onys they upon hym falle On every part, be ^ compas envyroun. But Tydeus, thorgh his hegh renoun. His blody swerde lete about hym glyde, Sleth and kylleth upon every side 1140 In his ire and his mortal tene ; "* That mervaile was he myght so sustene Ageyn hem alle, in every half besette ; '" But his swerde was so sharpe whette That his foomen founde ful unsoote.^ But he, aUas ! was mad light a foote,^ Be force groimded,^ in ful gret distresse; But of knyghthod and of gret prouesse ^ Up he roos, maugre ^° aUe his foon,ii And as they cam, he slogh ^'- hem oon be oon, Lik a lyoun rampaunt in his rage, 1151 And on this hille he fond a narow passage. Which that he took of ful high prudence ; And hche ^^ a boor, stond^-ng at his difTence, As his foomen proudly hym assaylle. Upon the pleyn he made her blode to rayUe '* Al enviroun, that the soyl wex rede, Now her, now ther, as they fiUe dede. That her lay on, and ther lay two or thre, So mercyles, in his cruelte, n6o Thilke day he was upon hem founde ; And, attonys ^^ his enemyes to confounde, Wher-as he stood, this myghty champioun, Be-side he saugh, with water turned doun, An huge stoon large, rounde, and squar; And sodeynly, er that thei wer war, As ^^ it hadde leyn ther for the nonys," Upon his foon he rolled it at onys. That ten of hem ^^ wenten unto wrak, And the remnaunt amased drogh " a-bak ; For on by on they wente to meschaunce.^** And fynaly he broght to outraunce ^^ 1172 Hem ever>^choon, Tydeus, as blyve,^ That non but on left -^ of ham ^^ alyve : Hym-silf yhurt, and y wounded kene," Thurgh his barneys bledyng on the grene ; ^ wished ^ absolutely ^ by * pain ^ beset on every side ^ unsweet, bitter ' made to alight on foot * brought to ground ^ progress ^° in spite of " foes ^'- slew ^^ hke ^'* flow ^^ at once ^^ as if ^' for the purpose ^* them ^^ drew ^'^ defeat ^^ destruction ^ quickly ^' remained ^■' sorely 74 BALLADS The Theban knyghtes in compas rounde aboute In the vale lay slayne, alle the hoole route,^ Which pitously ageyn the mone ^ gape ; For non of hem, shortly,^ myght eskape, 1180 But dede ^ echon as thei han deserved, Save oon excepte, the which was reserved By Tydeus, of intencioun, To the kyng to make relacioun How his knyghtes han on her journe spedde,^ — Everich of hem his lyf left for a wedde,® — And at the metyng how they han hem born ; To tellen al he sured ' was and sworn To Tydeus, ful lowly on his kne. BALLADS {Authors and Dates Unknown) ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE 1. When shawes * beene sheene,^ and shradds 1° fuU fayre. And leeves both large and longe, It is merry, walking in the fayre fforrest, To heare the small birds songe. 2. The woodweele " sang, and wold not cease. Amongst the leaves a lyne ; ^" And it is by two wight ^^ yeomen, By deare God, that I meanc. 3. "Me thought they did mee beate and binde, And tooke my bow mee froe ; 10 If I bee Robin a-live in this lande, I'le be wrockcn " on both them towe." 4. "Sweavens^* are swift, master," quoth John, "As the wind that blowes ore a hill; For if itt be never soe lowde this night, To-morrow it may be still." 1 crowd ^ moon ' to tell it briefly * died ^ suc- ceeded, fared •"' pledge '^ assured * groves ' beauti- ful ^^ coppices " woodlark " of linden ^* stout " avenged ^^ dreams 5. "Buske^ yee, bowne ^ yee, my merry men all. For John shall goe with mee ; For I'le goe seeke yond wight yeomen In greenwood where they bee." 20 6. They cast on their gowne of greene, A shooting gone are they. Until they came to the merry greenwood, Where they had gladdest bee ; There were they ware of a wight yeoman. His body leaned to a tree. 7. A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, Had beene many a mans bane. And he was cladd in his capuU-hyde,^ Topp, and tayle, and mayne. 30 8. "Stand you stUl, master," quoth Litle John, "Under this trusty tree. And I will goe to yond wight yeoman. To know his meaning truly e." 9. "A, John, by me thou setts noe store, And that's a ffarley ^ thinge ; How offt send I my men beffore, And tarry my-selfe behinde ? 10. "It is noe cunning a knave to ken ; And a man but heare him speake. 40 And itt were not for bursting of my bowe, John, I wold thy head breake." 11. But often words they breeden bale; That parted Robin and John. John is gone to Barnesdale, The gates •* he knowes eche one. 12. And when hee came to Barnesdale, Great heavinesse there hee'hadd; He ffound two of his fellowes Were slaine both in a slade,^ 50 13. And Scarlett a-ffoote flyinge was, Over stockes and stone, For the sheriffe with seven score men Fast after him is gone. 14. " Yett one shoote I'le shoote," sayes Litle John, "With Crist his might and mayne; I'le make yond fellow that flyes soe fast To be both glad and ffaine." ^ get ready - horse-hide ^ strange ^ ways ^ valley ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE 75 15. John bent up a good veiwe ^ bow, And ffetteled ^ him to shoote ; 60 The bow was made of a tender boughe, And fell downe to his foote. 16. "Woe worth thee, wicked wood," sayd Litle John, "That ere thou grew on a tree ! For this day thou art my bale, My boote ^ when thou shold bee !" 17. This shoote it was but looselye shott, The arrowe flew in vaine. And it mett one of the sheriiTes men ; Good William a Trent was slaine. 70 18. It had beene better for WiUiam a Trent To hange upon a gallowe Then for to lye in the greenwoode, There slaine with an arrowe. 19. And it is sayd, when men be mett, Six can doe more than three : And they have tane Litle John, And bound him ffast to a tree. 20. "Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe," quoth the sheriffe, " And hanged hye on a hill : " 80 "But thou may ffayle," quoth Litle John, "If itt be Christs owne will." 21. Let us leave talking of Litle John, For hee is bound fast to a tree, And talke of Guy and Robin Hood In the green woode where they bee. 22. How these two yeomen together they mett, Under the leaves of lyne,^ To see what marchandise they made Even at that same time. 90 23. "Good morrow, good feUow," quoth Sir Guy; "Good morrow, good ffellow," quoth hee; "Methinkes by this bow thou beares in thy hand, A good archer thou seems to bee." 24. "I am wilfuU ^ of my way," quoth Sir Guye, "And of my morning tyde :" "I'le lead thee through the wood," quoth Robin, "Good ffellow, I'le be thy guide." 25. "I seeke an outlaw," quoth Sir Guye, "Men call him Robin Hood; 100 I had rather meet with him upon a day Than forty pound of golde." 26. "If you tow mett, itt wold be scene whether were better Afore yee did part awaye ; Let us some other pastime find, Good ffellow, I thee pray. 27. "Let us some other mastery es make, And wee wiU walke in the woods even ; Wee may chance meet with Robin Hoode Att some unsett Steven." ^ no 28. They cutt them downe the summer shroggs 2 Which grew both under a bryar, And sett them three score rood in twinn,^ To shoote the prickes fuU neare. 29. "Leade on, good ffellow," sayd Sir Guye, "Lead on, I doe bidd thee:" "Nay, by "my faith," quoth Robin Hood, "The leader thou shalt bee." 30. The first good shoot that Robin ledd. Did not shoote an inch the pricke ffroe; Guy was an archer good enoughe, 121 But he cold neere shoote soe. 31. The second shoote Sir Guy shott, He shott within the garlande ; But Robin Hoode shott it better than hee, For he clove the good pricke-wande. $2. "Gods blessing on thy heart!" sayes Guye, "Goode iSellow, thy shooting isgoode; For an thy hart be as good as thy hands. Thou were better than Robin Hood. 130 33. "Tell me thy name, good ffellow," quoth Guy, "Under the leaves of Jyne : " "Nay, by my faith," quoth good Robin, "Till thou have told me thuie." ^ yew 2 made ready ^ help ■* linden * astray ^ hour ^ wands ' apart 76 34- 35- 36. 37- BALLADS "I dwell by dale and downe," quoth Guye, "And I have done many a curst turne ; And he that caUes me by my right name, Calles me Guye of good Gysborne." "My dwelling is in the wood," sayes Robin ; "By thee I set right nought ; 140 My name is Robin Hood of Barnesdale, A ffellow thou has long sought." He that had neither beene a kithe nor kin Might have seene a full fayre sight, To see how together these yeomen went, With blades both browne and bright ; To have seene how these yeomen together fought Two howers of a summer's day ; Itt was neither Guy nor Robin Hood That ffettled ^ them to flye away. 150 38. Robin was reacheles ^ on a roote, And stumbled at that tyde. And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all, And hitt him ore the left side. 39. "Ah, deere Lady !" sayd Robin Hoode, "Thou art both mother and may ! ^ I thinke it was never mans destinye To dye before his day." 40. Robin thought on Our Lady deere, And soone leapt up againe, 160 And thus he came with an awkwarde * stroke ; Good Sir Guy hee has slayne. 41 . He tooke Sir Guys head by the hayre, And sticked itt on his bowes end : "Thou hast beene traytor aU thy liffe, Which thing must have an ende." 42. Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe. And nicked Sir Guy in the fface. That hee was nevef on a woman borne Cold teU who Sir Guye was. 170 43. Saics, "Lye there, lye there, good Sir Guye, And with me be not wrothe ; ^ made ready ^ careless ^ maiden "* back-handed If thou have had the worse stroakes at my hand, Thou shaft have the better cloathe." 44. Robin did off his gowne of greene, Sir Guye hee did it throwe ; And hee put on that capull-hyde That cladd him topp to toe. 45. "The bowe, the arrowes, and litle home, And ^ with me now I'le beare ; 180 For now I will goe to Barnesdale, To see how my men doe fifare." 46. Robin sette Guyes home to his mouth, A lowd blast in it he did blow ; That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham, As he leaned under a lowe.^ 47. " Hearken ! hearken ! " sayd the sheriffe, " I heard noe tydings but good ; For yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blowe, For he hath slaine Robin Hoode. 190 48. "For yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blow, Itt blowes soe well in tyde. For yonder comes that wighty yeoman, Cladd in his capuU-hyde. 49. "Come hither, thou good Sir Guy, Aske of mee what thou wilt have : " "I'le none of thy gold," sayes Robin Hood, "Nor I'le none of itt have. 50. "But now I have slaine the master," he sayd, "Let me goe strike the knave; 200 This is all the reward I aske. Nor noe other will I have." 51. "Thou art a madman," said the shiriffe, "Thou sholdest have had a knights ffee; Seeing thy asking hath beene soe badd, Well granted it shall be." 52. But Litle John heard his master speake, Well he knew that was his Steven ; ' "Now shall I be loset," "* quoth Litle John, "With Christs might in heaven." 210 ^ also hill ' released THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN 77 53. But Robin hee hyed ^ him towards Litle John, Hee thought hee wold loose him belive ; ^ The sheriflie and all his companye Fast after him did drive. 54. "Stand abacke ! stand abacke!" sayd Robin ; "Why draw you mee soe nere? Itt was never the use in our countrye Ones shrift another shold heere." •55. But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe, And losed John hand and ffootq, 220 And gave him Sir Guyes bow in his hand, And bade it be his boote.^ 56. But John tooke Guyes bow in his hand (His arrowes were rawstye"* by the roote) ; The sherriffe saw Litle John draw a bow And flettle him to shoote. 57- Towards his house in Nottingham He ffled full fast away. And soe did all his companye, Not one behind did stay. 230 58. But he cold neither soe fast goe, Nor away soe fast runn, But Litle John, with an arrow broade, Did cleave his heart in twinn. THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN 1. Yt felle abowght the Lamasse tyde. Whan husbondes wynnes ^ ther haye, The dowghtye Dowglasse bowynd ^ hym to ryde. In Ynglond to take a praye. 2. The yerUe of Fyffe, wythowghten stryffe, He bowynd hym over Sulway ; The grete wolde ever to-gether ryde ; That raysse ' they may rewe for aye. 3. Over Hoppertope hyU they cam in, And so down by Rodcl>'ffe crage ; 10 Upon Grene Lynton they lyghted dowyn, Styrande * many a stage. 4. And boldely brente ® Northomberlond, And harj^ed many a towyn ; ^ hastened ^ quickly ^ help * clotted ^ dry ^ got ready ^ raid ^ arousing ^ burned They dyd owr Ynglyssh men grete wrange, To batteU that were not bowyn. 5. Than spake a berne ^ upon the bent,- Of comforte that was not colde, And sayd, "We have brente Northomber- lond, We have aU welth in holde. 20 6. "Now we have haryed aU Bamborowe schyre. All the welth in the world have wee; I rede we ryde to Newe Castell, So styU and stalworthlye." 7. Upon the morowe,^ when it was day, The standerds ^chone fuUe bryght ; To the Newe Castell they toke the waye, And thether they cam fulle ryght. 8. Syr Henry Perssy laye at the New Castell, I tell yow wythowtten drede ; * 30 He had byn a march-man all hys dayes. And kepte Barwyke upon Twede. 9. To the Newe CasteU when they cam, The Skottes they cryde on hyght : "Syr Hary Perssy, and thow byste within, Com to the fylde, and fyght. 10. "For we have brente Northomberlonde, Thy erytage good and ryght. And syne ' my logeyng '^ I have take, 39 Wyth my brande dubbyd many a knyght." 11. Syr Harry Perssy cam to the waUes, The Skottyssch oste for to se. And sayd, "And thow hast brente North- omberlond, Full sore it rewyth me. 12. "Yf thou hast haryed aU Bamborowe schyre, Thow hast done me grete envye ; ^ For the trespasse thow hast me done. The tone * of us schaU dye." 13. "Where schall I byde the?" sayd the Dowglas, "Or where wylte thow com to me ? " 50 "At Otterborne, in the hygh way, Ther mast thow well logeed be. ^ man - field ^ morrow * doubt * since * lodging '' hostility * the one 78 BALLADS 14. "The roo ^ full rekeles ther sche rinnes, To make the game and glee ; The fawken and the fesamit both, Amonge the holtes on hye. 15. "Ther mast thow have thy welth at wyll, Well looged ther mast be ; Yt schall not be long or I com the tyll," Sayd Syr Harry Perssye. 60 16. "Ther schall I byde the," sayd the Dowglas, "By the fayth of my bodye." "Thether schall I com," sayd Syr Harry Perssy "My trowth I plyght to the." * 17. A pype of wyne he gave them over the walles, For soth as I yow saye ; Ther he mayd the Dowglasse drynke, And all hys ost that daye. 18. The Dowglas turnyd hym homewarde agayne. For soth withowghten naye ; 70 He toke his logeyng at Oterborne, Upon a Wedynsday, 19. And ther he pyght - hys standerd dowyn, Hys gettyng more and lesse,^ And syne he warned hys men to goo To chose ther geldynges grease.^ 20. A Skottysshe knyght hoved ^ upon the bent,*^ A wache ^ I dare well saye ; So was he ware on the noble Perssy In the dawnyng of the daye. 80 21. He prycked to hys pavyleon dore, As faste as he myght ronne ; "Awaken, Dowglas," cryed the knyght, "For Hys love that syttes in trone. 22. "Awaken, Dowglas," cryed the knyght, " For thow mastc waken wyth wynne ; ^ Yender have I spyed the prowde Perssye, And seven stondardes wyth hym." 23. " Nay by my trowth," the Dowglas sayed, "It ys but a fayned taylle ; 90 ' roe ^ fixed ^ all he had got ^ grass ^ tarried * field ^ sentinel ^ joy He durst not loke on my brede ^ banner For all Ynglonde so haylle. 24. "Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe Castell, That stondes so fayre on Tyne? For all the men the Perssy had. He coude not garre ^ me ones to dyne." 25. He stepped owt at his pavelyon dore, To loke and it were lesse : ^ "Araye yow, lordynges, one and all, For here bygynnes no peysse.* 100" 20. "The yerle of Mentaye, thow arte my eme,^ The fowarde ^ I gyve to the : The yerlle of Huntlay, cawte and kene,^ He schall be wyth the. 27. "The lorde of Bowghan, in armure bryght. On the other hand he schall be ; Lord Jhonstoune and Lorde Maxwell, They to schall be with me. 28. "Swynton, fayre fylde upon your pryde ! To batell make yow bowen no Syr Davy Skotte, Syr Water Stewarde, Syr Jhon of Agurstone ! " 29. The Perssy cam byfore hys oste, Wych was ever a gentyll knyght ; Upon the Dowglas lowde can * he crye, "I wyll holde that I have hyght.^ 30. "For thou haste brenteNorthomberlonde, And done me grete envye ; For thys trespasse thou hast me done , The tone ^^ of us schall dye." 120 31. The Dowglas answerde hym agayne, Wyth grett wurdes upon hye, And sayd, "I have twenty agaynst thy one, Byholde, and thou maste see." 32. Wyth that the Perssy was grevyd sore. For soth as I yow saye ; He lyghted dowyn upon his foote. And schoote " hys horsse clene awaye. ^ broad ^ make ^ if it might be false "* peace '' uncle ** van ' wary and bold ^ did ^ promised ^^ one ^^ sent away THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN 79 S3. Every man sawe that he dyd soo, That ryail ^ was ever in rowght ; ^ 130 Every man schoote hys horsse hym froo, And lyght hym rowynde abowght. 34. Thus Syr Hary Perssye toke the fylde, For soth as I yow saye ; Jhesu Cryste in hevyn on hyght Dyd helpe hym well that daye. 35. But nyne thowzand, ther was no moo, The cronykle wyll not layne ; ^ Forty thowsande of Skottes and fowre That day fowght them agayne. 140 36. But when the batell byganne to jo>Tie, In hast ther cam a knyght ; The letters fayre furth hath he tayne, And thus he sayd full ryght : 37. "My lorde your father he gretes yow well, Wyth many a noble knyght ; He desyres yow to byde That he may see thys fyght. 38. "The Baron of Grastoke ys com out of the west, With h>TTi a noble companye; 150 All they loge at your fathers thys nyght, And the batell fayne wolde they see." 39. " For Jhesus love," sayd Syr Harj^e Perssy , "That dyed for yow and me, Wende to my lorde my father agayne. And saye thow sawe me not with yee."* 40. " ]\Iy trowth ys plyght to yonne Skottysh knyght. It nedes me not to layne, That I schulde byde hym upon thys bent, And I have hys trowth agayne. 160 41 . "And if that I weynde of ^ thys growende, For soth, onfowghten awaye, He wolde me call but a kowarde knyght In hys londe another daye. 42. "Yet had I lever to be rynde and rente, ^ By iVIary, that mykkel maye,' Then ever my m.anhood schulde be re- provyd Wyth a Skotte another daye. ^ royal ^ company ^ conceal "* eye ^ count from '^ flayed and drawn " powerful maid 43. "Wherefore schote, archars, for my sake, And let scharpe arowes flee ; 170 Mynstrells, playe up for your waryson,^ And well quyt it schall bee. 44. "Every man thynke on hys trewe-love, And marke hym to the Trenite ; For to God I make myne avowe Thys day v/yll I not flee." 45. The blodye harte in the Dowglas armes, Hys standerde stood on hye, That every man myght full well knowe ; By syde stode starriis thre. 180 46. The whyte lyon on the Ynglyssh perte,^ For soth as I yow sayne, The lucettes ^ and the cressawntes both ; The Skottes faught them agayne. 47- 49. 50- Upon Sent Androwe lowde can they crye, And thrysse they schowte on hyght,* And syne merked them one owr Yng- lysshe men. As I have tolde yow ryght. Sent George the bryght, owr Ladyes knyght, To name they were full faj-ne; 190 Owr Ynglyssh men they cryde on hyght, And thrysse they schowtte agayne. Wyth that scharpe arowes bygan to flee, I tell yow in serta>aie; Men of armes byganne to joyne, Many a dowghty man was ther slayne. The Perssy and the Dowglas mette. That ether of other was fayne ; They swapped ^ together whyU ^ they swette, Wyth swordes of fyne coUayne : ' that 51. TyU the bloode from ther bassonnettes * ranne, As the roke ' doth in the rayne ; "Yelde the to me," sayd the Dowglas, "Or elles thow schalt be slayne. 52. "For I see by thy bryght bassonet, Thow arte sum man of myght ; And so I do by thy burnysshed brande ; Thow arte an yerle, or elles a knyght." ^reward ^ part ^ pike (fish) .•* aloud ^ smote ® till ^ Cologne steel ^ basinets ^ smoke 8o BALLADS 53. "By my good fay the," sayd the noble Perssye, "Now haste thou rede ^ full ryght ; 210 Yet wyll I never yelde me to the, Whyll I may stonde and fyght." 54. They swapped together whyll that they swette, Wyth swordes scharpe and long ; Ych on other so faste they beetle, Tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn. 55. The Perssy was a man of strenghth, I tell yow in thys stounde ; ^ He smote the Dowglas at the swordes length That he fell to the growynde. 220 56. The sworde was scharpe, and sore can byte, I tell yow in sertayne ; To the harte he cowde ^ hym smyte. Thus was the Dowglas slayne. 57. The stonderdes stode sty 11 on eke a ^ syde, Wyth many a grevous grone ; Ther they fowght the day, and all the nyght, And many a dowghty man was slayne. 58. Ther v\'as no freke •'' that ther wolde flye, But styffely in stowre ^ can stond, 230 Ychone hewyng on other whyll they myght drye,'' Wyth many a bayllefuU bronde. 59. Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde. For soth and sertenly, Syr James a Dowglas ther was slayne, That day that he cowde ^ dye. 60. The yerlle of Mentaye he was slayne, Grysely * groned upon the growynd ; Syr Davy Skotte, Syr Water Stewarde, Syr Jhon of Agurstoune. 240 61. Syr Charlies Morrey in that place, •That never a fote wold flee ; Syr Hewe Maxwell, a lord he was, Wyth the Dowglas dyd he dye. 62. Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde. For soth as I yow saye, ^ discerned - time ^ did ^ every '' man ® battle ^ endure * fearfully Of fowre and forty thowsande Scottes Went but eyghtene awaye. 63. Ther was slayne upon the Ynglysshe syde, For soth and sertenlye, 250 A gentell knyght, Syr Jhon Fechewe, Yt was the more pety. 64. Syr James Hardbotell ther was slayne. For hym ther hartes were sore ; The gentyll Lovell ther was slayne, That the Perssys standerd bore. 65. Ther was slayne upon the Ynglyssh perte, For soth as I yow saye. Of nyne thowsand Ynglyssh men Fyve hondert cam awaye. 260 66. The other were slayne in the fylde ; Cryste kepe ther sowUes from wo ! Seyng ^ ther was so fewe fryndes Agaynst so many a foo. 67. Then on the morne they maj'de them beerys Of byrch and haysell graye ; Many a wydowe, wyth wepyng teyres, Ther makes they fette ^ awaye. 68. Thys fraye bygan at Otterborne, Bytwene the nyght and the day; Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyffe. And the Perssy was lede awaye. 270 69. Then was ther a Scottysh prisoner tayne, Syr Hewe IMongomery was hys name ; For soth as I yow saye, He borowed ^ the Perssy home agayne. 70. Now let us all for the Perssy praye To Jhesu most of myght, To bryng hys so wile to the blysse of heven. For he was a gentyll knyght. 280 SIR PATRICK SPENS The king sits in Dumferling toune, Drinking the blude-reid wine : "O whar will I get guid sailor, To sail this schip of mine?" Up and spak an eldern knicht, Sat at the kings richt kne: ^ seeing '^ fetched ^ ransomed CAPTAIN CAR, OR, EDOM GORDON 8i "Sir Patrick Spenfe is the best sailor, That saUs upon the se." The king has written a braid letter, And signd it wi his hand, lo And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand. The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud lauch ^ lauched he ; The next line that Sir Patrick red, The teir blinded his ee. "O wha is this has don this deid. This ill deid don to me, To send me out this time o' the yeir, To sail upon the se ! 20 "Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne : " "O say na sae, my master deir. For I feir a deadlie storme. ''Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone, Wi the auld moone in hir arme, And I feir, I feir, my deir master. That we will cum to harme." O our Scots nobles wer richt laith - To weet their cork-heild schoone ; 30 Bot lang owre ^ a' the play wer playd, Thair hats they swam aboone.^ O lang, lang may their ladies sit, Wi thair fans into their hand. Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence Cum saiUng to the land. O lang, lang may the ladies stand, Wi thair gold kems '" in their hair, Waiting for thair ain deir lords. For they'll se thame na mair. . 40 Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, It's fiftie fadom deip. And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, Wi the Scots lords at his feit. CAPTAIN CAR, OR, EDOM O GORDON I. It befell at INIartynmas, When wether waxed colde, Captaine Care said to his men, "We must go take a holde." ® * laugh ^ loth ' ere * above ^ combs ® castle Syck,^ sike,^ and to-towe ^ sike, And sike and like to die ; The sikest night e that ever I abode, God Lord have mercy on me ! 2. "Haille, master, and wether^ you will. And wether^ ye like it best." 10 "To the castle of Crecrynbroghe, And there we will take our reste." 3. " I knowe wher is a gay castle, Is builded of lyme and stone ; Within their is a gay ladie. Her lord is riden and gone." 4. The ladie she lend on her castle-walle, She loked upp and downe ; There was she ware of an host of men, Come riding to the towne. 20 5. "Se yow, my meri men all. And se yow what I see? Yonder I see an host of men , I muse who they shold bee." 6. She thought he had ben her wed lord. As he comd riding home ; Then was it traitur Captaine Care The lord of Ester-towne. 7. They wer no soner at supper sett. Then after said the grace, 30 Or Captaine Care and all his men Wer lighte aboute the place. 8. "Gyve over thi howsse, thou lady gay. And I will make the a bande ; To-nighte thou shall ly within ni}- armes, To-morrowe thou shall ere ■* my lande." 9. Then bespacke the eldest sonne. That was both whitt and redde : "O mother dere, geve over your howsse. Or elles we shalbe deade." 40 10. "I wiU not geve over my hous," she saithe, "Not for feare of my lyflfe ; It shalbe talked throughout the land, The slaughter of a wjnffe. 11. "Fetch me my pestilett,* And charge me my gonne, ^ sick ^ too- too ^ whither * possess ^ pistol 82 BALLADS That I may shott at this bloddy butcher, The lord of Easter-towne." 17- 19. Styfly upon her wall she stode, And lett the pellettes flee ; But then she myst the blody bucher, And she slew other three. 50 13. "I will not geve over my hous," she saithe, "Netheir for lord nor lowne ; Nor yet for traitour Captaine Care, The lord of Easter-towne. 14. "I desire of Captine Care, And all his bloddye band. That he would save my eldest sonne, The eare ^ of all my lande." 60 15. "Lap him in a shete," he sayth, "And let him downe to me, And I shall take him in my armes, His waran shall I be." 16. The captayne sayd unto him selfe ; Wyth sped, before the rest, He cut his tonge out of his head, His hart out of his brest. He lapt them in a handkerchef, And knet it of knotes three, 70 And cast them over the castell-waU, At that gay ladye. "Eye upon the, Captayne Care, And all thy bloddy band ! For thou hast slayne my eldest sonne. The ayre of all my land." Then bespake the yongest sonne, That sat on the nurses knee, Sayth, "Mother gay, geve over house ; For the smoake it smoothers me." Out then spake the Lady Margaret, As she stood on the stair ; The fire was at her goud ^ garters, The lowe " was at her hair. 21. "I wold geve my gold," she saith, "And so 1 woldc my £fec, your 80 23- 24. 25- 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31- For a blaste of the westryn wind, To dryve the smoke from thee. "Fy upon the, John Hamleton, That ever I paid the hyre ! 90 For thou hast broken my castle-waU, And kj^ndled in the ifyre." The lady gate to her close parler,^ The fire fell aboute her head ; She toke up her children two, Seth, "Babes, we are aU dead." Then bespake the hye steward. That is of hye degree ; Saith, "Ladie gay, you are in close. Wether ye fighie or flee." 100 Lord Hamleton dremd in his dream, In Carvall where he laye. His haUe were all of fyre. His ladie slayne or daye.^ "Busk and bowne, my mery men all, Even and go ye with me ; For I dremd that my haU was on fyre, My lady slayne or day." He buskt him and bownd hym. And like a worthi knighte ; no And when he saw his hall burning. His harte was no dele lighte. He sett a trumpett till his mouth, He blew as it plesd his grace ; Twenty score of Hamlentons Was light aboute the place. "Had I knowne as much yesternighte As I do to-daye, Captain Care and all his men Should not have gone so quite. 120 "Eye upon the, Captaine Care, And all thy blody bande ! Thou haste slayne my lady gay, More wurth then all thy lande. "If thou had ought eny ill will," he saith, "Thou shoulde have taken my lyffe. And have saved my children thre, All and my lovesome wyffe." heir ' gold flame * parlor ^ ere day HIND HORN 83 LORD RANDAL 1. "O where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son? O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?" "I hae been to the wild wood; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down." 2. "Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?" "I din'd wi m}^ true-love; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down." 3. "What gat ye to your dinner. Lord Randal, my son ? What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?" . 10 "I gat eels boiled in broo ; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi hiuiting, and fain wald lie down." 4. "What became of your bloodhounds. Lord Randal, my son? What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?" "O they sweUd and they died; mother, make my bed soon. For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down." 5. "01 fear ye are poison'd, Lord Randal, my son ! O I fear ye are poisond, my handsome young man !" "Oyes ! I am poisond; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart and I fain wald lie down." 20 HIND HORN I. In Scotland there was a babie bom, Lill lal, etc. And his name it was called young Hind Horn. With a fal lal, etc. 2.jiHe sent a letter to our king That he was in love with his daughter Jean. 3. The king an angry man was he ; He sent young Hind Horn to the sea. 4. Lie's gien to her a silver wand, With seven Uving lavrocks ^ sitting thereon. 10 5. She's gien to him a diamond ring. With seven bright diamonds set therein. 6. "Wlien this ring grows pale and wan. You may know by it my love is gane." 7. One day as he looked his ring upon, He saw the diamonds pale and wan. 8. He left the sea and came to land, And the first that he met was an old beg- gar man. 9. "What news, what news?" said young Hind Horn ; "No news, no news," said the old beggar man. 20 10. "No news," said the beggar, "nonewsata' But there is a wedding in the king's ha. 11. "But there is a wedding in the king's ha. That has halden these forty days and twa." 12. "Will ye lend me your begging coat? And I'll lend you my scarlet cloak. 13. "Win you lend me your beggar's rung? ^ And I'll gie you my steed to ride upon. 14. "Will you lend me your wig o hair, To cover mine, because it is fair?" 30 15. The auld beggar man was bound for the mill, But young Hind Horn for the king's hall. 16. The auld beggar man was bound for to ride, But young Hind Horn was bound for the bride. 1 larks 2 stafE 84 SIR THOMAS MALORY 17. When he came to the king's gate, He sought a drink for Hind Horn's sake. 18. The bride came down with a glass of wine, When he drank out the glass, and dropt in the ring. 19. "O got ye this by sea or land? Or got ye it off a dead man's hand?" 40 20. "I got not it by sea, I got it by land. And I got it, madam, out of your own hand." 21. "O I'll cast off my gowns of brown, And beg wi you frae town to town. 22. "O I'll cast off my gowns of red, And I'll beg wi you to win my bread." 23. "Ye needna cast off your gowns of brown, For I'll make you lady o many a town. 24. "Ye needna cast off your gowns o red. It's only a sham, the begging o my bread." 50 ST. STEPHEN AND HEROD 1. Seynt Stevene was a clerk in Kyng Herowdes halle. And servyd him of bred and cloth, as every kyng befalle. 2. Stevyn out of kechone cam, wyth boris ' hed on honde ; He saw a sterre was fayr and brygt over Bedlem stonde. 3. He kyst ^ adoun the boris hed and went in to the haUe : "I forsak the, Kyng Herowdes, and thi werkes alle. 4. "I forsak the, Kyng Herowdes, and thi werkes alle ; Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle." 5. " What eylytHhe, Stevene? What is the befalle? Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk in Kyng Herowdes halle?" 10 boar's cast ' aileth 6. "Lakit me neyther mete nor drynk in Kyng Herowdes halle ; Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle." 7. "What eylyt the, Stevyn? Art thu wod,^ or thu gynnyst to brede ? - Lakkyt the eyther gold or fe,-^ or ony ryche wede?" * 8. "Lakyt me neyther gold ne fe, ne non ryche wede ; Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born xal helpyn us at our nede." 9. "That is al so soth,^ Stevyn, al so soth, iwys,^ As this capoun crowe xal that lyth here in myn dysh." 10. That word was not so sone seyd, that word in that halle, The capoun crew Cristus natus est I among the lordes alle. 20 11. "Rysyt ^ up, myn turmentowres,* be to ' and al be on. And ledyt Stevyn j)ut of this toun, and stony t hym wyth ston ! " 12. Tokyn he ^^ Stevene, and stonyd hym in the way. And therefore is his evyn on Crystes owyn day. SIR THOMAS MALORY (i4oo?-i47o) LE MORTE DARTHUR BOOK XXI. From CAPITULUM V "But I m_ay not stonde, myn hede werches" soo. A, Syr Launcelot," sayd kyng Arthur, "thys day have I sore myst the. Alas! that ever I was ayenst ^^ the, for now have I my dethe, wherof Syr Gauwayn me warned in my dreme." Than Syr Lucan took up the kyng the one parte, and Syr Bedwere the other parte, and in the lyftyng the kyng sowned,^^ and Syr ' crazy ^ be whimsical ' property * garment * true ^ indeed ^ rise * executioners ' by two ^° they ^^ aches ^^ against ^^ swooned LE MORTE DARTHUR 8S Lucan fyl in a sowne^ ^vyth the lyfte, that the parte of his guttes fyl oute of his bodye. And therwyth the noble knyghtes herte braste.^ And whan the kyng awake, he behelde Syr Lucan how he laye foomyng at the mowth, and parte of his guttes laye at his feet. "Alas!" sayd the kyng, "thys is to me a ful hevy syght to see thys noble duke so deye for my sake, for he wold have holpen me that had more nede of helpe than I. Alas ! he wold not complayne hym, hys herte was so sette to helpe me. Now Jhesu have mercy upon hys soule." Than Syr Bedwere wepte for the deth of his brother. "Leve thys mornyng and wepyng," sayd the kyng, "for al this wyl not avayUe me ; for wyte ^ thou wel, and * I myght lyve my self, the deth of Syr Lucan wolde greve me ever more, but my tyme hyeth ° fast," sayd the kyng. "Ther- fore," sayd Arthur unto Syr Bedwere, "take thou Excalybur, my good swerde, and goo with it to yonder water syde, and whan thou comest there, I charge the ® throwe my swerde in that water, and come age>'n and telle me what thou there seest." "My lord," sayd Bedwere, "your commaundement shal be doon, and lyghtly br^mge you worde ageyn." So Syr Bedwere departed, and by the waye he behelde that noble swerde, that the pomel and the hafte was al of precyous stones ; and thenne he sayd to hym self, " Yf I throwe this ryche swerde in the water, therof shal never come good, but harme and losse." And thenne Syr Bedwere hydde Excalybur under a tree. And so as sone as he myght he came ageyn unto the kyng, and sayd he had ben at the water, and had throwen the swerde in to the water. "What sawe thou there?" sayd the kyng. " Syr," he sayd, "I sawe no thynge but wawes ^ and wyndes." "That is un- trewly sayd of the," ^ sayd the kynge. " Therfore goo thou lyghtelye ^ ageyn, and do my commaundemente ; as thou arte to me leef ^ and dere, spare not but throwe it in." Than Syr Bedwere retorned ageyn, and took the swerde in hys hande, and than hym thought synne and sham.e to throwe awaye that nobyl swerde ; and so ef te ^'^ he hydde the swerde, and retorned ageyn and tolde to the kyng that he had ben at the water, and done his commaundemente. "What sawe thou there?" sayd the kyng. "Syr," he sayd, "I ^ swoon 2 burst ^ know •* if ^ hastens ^ thee ^ waves ^ quickly ^ beloved ^^ again AE saw no thynge but the waters wappe ^ and wawes wanne." - "A, traytour, untrewe," sayd kyng Arthur, "now hast thou betrayed me twyse. Who wold have wente ^ that thou that hast been to me so leef * and dere, and thou arte named a noble knyghte, and wold betraye me for the richesse of the swerde? But now goo ageyn lyghtly, for thy longe taryeng putteth me in grete jeopardye of my lyf , for I have taken colde ; and but-yf ^ thou do now as I byd the, yf ever I may see the I shal slee ^ the " myn o\\'ne handes, for thou woldest for my ryche swerde see me dede." * Thenne Syr Bedwere departed, and wente to the swerde, and lyghtly took hit up, and wente to the water syde, and there he bounde the gyrdyl aboute the hyltes, and thenne he threwe the swerde as farre in to the water as he myght. And there cam an arme and an hande above the water and mette it, and caught it, and so shoke it thryse and braun- dysshed ; and than vanysshed awaye the hande wyth the swerde in the water. So S3'r Bed- were came age>Ti to the kyng and tolde hym what he sawe. "Alas!" sayd the kyng, "helpe me hens,' for I drede ^° me I have taryed over longe." Than Syr Bedwere toke the kyng upon his backe, and so wente wyth hym to that water syde, and whan they were at the water syde, evyn fast " by the banke hoved ^- a lytyl barge wyth many fayr ladyes in hit, and emonge hem al was a queue, and al they had blacke hoodes, and al they wepte and shryked ^^ whan they sawe kyng Arthur. "Now put me in to the barge," sayd the kyng; and so he dyd softelye. And there receyved hym thre queues wyth grete mornyng, and soo they sette hem doun, and in one of their lappes kyng Arthur layed hys heed, and than that queue sayd, "A, dere broder, why have ye taryed so longe from me ? Alas ! this wounde on your heed hath caught overmoche colde." And soo than they rowed from the londe, and Syr Bedwere behelde all tho ^' ladyes goo from hym.^* Than Syr Bedwere cryed, "A, my lord Arthur, what shal become of me, now ye goo from me and leve me here allone emonge myn enemyes?" "Comfort thy self," sayd the kyng, "and doo as wel as thou mayst, for in me is no truste for to truste in. For I wyl ^ lap, beat - grow dark ^ thought ^ beloved ° unless ^ slay '' thee * dead ^ hence ^^ fear ^^ close ^^ hovered, floated ^^ shrieked " those ^^ i.e. Bedwere 86 STEPHEN HAWES in to the vale of AvyLyon, to hele me of my grevous wounde. And yf thou here never more of me, praye for my soule." But ever the queues and ladyes wepte and shryched/ that hit was pyte ^ to here. And assone as Syr Bedwere had loste the syght of the baarge, he wepte and waylled, and so took the foreste ; ^ and so he wente al that nyght, and in the mornyng he was ware ' betwyxte two holtes hore ^ of a chapel and an ermytage.® WILLIAM CAXTON (i422?-i49i) PREFACE TO THE BOOKE OF ENEYDOS And whan I had advysed me in this sayd boke, I delybered '' and concluded to trans- late it in to Englysshe, and forthwyth toke a penne and ynke and wrote a leef or tweyne, whyche I oversawe agayn to corecte it ; and whan I sawe the fayr and straunge termes therein, I doubted * that it sholde not please some gentylmen whiche late blamed me, sayeng that in my translacyons I had over curyous ^ termes, which coude not be under- stande ^°of corny n peple, and desired me to use olde and homely termes in my translacyons. And fayn wolde I satysfye every man ; and, so to doo, toke an olde boke and redde therin ; and certaynly the Englysshe was so rude and brood ^^ that I coude not wele understande it ; and also my lorde abbot of Westmynster dec! so shewe to me late certayn evydences^- wryton in olde Englysshe for to reduce it in to our Englysshe now used, and certaynly it was wreton in suche wyse that it was more lyke to Dutche than Englysshe ; I coude not reduce ne brynge it to be understonden. And certaynly our langage now used varyeth ferre ^^ from that whiche was used and spoken whan I was borne. For we Englysshe men ben borne under the domynacyon of the monc, whiche is never stedfaste but ever wavcrynge, wexynge one season and waneth and dyscreaseth '* another season. And that comyn ^^ Englysshe that is spoken in one shyre varyeth from a-nother, in so moche that in my dayes happened that certayn marchauntes were in a ship in Tamyse for to ^ shrieked ^ pity ^ forest ^ he perceived ^ hoary forests * hermitage "^ deliberated * feared ^ curi- ous, ornate ^" understood ^^ broad ^^ legal docu- ments ^* far ^^ decreases ^^ common have sayled. over the see into Zelande, and for lacke of wynde, thei taryed atte ^ Forlond, and wente to lande for to refreshe them. And one of theym named Sheffeide, a mercer, cam in to an hows and axed for mete and specyaly he axyed after eggys, and the goode w^'f answerde that she could speke no Frenshe. And the marchaunt was angry, for he also coude speke no Frenshe, but wolde have hadde egges ; and she understode hym not. And themie at laste a-nother sayd that he wolde have eyren.- Then the good wyf sayd that she understod hym wel. Loo," what sholde a man in thyse daj'^es now wryte, egges, or eyren ? Certaynly it is hard to playse every man, by-cause of dyversite and chaunge of langage ; for in these dayes every man that is in ony reputacyon in his countre wyll utter his commynycacyon and maters in suche maners and termes that fewe men shall under- stonde theym. And som honest and grete clerkes have ben wyth me and desired me to wryte the moste curyous ^ termes that I coude fynde. And thus, betwene playn, rude, and curyous, I stande abasshed. But in my judgemente the comjai termes that be dayly used ben lyghter to be understonde than the olde and auncyent Englysshe. And, foras-moche as this present booke is not for a rude uplondyssh ^ man to iaboure therein ne rede it, but onely for a clerke and a noble gentylman that feieth and understondeth in faytes ^ of armes, in love, and in noble chyv- alrye, therfor in a meane bytwene bothe I have reduced and translated this sayd booke in our Englysshe, not over rude ne curyous, but in suche termes as shaU be understanden, by Goddys grace, accordynge to my copye. STEPHEN HAWES (d. 1525) THE PASTIME OF PLEASURE OF THE GREAT M.\RIAGE BETWENE GRAUNDE AMOUR AND LABELL PUCELL From Capit. XXXIX Then Perceveraunce in all goodly haste Unto the stewarde called Liberalitie Gave warnyng for to make ready fast Agaynst this tyme of great solemnitie ^ at the ^ eggs ^ lo ^ ornate, artificial ^ country ^ deeds JOHN SKELTON 87 That on the morowe halowed shoulde be. She warned the cooke called Temperauuce And after that the ewres/ Observaunce, With Pleasaunce, the panter,^ and dame Curtesy, The gentle butler, with the ladyes all. Eche in her office was prepared shortly 10 Agaynst this feast so muche triumphall ; And La BeU Pucell then in special! Was up b}^ time in the morowe graye ; Right so was I when I sawe the daye. And right anone La Bell Pucell me sent, Agaynst my weddyng, of the saten fyne, White as the mylke, a goodly garment Braudred ^ with pearle that clearely dyd shine. And so, the mariage for to determine, Venus me brought to a royal chapell, 20 Whiche of fine golde was wrought everydell. And after that the gay and glorious La BeU Pucell to the chapell w^as leade In a white vesture fayre and precious. With a golden chaplet on her yelowe heade ; And Lex Ecclesie did me to her wedde. After whiche weddyng then was a great feast ; Nothing we lacked, but had of the best. What ^ shoulde tary by longe continuance Of the f est ? for of my jo}' and pleasure 30 Wisdome can judge, without variaunce, That nougt I lacked, as ye may be sure, Paiyng the swete due dette of nature. Thus with my lady, that was fayre and cleare. In jo}- I lived fuU ryght, many a yere. O lusty youth and 3'ong tender hart. The true companion of my lady bryght ! God let us never from other astart,* But all in joye to live bothe daye and nyght. Thus after sorowe joye arived aryght ; 40 After my payne I had sport and playe ; Full litle thought I that it shoulde decaye, Tyll that Dame Nature Naturyng ^ had made All thinges to growe unto their fortitude ; '' ^ eweress, servant in charge of ewers, napkins, etc. ^ servant in charge of pantry ' broidered ^ why ^ start away ^ Nalura naturans, Nature as a creative being ' strength And Nature Naturyng waxt retrograde, By strength my youthe so far to exclude, As was ever her olde consuetude First to augment and then to abate, — This is the custome of her hye estate. 49 •JOHN SKELTON (i46o?-i529) From A DIRGE FOR PHYLLIP SPAROWE Do mi nus,^ Helpe nowe, swete Jesus ! Levavi oculos meos in monies : - Wolde God I had Zenophontes, Or Socrates the wyse. To shew me their devyse, 100 Moderatly to take This sorrow that I make For Phyllip Sparowes sake f So fervently I shake, I fele my body quake ; So urgently I am brought Into carefuU thought. Like Andromach, Hectors wjrfe, Was wery of her lyfe, Whan she had lost her joye, no Noble Hector of Troye; In lyke manner also Encreaseth my dediy wo, For my sparowe is go. It was so prety a fole,^ It wold syt on a stole, And lerned after my scole For to kepe his cut,* With, "Phyllyp, kepe your cut !" It had a velvet cap, 120 And wold syt upon my lap. And seke after small wormes. And somtyme white-bred crommes ; And many tymes and ofte ' Betwene my brestes softe It wolde lye and rest ; It w-as prop re and prest.^ Somtyme he wolde gaspe .Whan he sawe a waspe; A fly or a gnat, 130 He wolde flye at that ; And prytely he wold pant W'han he saw an ant ; ^ Lord ^ I have lifted up mine e^'es to the mountains. ^ fool * to act shy, to keep his dis- tance ^ ready THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE Lord, how he wolde pry After the butterfly ! Lorde, how he wolde hop After the gressop ! ^ And whan I sayd, "Phyp ! Phyp !" Than he wold lepe and skyp, And take me by the lyp. 140 Alas, it wyll me slo,^ That Phillyp is gone me fro ! From COLYN CLOUTE My name is Colyn Cloute. I purpose to shake oute All my connyng bagge, 50 Lyke a clerkely hagge ; For though my ryme be ragged, Tattered and jagged. Rudely rayne beaten, Rusty and moughte-eaten,' If )'e take well therwith, It hath in it some pyth. For, as farre as I can se. It is wronge with eche degre ; For the temporalte 60 Accuseth the spiritualte ; The spirituall agayne Dothe grudge and complayne Upon the temporall men : Thus eche of other blother ■* The tone ^ agayng the tother. Alas, they make me shoder ! For in hoder moder '^ The Churche is put in fauteJ The prelates ben so haut,^ 70 They say, and loke so hy, As though they wolde fly Above the sterry skye. Laye-men say indede How they take no hede Theyr sely shepe to fede, But plucke away and pull The fleces of theyr wuU ; Unethes " they leve a locke Of wull amonges theyr flocke. 80 And as for theyr connynge, A glommynge and a mummynge, And make therof a jape ; They gaspe and they gape, All to have promocyon ; There is theyr hole devocyon, With money, if it wyll hap, ^ grasshopper 2 gi^y ^ motheaten * complain ^ the one ® in secret "^ fault * haughty ' scarcely To catche the forked cap. Forsothe they are to lewd To say so, all beshrewd ! 90 THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE (c. 1500) ( Unknown A uthor) "Be it right or wrong, these men among ^on women do complaine, Affermyng this, how that it is a labour spent in vaine To love them wele, for never a dele they love a man aga3me ; For lete a man do what he can ther favor to attayne. Yet yf a newe to them pursue, ther furst trew lover than ' Laboureth for nought, and from her thought he is a bannisshed man." "I say not nay but that all day it is both writ and sayde That woman's fayth is, as who saythe, all utterly decayed ; But nevertheless right good witnes in this case might be layde That they love trewe and contynew — recorde the Nutbrowne Maide, 10 Whiche from her love, whan, her to prove, he cam to make his mone, Wolde not departe, for in her herte she lovyd but hym aUone." "Than betwene us lete us discusse what was all the maner Betwene them too,^ we w}d also teUe aU the peyne infere ■* That she was in. Now I begynne, soo that ye me answere. Wherfore alle ye that present be, I pray you geve an eare. I am a knyght, I cum be nyght, as secret as I can, Sayng, 'Alas ! thus stondyth the case: I am a bannisshed man.'" "And I your wylle for to fulfylle, in this wyl not refuse. Trusting to shewe in wordis fewe that men have an ille use,^ 20 ^ continually ^ then ^ two ** together ^ habit, custom THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE 89 To ther owne shame wymen to blame, and causeles them accuse. Therfore to you I answere now, alle wymen to excuse : ']\Iyn owne hert dere, with you what chiere? I pre}- you telle anoon ; For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you allon.'" "It stondeth so, a dede is do wherefore moche harme shal growe. My desteny is for to dey a shamful dethe, 1 trowe, Or ellis to flee ; the ton ^ must bee, none other wey I knowe But to withdrawe as an outlaw and take me to my bowe. Wherfore adew, my owne hert trewe, none other red - 1 can ; ^ For I muste to the grene wode goo, alone, a bannysshed man." 30 "O Lorde, what is this worldis blisse, that chaungeth as the mone? My somers day in lusty j\Iay is derked before the none. I here you saye 'farwel;' nay, nay, we de- parte not soo sone. Wh};- say ye so ? wheder wyl ye goo ? alas ! what have ye done ? Alle my welfare to sorow and care shulde chaunge if ye were gon ; For in my mynde of all mank3mde I love but you alone. " "I can beleve it shal you greve, and somwhat you distrayne ; But aftyrwarde your paynes harde within a day or tweyne Shal sone aslake, and ye shal take confort to you agayne. Why shuld ye nought ? for to take thought, your labur were in veyne. 40 And thus I do, and pray you, loo ! as hertely as I can ; For I muste too the grene wode goo, alone, a bannysshed man." "Now syth that ye have shewed to me the secret of your mynde, I shalbe playne to you agayne, lyke as ye shal me fynde ; ' plan know Syth it is so that ye wyll goo, I wol not leve ^ behynde ; Shal ne'er be sayd the Nutbrowne Mayd was to her love unkind. Make you redy, for soo am I, all though it were anoon ; - For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone." "Yet I you -rede to take good hede, what men wyl thinke and sey ; Of yonge and olde it shalbe tolde that ye be gone away, 50 Your wanton wylle for to fulfylle, in grene wood you to play, And that ye myght from your delyte noo lenger make delay. Rather than ye shuld thus for me be called an ylle woman, Yet wolde I to the grenewodde goo, alone, a bannysshed man." "Though it be songe of olde and yonge that I shuld be to blame, Theirs be the charge that speke so large in hurting of my name ; For I wyl prove that feythful love it is de- voyd of shame. In your distresse and hevynesse to parte wyth you the same ; And sure all thoo ^ that doo not so, trewe lovers ar they noon ; But in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone." 60 "I councel yow, remembre how it is noo maydens lawe Nothing to dought, but to renne out to wod with an outlawe ; For ye must there in your hands bere a bowe redy to drawe. And as a theef thus must ye lyve ever in drede and awe. By whiche to yow gret harme myght grov\- ; yet had I lever than •* That I had too the grenewod goo,"" alone, a banysshyd man." "I thinke not nay, but as ye saye, it is noo maydens lore ; But love may make me for your sake, as ye have said before, ^ remain ^ at once ^ those ■* I had rather then * gone 90 THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE To com on fote, to hunte and shote to get us mete and store ; For soo that I your cctoipany may have, I aske noo more ; 70 From whiche to parte, it makith myn herte as colde as ony ston ; For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone." "For an outlawe this is the lawe, that men hym take and binde, Wythout pjrtee hanged to bee, and waver wyth the wynde. Yf I had neede, as God forbede, what rescous ^ coude ye finde ? For sothe I trowe, you and your bowe shul drawe for fere beh3Tide ; And noo merveyle, for lytel avayle were in your councel than ; Wherfore I too the woode wyl goo, alone, a bannysshd man." "Ful wel knowe ye that wymen bee ful febyl for to fyght ; Noo womanhed is it indeede to bee bolde as a knight ; 80 Yet in suche fere yf that ye were, amonge enemys day and nyght, I wolde wythstonde, with bowe in hande, to greve them as I myght, And you to save, as wymen have from deth [ful] many one ; For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone." "Yet take good hede, for ever I drede that ye coude not sustein The thorney wayes, the depe valeis, the snowc, the frost, the reyn. The colde, the hcte ; for, drye or wete, we must lodge on the playn, And, us above, noon other rove ^ Ijut a brake, bussh, or twayne ; Whiche sone shulde greve you, I believe, and ye wolde gladly than That I had too the grencwode guo, alone, a banysshed man." 90 "Syth 1 have here ben partynere with you of joy and blysse, I muste also parte of your woo endure, as reason is ; Yet am I sure of 00 ^ plesure, and shortly it is this, That where ye bee, me semeth, perde, I coude not fare amysse. Wythout more speche, I you beseche that we were soon agone ; For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone." "Yef ye goo thedyr, ye must consider, whan ye have lust to dyne, Ther shal no mete be fore to gete, nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wine, Ne shetis clene to lye betwene, made of thred and twyne. Noon other house but levys and bowes, to kever your hed and myn. 100 Loo ! myn herte swete, this ylle dyet shuld make you pale and wan ; Wherfore I to the wood wyl goo, alone, a ban- y^shid man." "Amonge the wylde dere suche an archier as men say that ye bee Ne may not fayle of good vitayle, where is so grete plente ; And watir cleere of the ryvere shalbe ful swete to me, Wyth whiche in hele^ I shal right wele endure, as ye shal see ; And, er we goo, a bed or twoo I can provide anoon ; For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone." "Loo! yet before ye must doo.more, yf ye wyl goo with me, — As cutte your here up by your ere, your kirtel by the knee, no Wyth bowe in hande, for to withstonde your enmys, yf nede be, And this same nyght before da^dyght to wood- ward wyl I flee ; And if ye wyl all this fulfylle, doo it shortely as ye can ; Ellis wil I to the grenewode goo, alone, a banysshyd man." "I shal, as now, do more for you than longeth to womanhedc, To short my here, a bowe to bere to shote in time of nede. roof health THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE 91 my swete moder, before all other, for you Remembre you wele how that ye dele, for yf have I most drede ; ye, as ye sayde. But now adiew ! I must ensue, wher fortune Be so unkynde to leve behyndc your love, the doth me leede : Notbrowne Maide, All this make ye ; now lete us flee, the day Trust me truly that I shal dey sone after ye cummeth fast upon ; be gone ; For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone." 120 you alone." "Nay, nay, not soo, ye shal not goo ! and I shal tell }'ou why : Your appetyte is to be lyght of love, I wele aspie ; For right as ye have sayd to me, in lykewise hardely Ye wolde answere, whosoever it were, in way of company. It is sayd of olde, 'sone hote, sone colde,' and so is a woman ; Wherfore I too the woode wyl goo, alone, a banysshid man." "Yef ^ ye take hede, yet is noo nede, suche wordis to say bee ^ me. For oft ye preyd, and longe assayed, or I you lovid, perdee ! And though that I of auncestry a barons doughter bee, Yet have you proved how I you loved, a "Yef that ye went, ye shulde repent, for in the forest now I have purveid me of a maide, whom I love more than you, — Another fayrer than ever ye were, I dare it wel avowe ; And of you both, eche shuld be wrothe with other, as I trowe. It were myn ease to ly ve in pease ; so wyl I yf I can ; Wherfore I to the wode wyl goo, alone, a banysshid man." 150 "Though in the wood I undirstode ye had a paramour, All this may nought remeve my thought, but that I wyl be your ; And she shal fynde me softe and kynde, and curteis every our, Glad to fulfylle all that she wyl commaunde me, to my power : squyer of lowe degree, 130 For had ye, loo ! an hondred moo, yet wolde I And ever shal, what so befalle, to dey therfore be that one ; anoon ; For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone." For in my mynde of aU mankynde I love but you alone." "Myn owne dere love, I see the prove that ye ,, , , - ., , , , , , . be kynde and trewe ; A barons childe to be begyled, it were a qj ^^y^^ and wyfe, in all my lyf, the best curssed dede. that ever I knewe ! To be felaw with an outlawe, almyghty God g^ ^^^^ ^^^ glad, be no more sad, the case forbede is chaunged newe ; Yet bettyr were the power ^ squyer alone to p^^ j^ ^^.^^^ ^^^1^^ ^^^t for your trouth you forest yede, shuld have cause to rewe. 160 Than ye shal say, another day, that be "- my g^ ^^^^ dismayed, whatsoever I sayd, to you wyked dede \\hsLn I began Ye were betrayed ; wherfore, good maide, the j ^^^^^j ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ g^enewode goo, I am noo best red "that I can 'banysshyd man." Is that 1 too the grenewode goo, alone, a ban- ysshed man." "Theis tidingis be more glad to me than to be made a quene, "Whatsoever befalle, I never shal of this Yf I were sure they shuld endure; but it is thing you upbraid ; " often seen, But yf ye goo and leve me so, than have ye me When men wyl breke promyse, they speke the betraied. 140 wordis on the splene.^ 1 if 2 ijy 3 poor ■* should go * advice ^ capriciously 92 EARLY TUDOR LYRICS Ye shape some wyle, me to begyle, and stele fro me, I wene. Then were the case wurs than it was, and I more woo-begone ; For in my mynde of al mankynde I love but you alone." "Ye shal not nede further to drede, I wyl not disparage You, God defende, sith you descende of so grete a lynage. 170 Now understonde, to Westmerlande, whiche is my herytage, I wyle you bringe, and wyth a rynge, be wey of maryage, I wyl you take, and lady make, as shortly as I can ; Thus have ye wone an eries son, and not a bannysshyd man." Here may ye see that wymen be in love meke, kinde, and stable. Late never man repreve them than, or calle them variable. But rather prey God that we may to them be comfortable, — Whiche somtyme provyth suche as he loveth, yf they be charitable. For sith men wolde that wymen sholde be meke to them echeon, Moche more ought they to God obey, and serve but hym alone. 180 EARLY TUDOR LYRICS (c. 1500) I. RELIGIOUS LYRIC Who shall have my fayr lady ? Who but I? Who but 1 ? 'Who? Who shall have my fayr lady ? Who hath more ryght therto? This lady clere That I sheu ' here, Man soul yt ys, trust ye ; To Cryst most dere It hath no pere ; Therfor thys song syng we. Who shall, etc. "For love swetnes And joy endles I made my lady fre, Unto my lyknes I gave her quicnes ^ In Paradyse to be. Who shall, etc. 14 "O my swet store. My true love therfore Thy place y t ys above ; What man may do more Than only dy therfore. Lady, for thy love? Who shall," etc. 21 II. CHRISTMAS CAROLS Thys ender nyght ^ I saw a syght, A star as bright as day ; And ever among A maydyn song : By-by, baby, luUay ! Thys vyrgyn clere Wythowtyn pere Unto hur son gane say : "My son, my lorde, My fathere dere, Why lyest thow in hay ? 12 "Methynk by ryght Thow, kyng and knyght, Shulde lye in ryche aray, Yet none the lesse I wyll not cesse ^ To syng, By-by, luUay ! " 18 Thys babe full bayne ^ Aunsweryd agayne, And thus, me-thought, he sayd : "I am a kyng Above all thyng, Yn hay yff I be layde ; 24 "For ye shall see That kynges thre Shall cum on the twelfe day. For thys behest Geffe me thy brest And sing, By-by, lullay !" 30 show, declare ^ life '^ the other night ^ cease ^ readily EARLY TUDOR LYRICS 93 "My son, I say W'ythowtyn nay * Thow art my derling dere ; I shall the kepe Whyle thow dost slepe And make the - goode chere ; 36 "And aU thy wylle I wyU fulfill. Thou wotyst hyt well yn fay. Vet more then thys, — I wyll the kys And syng, By-by, lullay." 42 "i\Iy moder swete, When I have slepe, Then take me up on lofte ; Upon your kne Thatt ye sett me And dandell me full soft ; 48 "And in j^our arme Lap me ryght warme And kepe me nyght and day ; And yE I wepe And cannott slepe, S3aig, By, baby, lullay." 54 "My son, my lorde, My fader dere, Syth all ys at thy wyll, I pray the, son, Graunte me a bone, Yff hyt be ryght and skylle ; 60 "That chjdde or man. Whoever can Be mery on thys day, To blys them bryng And I shall sj'ng : By-by, baby, lullay ! " 66 "jNIy moder shene,' Of hevyn quene. Your askyng shall I spede, So that the myrth Dysplease me nott Yn wordes nor in dede. 72 "Syng what ye wyll, So ye fullfyll My ten commaundements ay. Yow for to please Let them nott sesse ■*■ To syng, Baby, lullay." 78 ^certainli' Uhee ^ beautiful ^ cease II "Quid petis, fily? " "Mater dulcissima, ba-ba! " "Quid petis, fili? " "Michi plausus oscula da-da 1 " So laughyng in lap layde, So pretyly, so pertly, So passyngly well a-payd,^ Ful softly and full soberly Unto her swet son she said : 5 "Quid petys," etc. The moder full manerly and mekly as a mayd, Lokyng on her lytill son so laughyng in lap layd. So pretyly, so partly, so passingly well apayd, So passyngly wel apayd, 10 Full softly and' full soberly Unto her son she saide. Unto her son saide : "Quid petis," etc. I mene this by Mary, our Makers moder of myght. Full lovely lookyng on our Lord, the lan- terne of lyght, 16 Thus saying to our Savior ; this saw I in my syght. in Make we mery, bothe more and lasse, For now ys the tyme of Crystymas ! Let no man cum into this hall, Grome, page, nor yet marshal. But that sum sport he brj^ng withall, For now ys the tyme of Crystymas. 4 Make we mery, etc. Yffe that he say he can not syng, Sum Oder sport then lett hym bryng. That yt may please at thys festyng, 8 For now ys the tyme of Crystymas. Make we mery, etc. Yffe he say he can nowght do. Then, for my love, aske hym no mo, 12 But to the stokke then lett hym go, For now ys the t}^me of Crystymas. Make we mery, etc. ^ satisfied 94 EARLY TUDOR LYRICS IV What cher ? Gud cher 1 gud chcr, gud cher 1 Be niery and glad this gud Newyere ! "Lyft up your hartes and be glad In Crystes byrth," the angell bad; Say eche to oder, yf any be sad, "What cher," etc. 4 Now the kyng of hevyn his byrth hath take, Joy and myrth we owght to make ; Say eche to oder for hys sake, "What cher," etc. 8 I tell you all with hart so fre, Ryght welcum ye be to me : Be glad and mery, for charite ! "What cher," etc. 12 The gudman of this place in fere ^ You to be mery he prayth you here, And with gud hert he doth to you say, "What cher," etc. 16 III. CONVIVIAL SONGS IV. LOVE SONGS I Lully, lulley, lulley, lulley ! The Jawcon hath born my make ^ away ! He bare hym up, he bare hym down, He bare hym into an orchard brown. Lully, lulley, etc. 3 Yn that orchard there was an halle That was hangid with purpill and pall. Lully, lulley, etc. 6 And in that hall there was a bade, Hit was hangid with gold so rede. Lully, lulley, etc. 9 And yn that bed there lythe a knyght, His wowndis bledyng day and nyghl. Lully, lulley, etc. 12 By that bedis side kneleth a may. And she wepeth both night and day. Lully, lulley, etc. 15 And by that beddis side there stondith a ston, Corpus Christi wretyn thereon. Lully, lulley, etc. 18 I Fyll the cuppe, Phylyppe, And let us drynke a drame ! 0ns or twys abowte the howse And leave where we began. I drynke to your swete harte Soo mutche as here is in, Desyeringe yow to foUowe me And doo as I begyn ! And yf you will not pledge. You shall bere the blame. I drynke to you with all my harte, Yf you will pledge me the same. II Make rome,^ syrs, and let us be mery, With "Huffa, galand!" Syngc,''' "Tyrll on the bery," And let the wyde worlde wynde ! Synge, " Fryska joly," With "Hey, trolyloly," For I se well it is but foly For to have a sad mynd ! ^ together ^ room II The lytyll, prety nyghtyngale. Among the levys grene, I wold I were with her all nyght ! But yet ye wote ^ not whome I mene ! The nyghtyngale sat one a brere Among the t horny s sherp and keyn And comfort me wyth mery cher. But yet ye wot not whome I mene ! She dyd aper ^ all on ^ hur kej^nde ^ A lady ryght wcl be-seyne, 10 Wyth wordys of loff tolde me hur mynde. But yet ye wot not whome I mene. Hyt dyd me goode upon hur to loke, Hur corse was closyd all in grene ; Away fro me hur hcrte she toke. But yete ye wot not whome I mene. "Lady !" I cryed, wyth rufull mone, "Have mynd of nie, that true hath bene I For I loved none but you alone." But yet ye wot not whome I mene. :!o ^ mate, sweetheart ^ know ^ appear ■* in ^ nature THE BEGINNING OF THE RENAISSANCE- SIR THOMAS MORE (1478-1535) A DIALOGUE OF SYR THOMAS MORE, KNYGHTE From THE THIRDE BOKE. CHAPITER THE 16. The messenger rehearseth some causes which he hath herd laid ^ bj' some of the clergie wherfore the Scripture should not be suffred in Englishe. And the author sheweth his mind, that it wer con- venient to have the E3-ble in Englishe. "Syr," quod your frende, "yet for al this, can I see no cause why the cleargie shoulde kepe the Byble out of ley mennes handes, that can- no more but theyr mother tong." 'T had went," ^ quod I, "that I had proved you playnely that they kepe it not from them. For I have shewed you that they kepe none from them, but such translacion as be either not yet approved for good, or such as be alredi reproved for naught, as Wikhffes was and Tindals. For as for other olde ones,^ that wer before Wickhffes daies, remain lawful, and be in some folkes handes had and read." "Ye saye well," quod he. "But yet as weo- men saye, 'somewhat it was alway that the cat winked whan her eye was oute.' Surely e so is it not for nought that the English Byble is in so few mens handes, whan so many woulde so fayne have it." "That is very trouth," quod I; "for I thinke that though the favourers of a secte of heretikes be so fer- vent in the setting furth of their secte, that they let ^ not to lay their money together and make a purse among them, for the printyng of an _ evili made, or evil translated booke : which though it happe to be forboden ^ and burned, yet some be sold ere they be spyed, * alleged ^ know ^ weened, thought ^ This word is the subject of remain, as well as a part of the phrase in which it stands; the construction is curious but common. ^ hesitate ® forbidden and eche of them lese ^ but theyr part : yet I thinke ther will no printer lightly ^ be so hote ^ to put anye Byble in prjmte at hys owti charge, whereof the losse shoulde lye hole in his owne necke, and than ^ hang upon a dout- ful tryal, whether the first copy of hys trans- lacion was made before Wicklitfes dayes or since. For if it were made synce, it must be approved before the prynting. "And surelye howe it hathe happed that in aU this whyle God hath eyther not suffered, or not provided that any good verteous man hath hadde the mynde in faithful wise to translate it, and therupon ether the clergie or, at the least wise, some one bishop to approve it, thys can I nothing teU. But howesoever it be, I have hearde and heare so muche spoken in the matter, and so muche doute made therin, that peradventure it would let and withdrawe any one bishop from the admitting therof, without the assent of the remenant. And whereas many thinges be laid against it : yet is ther in my mind not one thynge that more putteth good men of the clergie in doubte to suffer it, than thys : that the}^ see sometime much of the worse sort more fervent in the calling for it, than them whom we find farre better. Which maketh them to feare lest such men desyre it for no good, and lest if it wer hadde in ever}'- mannes hand, there would great peril arise, and that sedicious people should doe more harme therwith than good and honest folke should take fruit e thereby. Whiche feare I promise you nothyng feareth me, but that whosoever woulde of theyr malice or folye take harme of that thing that is of it selfe ordeyned to doe al men good, I would never for the avoyding of their harme, take from other the profit, which they might take, and nothing deserve to lese.^ For elles ^ if the abuse of a good thing should cause the taking away thereof from other that would use it well, Christ should hymself never have been borne, nor brought hys fayth into the lose ^ easily ^ hot, ready ^ then ^ else 95 96 WILLIAM TYNDALE world, nor God should never have made it neither, if he should, for the losse of those that would be damned wretches, have kept away the occasion of reward from them that would with helpe of his grace endevor them to deserve it." "I am sure," quod your frend, "ye doubte not but that I am full and hole of youre mynde in this matter, that the Byble shoulde be in oure EngHshe tong. But yet that the clergie is of the contrary, and would not have it so, that appeareth well, in that they suffer it not to be so. And over ^ that, I heare in everye place almost where I find any learned man of them, their mindes all set theron to kepe the Scripture from us. And they seke out for that parte every rotten reason that they can find, and set them furth solemnely to the shew, though fyve of those reasons bee not woorth a figge. For they begynne as farre as our first father Adam, and shew us that his wyfe and he fell out of paradise with desyre of knowledge and cunning. Nowe if thys woulde serve, it must from the knowledge and studie of Scripture dryve every man, priest and other, lest it drive all out of paradise. Than ^ saye they that God taught his disciples many thynges apart, because the people should not heare it. And therefore they woulde the people should not now be suffered to reade all. Yet they say further that it is hard to translate the Scripture out of one tong into an other, and specially they say into ours, which they call a tong vulgare and barbarous. But of all thing specially they say that Scrip- ture is the foode of the soule. And that the comen people be as infantes that must be fedde but with milke and pappe. And if we have anye stronger meate, it must be chammed^ afore by the nurse, and so putte into the babes mouthe. But me-think though they make us al infantes, they shall fynde many a shrewde brayn among us, that can perceive chalke fro chese well ynough, and if they woulde once take * us our meate in our own hand, we be not so evil-tothed ^ but that within a while they shall see us cham it our self as well as they. For let them call us yong babes and •"' they wil, yet, by God, they shal for al that well fynde in some of us that an olde knave is no chylde." ^ besides ^ then ' masticated * deliver ^ ill- toothed ®if WILLIAM TYNDALE (d. 1536) THE GOSPELL OF S. MATHEW. THE FYFTH CHAPTER When he sawe the people, he went up into a mountaine, and wen he was sett, hys disciples cam unto him, and he opened his mouth, and taught them sayinge : "Blessed are the poure in sprete : for thers is the kyngdom of heven. Blessed are they that mourne : for they shalbe comforted. Blessed are the meke : for they shall inheret the erthe. Blessed are they which hunger and thurst for rightewesnes : for they shalbe fylled. Blessed are the mercy- full : for they shall obteyne mercy. Blessed are the pure in hert : for they shall se God. Blessed are the maynteyners of peace : for they shalbe called the chyldren of God. Blessed are they which suffre persecucion for rightewesnes sake : for thers is the kyngdom of heven. Blessed are ye when men shall revyle you, and persecute you, and shal falsly saye all manner of evle sayinges agaynst you for my sake. Rejoyce and be gladde, for greate is youre rewarde in heven. For so persecuted they the prophettes which were before youre dayes. "Ye are the salt of the erthe, but ah ! yf the salte be once unsavery, what can be salted there-with ? it is thence-forthe good for noth- ynge, but to be cast out at the dores, and that men treade it under fete. Ye are the light of the worlde. A cite that is sett on an hill cannot be hyd, nether do men light a candle and put it under a busshell, but on a candel- stycke, and it lighteth all those which are in the housse. Se that youre light so schyne before men, that they maye se youre good werkes, and gloryfie youre Father, which is in heven. "Ye shall not thynke, that y am come to disanuU the lawe other ^ the prophettes : no, y am not come to dysanuU them, but to fulfyU them. For truely y say unto you, tyll heven and erthe perysshe, one jott, or one tytle of the lawe shall not scape, tyll all be fulfylled. "Whosoever breaketh one of these leest commaundmentes, and shall teche men so, he shalbe called the leest in the kyngdom of heven. But whosoever shall observe and teache them, that persone shalbe called greate in the kyngdom of heven. THE GOSPELL OF S. MATHEW 97 "For I say unto you, except youre righte- wesnes excede the rightewesnes of the scrybes and pharyses, ye cannot entre into the kyng- dom of haven. "Ye have herde howe it was sayd unto thera of the olde tyme. Thou shalt not kyli. Whosoever shall kyll, shalbe in daunger of judgement. But I say unto you, whosoever ys angre with hys brother, shalbe in daunger of judgement. Whosoever shall say unto his brother, Racha ! shalbe in daunger of a counseill. But vvhosoever shaU say unto his brother, Thou fole ! shalbe in daunger of hell fyre. Therfore when thou offerest th}^ gyfte att the altre, and there remembrest that thy brother hath eny thynge agaynst the : leve there thyne offrynge before the altre, and go thy waye fyrst and reconcyle thy silff to thy brother, and then come and offre thy gyfte. " Agre with thine adversary at once, whyles thou arte in the waye with hym, lest thine adversary delivre the to the judge, and the judge delyvre the to the minister, ^ and then thou be cast into preson. I say unto the verely : thou shalt not come out thence tyll thou have payed the utmoost forthynge.^ "Ye have herde howe yt was sayde to them of oide tyme, thou shalt not commytt ad- vouirie.^ But I say unto 3'ou, that whoso- ever eyeth a wyfe, lustynge after her, hathe commytted advoutrie with her alredy in his hert. "Wherfore yf thy right eye offende the, plucke hym out and caste him from the. Better hit is for the, that one of thy membres perysshe then that thy whole body shuld be caste in to hell. Also yf thy right honde offend the, cutt hym of and caste hym from the. Better hit is that one of thy membres perisshe, then that all thy body shulde be caste in to heU. "Hit ys sayd, whosoever put "^ awaye his wyfe, let hym geve her a testy monyall of her divorcement. But I say unto you : whoso- ever put ■* awaye hys wyfe (except hit be for fornicacion) causeth her to breake matrimony, And who soever maryeth her that is divorsed, breaketh wedlocke. "Agayne ye have herde, howe it was said to them of olde tyme, thou shalt not forswere thysiLfe, but shalt performe thine othe to God. But I saye unto you swere not at all : nether by heven, for hit ys Goddes seate : nor yet by the erth, For it is hys fote stole : Nether by Jerusalem, for it is the cite of the greate kynge : Nether shalt thou swere by thy heed, because thou canst not make one heer whyte, or blacke : But youre communicacion shalbe, ye, ye : nay, nay. For whatsoever is more then that, commeth of evle. "Ye have herde howe it is sayd, an eye for an eye : a tothe for a tothe. But I say unto you, that ye withstond ^ not wronge : But yf a man geve the a blowe on thy right cheke, turne to hym the othre. And yf eny man wyll sue the at the lawe, and take thi coote from the, lett hym have thi clooke also. And whosoever wyll compell the to goo a myle, goo wyth him twayne. Geve to him that axeth : and from him that wolde borrowe turne not away. " Ye have herde howe it is saide : thou shalt love thyne neghbour, and hate thyne enemy. But y saye unto you, love youre enemies. Blesse them that cursse you. Doo good to them that hate you, Praye for them which doo you wronge, and persecute you, that ye maye be the chyldren of youre hevenly Father : for he maketh his sunne to aryse on the evle and on the good, and sendeth his reyne on the juste and on the onjuste. For if ye shall love them, which love you : what rewarde shall ye have? Doo not the publicans even so? And if ye be frendly to youre brethren only : what singuler thynge doo ye? Doo nott the publicans lyke wyse? Ye shall therfore be perfecte, even as youre hevenly Father is perfecte." SIR THOMAS WYATT (i 503-1 542) THE DESERTED LOVER CONSOLETH HIMSELF WITH REMEMBRANCE THAT ALL WOMEN ARE BY NATURE FICKLE Divers doth use,- as I have heard and know, When that to change their ladies do begin, To mourn, and wail, and ne\'er for to lynn ; ^ Hoping thereby to 'pease their painful woe. And some there be that when it chanceth so That women change, and hate where love hath been, They call them false, and think with words to win officer ^ farthing ^ adultery * puts ' resist ^ manv are accustomed ^ cease 98 SIR THOMAS WYATT The hearLs of them which otherwhere dotli grow.^ But as for me, though that by chance indeed Change hath outworn the favour that I had, I will not wail, lament, nor yet be sad, ii Nor call her false that falsely did me feed ; But let it pass, and think it is of kind ^ That often change doth please a woman's mmd. To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon ; Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want, as I have done. Now cease, my lute, this is the last Labour that thou and I shall waste. And ended is that we begun. Now is this song both sung and past, My lute, be still, for I have done. 40 THE LOVER COMPLAINETH THE UNKINDNESS OF HIS LOVE Aly lute, awake, perform the last Labour that thou and I shall waste,^ And end that I have now begun. And when this song is- sung and past, My lute, be still, for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none, As lead to grave •* in marble stone, My song may pierce her heart as soon. Should v.^e then sigh, or sing, or moan ? No, no, my lute, for I have done. 10 The rocks do not so cruelly Repulse the waves continually. As she my suit and affection ; So that I am past remedy, Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Of simple hearts through Loves shot. By whom unkind thou hast them won. Think not he hath his bow forgot. Although my lute and I have done. 20 Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain That makest but game on earnest pain. Think not alone under the sun Unquit ^ to cause thy lovers plain,® Although my lute and I have done. ]\Iay chance thee lie withered and old Tn winter nights that are so cold. Plaining in vain unto the moon ; Thy wishes then dare not be told. Care then who list, for I have done. 30 And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent ^ grow, adhere, to others ^ of nature, natural ' spend * engrave * unpunished ^ complain A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS HE WOULD LOVE A face that should content me wondrous well. Should not be fair, but lovely to behold, Of lively look, all grief for to repell. With right good grace, so would I that it should Speak without word, such words as none can tell; The tress also should be of crisped gold. With wit and these perchance I might be tried, And knit again with knot that should not slide. OF THE MEAN AND SURE ESTATE WRITTEN TO JOHN POINS My mother's maids, when they did sew and spin, They sang sometime a song of the field motise That, for because her livelihood was but thin. Would needs go seek her townish sister's house. She thought herself endured too much pain; The stormy blasts her cave so sore did souse That when the furrow^s swimmed wdth the rain. She must lie cold and wet in sorry plight ; And worse than that, bare meat there did remain To comfort her when she her house had dight ; 10 Sometime a bariy corn ; sometime a bean, For which she laboured hard both day and night In harvest time whilst she might go and glean ; And where store ^ was stroyed - with the flood, Then welaway ! for she undone was clean. Then was she fain to take instead of food Sleep, if she might, her hunger to beguile. * abundance ^ destro\-cd OF THE MEAN AND SURE ESTATE 99 "My sister," quoth she, "hath a living good. And hence from me she dwelleth not a mile. In cold and storm she lieth warm and dry 20 In bed of down, the dirt doth not defile Her tender foot, she laboureth not as I. Richly she feedeth and at the richman's cost, .\nd for her meat she needs not crave nor cry. By sea, by land, of the deUcates, the most Her cater ^ seeks and spareth for no peril. She feedeth on boiled bacon, meat and roast, And hath thereof neither charge nor travail ; And when she list, the liquor of the grape Doth glad her heart tiU that her belly swell." And at this journey she maketh but a jape;- 36 So forth she goeth, trusting of all this wealth With her sister her part -so for to shape. That if she might keep herself in health, To live a lady while her life doth last. And to the door now is she come by stealth, And with her foot anon she scrapeth full fast. Th' other for fear durst not well scarce ap- pear. Of every noise so was the wretch aghast. At last she asked softly who was there, 40 And in her language as well as she could. "Peep!" quoth the other sister, "I am here." "Peace," quoth the town mouse, "why speakest thou so loud?" And by the hand she took her fair and well. "Welcome," quoth she, "my sister, by the Rood!" She feasted her, that joy it was to tell The fare they had; they drank the wine so clear, And as to purpose now and then it fell. She cheered her with "Ho, sister, what cheer I" Amid this joy befeU a sorry chance, 50 That, welaway ! the stranger bought fuU dear The fare she had, for, as she looks askance. Under a stool she spied two steaming ^ eyes In a round head with sharp ears. In France Was never mouse so fear'd, for, though un- wise Had not i-seen such a beast before. Yet had nature taught her after her guise ^ To know her foe and dread him evermore. The towney rnouse fled, she knew whither to go; Th' other had no shift, but wanders sore 60 Feard of her hfe. At home she wished her tho,i .\nd to the door, alas ! as she did skip. The Heaven it would, lo ! and eke her chance was so. At the threshold her silly foot did trip ; And ere she might recover it again. The traitor cat had caught her by the hip, And made her there against her will remain, That had forgotten her poor surety and rest For seeming wealth wherein she thought to reign. Alas, my Poines, how men do seek the best 70 And find the worst by error as they stray ! And no marvel ; when sight is so oppressed,' And blind the guide, anon out of the way Goeth guide and all in seeking quiet hfe. O wretched minds, there is no gold that may Grant that ye seek; no war; no peace; no strife. No, no, although thy head were hooped with gold, ^ Sergeant with mace, halberd, sword nor knife, Cannot repulse the care that follow should. Each kind of life hath with him his disease. Live in delight even as thy lust would,^ 81 And thou shalt find, when lust doth most thee please. It irketh straight, and by itself doth fade. A small thing it is that may thy mind appease. None of ye all there is that is so mad To seek grapes upon brambles or briars ; Nor none, I trow, that hath his wit so bad To set his hay ^ for conies *• over rivers. Nor ye set not a drag net for an hare ; And yet the thing that most is your desire 90 Ye do mistake with more travail and care. j\Iake plain thine heart, that it be not knotted With hope or dread, and see thy will be bare From aU effects whom vice hath ever spotted. Thyself content with that is thee assigned. And use it well that is to thee allotted. Then seek no more out of thyself to find The thing that thou hast sought so long be- fore, For thou shalt feel it sitting in thy mind. ]Mad, if 3'e list to continue your sore, 100 Let present pass and gape on time to come. And dip yourself in travail more and more. Henceforth, my Poines, this shall be all and some. These wretched fools shall have nought else of me ; ^ caterer ^ jest ^ gleaming * manner, way then - desire, wish ^ snare * rabbits lOO HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY But to the great God and to his high dome, None other pain pray I for them to be, But when the rage doth lead them from the right, That, looking backward, virtue they may sec, Even as she is so goodly fair and bright. And whilst they clasp their lusts in arms across, no Gram them, good Lord, as Thou mayst of Thy might. To fret inward for losing such a loss. HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY (i5i7?-i547) DESCRIPTION OF SPRING, WHEREIN EACH THING RENEWS, SAVE ONLY THE LOVER The soote ^ season that bud and bloom forth brings With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale ; The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; The turtle ^ to her make ^ hath told her tale : Summer is come, for every spray now springs ; The hart hath hung his old head ■• on the pale ; ^ The buck in brake his winter cote he flings ; The fishes flete *" with new repaired scale ; The adder all her slough away she slings ; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;io The busy bee her honey now she mings.'^ Winter is worn, that was the flowers' bale: ^ And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs! COMPLAINT OF A LOVER REBUKED Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought. That built his seat within my captive breast, Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought, Oft in my face he doth his banner rest. She that me taught to love and suffer pain. My doubtful hope and eke my hot desire With shamcfast cloak to shadow and refrain, Her smiling grace convert eth straight to ire. The coward Love then to the heart apace Taketh his flight, whereas he lurks and plains," lo His purpose lost, and dare not show his face. ^ sweet ^ turtle dove ^ mate '' liorns ^ paling ® float ^ mixes ** destruction '■• laments For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pains. Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove ; Sweet is his death that takes his end by love. DESCRIPTION AND PRAISE OF HIS LOVE GERALDINE From Tuscan came my lady's worthy race ; Fair Florence was sometime her ancient seat ; The Western isle whose pleasant shore doth face Wfld Camber's cliffs did give her lively heat ; Fostered she was with milk of Irish breast ; Her sire, an earl ; her dame, of princes' blood ; From tender years in Britain she doth rest, With a king's chfld, where she tasteth costly food ; Hunsdon did first present her to mine eyes ; Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight ; ^ Hampton me taught to wish her first for mme ; 1 1 And Windsor, alas, doth chase me from her sight : Her beauty of kind ,2 her virtues from above. Happy is he, that can obtain her love ! THE MEANS TO ATTAIN A HAPPY LIFE Martial, the things that do attain The happy life be these, I find : The riches left,^ not got with pain ; The fruitful ground ; the quiet mind ; The egaU '^ friend ; no grudge, no strife ; No charge of rule, no governance ; Without disease, the healthful hfe ; The household of continuance ; The mean ^ diet, no delicate fare ; True wisdom joined with simpleness ; 10 The night discharged of all care. Where wine the wit may not oppress ; The faithful wife, without debate ; Such sleeps as may beguile the night : Contented with thine own estate, Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. VIRGIL'S ^NEID BOOK II They whisted ^ all, with fi.xed face attent, When Prince ^Eneas from the royal seat * is named ^ from nature ^ inherited * equal '■ moderate ^ became silent VIRGIL'S ^NEID ICI Thus 'gan to speak: "O Queen, it is thy will I should renew a woe cannot be told ; How that the Greeks did spoil and overthrow The Phrygian wealth and wailful ^ realm of Troy. Those ruthful things that I myself beheld, And whereof no small part fell to my share ; Which to express, who could refrain from tears ? What Myrmidon? or yet what Dolopes? lo What stern Ulysses' waged soldier? And lo ! moist night now from the welkin falls. And stars declining counsel us to rest ; But since so great is thy delight to hear Of our mishaps and Troyes last decay. Though to record the same my mind abhors And plaint eschews, yet thus will I begin : — ■ The Greekes chieftains, all irked with the war, Wherein they wasted had so many years, And oft repulsed by fatal destiny, 20 A huge horse made, high raised like a hill. By the divine science of Minerva, — - Of cloven tir compacted were his ribs, — ■ For their return a feigned sacrifice, — The fame whereof so wandered it at point.^ In the dark bulk they closed bodies of men Chosen by lot, and did enstuff by stealth The hollow womb with armed soldiers. There stands in sight an isle hight Tenedon, Rich and of fame while Priam's kingdom stood, Now but a bay and road unsure for ship. 3 1 Hither them secretly the Greeks withdrew, Shrouding themselves under the desert shore ; And, weening we they had been fled and gone, And with that wind had fet^ the land of Greece, Troy discharged her long continued dole.'* The gates cast up, we issued out to play, The Greekish camp desirous to behold, The places void and the forsaken coasts. Here Pyrrhus' band, there fierce Achilles pight ; ^ Here rode their ships, there did their battles join. Astonied some the scathful ® gift beheld, 42 Behight ^ by vow unto the chaste Minerve, — All wondering at the hugeness of the horse. .\nd first of all Timoetes gan advise Within the walls to lead and draw the same, And place it eke amid the palace court, — Whether of guile, or Troyes fate it would. Capys, with some of judgment more discreet, ^ lamentable ^ conformably ^ fetched, reached ■• sorrow ^ camped, tendebat ^ harmful ' promised AE Willed it to drown, or underset with flame, 50 The suspect present of the Greek's deceit, Or bore and gauge the hollow caves uncouth ; So diverse ran the giddy people's mind. Lo ! foremost of a route that followed him, Kindled ^ Laocoon hasted from the tower, Crying far off : 'O wretched citizens. What so great kind of frenzy freteth you? Deem ye the Greeks, our enemies, to be gone? Or any Greekish gifts can you suppose Devoid of guile ? Is so Ulysses known ? 60 Either the Greeks are in this timber hid, Or this an engine is to annoy ^ our walls, To view our towers, and overwhelm our town. Here lurks some craft. Good Troyans give no trust Unto this horse, for, whatsoever it be, I dread the Greeks, yea w^hen they offer gifts.' " ROGER ASCHAM (1515-1568) THE SCHOLEMASTER From THE FIRST BOOKE FOR THE YOUTH If your scholer do misse sometmies, in marking rightlie these foresaid sixe thinges, chide not hastelie : for that shall, both dull his witte, and discorage his diligence : but monish him gentelie : which shall make him, both will- ing to amende, and glad to go forward in love and hope of learning. I have now v»'ished, twise or thrise, this gentle nature, to be in a Scholemaster : And, that I have done so, neither by chance, nor without some reason, I will now declare at large, why, in mine opin- ion, love is fitter then feare, gentlenes better than beating, to bring up a childe righthe in learninge. With the common use of teaching and beat- ing in common scholes of England, I will not greatlie contend : which if I did, it were but a small grammaticall controversie, neither be- longing to heresie nor treason,* nor greatly touching God nor the Prince : although in very deede, in the end, the good or ill bringing up of children, doth as much s&rve. to the good or ill service, of God, our Prince, and our whole countrie, as any one thing doth beside. * excited - injure " This is a proverbial expression. I02 ROGER ASCHAM I do gladlie agree with all good Schole- m asters in these pointes : to have children brought to a good perfitnes in learning : to all honestie in maners : to have all fautes ^ rightlie amended: to have everie vice severelie cor- rected : but for the order and waie that lead- eth rightlie to these pointes, we somewhat differ. For commonlie, many scholemasters, some, as I have seen, moe,^ as I have heard tell, be of so crooked a nature, as, when they meete with a hard wit ted scholer, they rather breake him than bowe him, rather marre him then mend him. For whan the scholemaster is angrie with some other matter, then will he sonest faul to beate his scholer : and though he him selfe should be punished for his folie, yet must he beate some scholer for his plea- sure : though there be no cause for him to do so, nor yet fault in the scholer to deserve so. These, ye wiU say, be fond ^ scholemasters, and fewe they be that be found to be soch. They be fond in deede, but surelie overmany soch be found everie where. But this will I say, that even the wisest of your great beaters, do as oft punishe nature as they do correcte faultes. Yea, many times, the better nature is sorer punished : For, if one, by quicknes of witte, take his lesson readclie, an other, by hardnes of witte, taketh it not so speedelie: the first is alwaies commended, the other is commonlie punished : whan a wise schole- master should rather discretelie consider the right disposition of both their natiu^es, and not so moch wey * what either of them is able to do now, as what either of them islikeheto do hereafter. For this I know, not onehe by reading of bookes in my studie, but also by experience of life, abrode in the world, that those which be commonlie the wisest, the best learned, and best men also, when they be olde, vv'ere never commonlie the quickest of witte, when they were yonge. The causes why, amongst other, which be many, that move me thus to thinke, be these fewe, which I will recken. Quicke wittes, commonlie, be apte to take, unapte to keepe : soone hote and desirous of this and that : as colde and sone wery of the same againc : more quicke to enter spedelie, than hable ^ to pcarse '^ farre : even like over sharpe tooles, whose edges be verie soone turned. Soch wittes delite them selves in easie and pleasant studies, and never passe farre for\":i.rd in hie and hard sciences. And therefore the quickest wittes commonlie may prove the best Poetes, but not the wisest Orators : readie of tonge to speake boldJie, not deepe of judgement, either for good counsel or wise writing. Also, for m_aners and life, quicke wittes, commonlie, be, in desire, new- fangle,^ in purpose unconstant, light to prom- ise any thing, readie to forget every thing: both benefite and injurie: and thereby neither fast to frend, nor fearefull to foe : inquisitive of every trifle, not secret in greatest affaires : bolde, with any person : busie, in every matter : sothing '^ soch as be present : nipping any that is absent : of nature also, alwaies, flattering their betters, envying their equals, despising their inferiors : and, by quicknes of witte, verie quicke and readie, to like none so well as them selyes. Moreover commonhe, men, very quicke of witte, be also, verie light of conditions : * and thereby, very readie of disposition, to be caried over quicklie, by any light cumpanie to any riot and unthriftiness, when they be yonge : and therfore seldom.e, either honest of life, or riche in living, when they be olde. For, quicke in witte and light in maners, be, either seldome troubled, or verie sone wery, in carying a verie hevie purse. Quicke wittes also be, in most part of all their doinges, over- quicke, hastie, rashe, headie, and brainsicke. These two last wordes, Headie, and Brain- sicke, "be fitte and proper wordes, rising nat- uraUie of the matter, and tearmed aptlie by the condition, of over moch quickenes of witte. In yougthe also they be readie scoffers, privie mockers, and ever over light and mery. In aige, sone testie, very waspishe, and alwaies over miserable : and yet fewe of them cum to any great aige, by reason of their misordered life when they were yong: but a great deale fewer of them cum to shewe any great counte- nance, or beare any great authoritie abrode in the world, but either live obscurelie, men know not how, or dye obscurelie, men marke not whan. They be like trees, that shewe forth faire blossoms and broad leaves in spring time, l)ut bring out small and not long lasting fruite in harvest time : and that, onelie soch as fall and rotte before they be ripe, and so, never, or seldome, cum to any good at all. For this ye shall fmde m.ost true by experience, that amongest a number of quicke wittes in youthe, fewe l)e found, in the end, either verie fortu- ^ faults ^ more ^ foolish * weigh ^ able ^ pierce ^ fond of novelty - agreeing with ' character JOHX FOXE 103 nate for them selves, or verie profitable to serve the common wealth, but decay and vanish, men know not which way : except a very fevve, to whom peradventure blood and happie parentage may perchance purchace a long standing upon the stage. The which felicitie, because it commeth by others pro- curing, not by their owne deservinge, and stand by other mens feete, and not by their own, what owtward brag so ever is borne by them, is in deed, of it selfe, and in wise mens eyes, of no great estimation. JOHN FOXE (1516-1587) ACTS AND ]\10NUMENTS OF THESE LATTER AND PERILLOUS DAYES From THE BEHA\T:0UR OF DR. RIDLEY AND MASTER LATLMER AT THE TIAtE OF THEIR DEATH Incontinently ^ they were commanded to make them readie, which they with all meek- nesse obeyed. Master Ridley tooke his gowne and his tippet, and gave it to his brother-in- lawe Master Shepside, who aU his time of im- prisonment, although he might not be suffered to come to him, lay there at his owne charges to provide him necessaries, which from time to time he sent him by the sergeant that kept him. Some other of his apparel that was little worth, hee gave away ; other the baUiffes took. He gave away besides divers other small things to gentlemen standing by, and divers of them pitifulJie weeping, as to Sir Henry Lea he gave a new groat ; and to divers of my Lord Williams gentlemen some napkins, some nutmegges, and races ^ of ginger ; his diall, and such other things as he had about him, to every one that stood next him. Some plucked the pomtes of his hose. Happie was he that might get any ragge of him. Master Latimer gave nothing, but very quickly suffered his keeper to pull off his hose, and his other array, which to look unto was very simple : and being stripped into his shrowd,^ hee seemed as comly a person to them that were there present as one should lightly see ; and whereas in his clothes hee appeared a withered and crooked sUlie olde man, he now stood bolt upright, as comely a father as one might Ughtly behold. Then Master Ridley, standing as yet in his trusse,^ said to his brother : "It were best for me to go m my trusse still." '' No," quoth his brother, "it will put you to more paine: and the trusse will do a poore man good. " Where- unto Master Ridley said : " Be it, in the name of God;" and so unlaced himselfe. Then being in his shirt, he stood upon the foresaid stone, and held up his hande and said: "O heavenly Father, I give unto thee most heartie thanks, for that thou hast called mee to be a professour of thee, even unto death. I be- seech thee. Lord God, take mercie upon this realme of England, and deliver the same from all her enemies." Then the smith took a chaine of iron, and brought the same about both Dr. Ridleyes and Maister Latimers middles ; and as he was knocking in a staple. Dr. Ridley tooke the chaine in his hand, and shaked the same, for it did girde m his belly, and looking aside to the smith, said : " Good feUow, knocke it in hard, for the flesh will have his course." Then his brother did bringe him gunnepowder in a bag, and would have tied the same about his necke. Master Ridley asked what it was. His brother said, "Gunnepowder." "Then." sayd he, "I take it to be sent of God ; there- fore I wUl receive it as sent of him. And have you any," sayd he, "for my brother?" mean- ing jNIaster Latimer. "Yea, sir, that I have," quoth his brother. "Then give it unto him," sayd hee, "betime; - least ye come too late." So his brother went, and caried of the same guiinepowder unto Maister Latimer. In the mean time Dr. Ridley spake imto my Lord Williams, and saide : " My lord, I must be a suter unto your lordshippe in the behalfe of divers poore men, and speciaUie in the cause of my poor sister ; I have made a supplication to the Queenes Majestic in their behalves. I beseech your lordship for Christs sake, to be a mean to her Grace for them. My brother here hath the supplication, and will resort to your lordshippe to certifie you herof. There is nothing in all the world that troubleth my conscience, I praise God, this only excepted. Whiles I was in the see of London divers poore men tooke leases of me, and agreed with me for ^ immediatelj- - roots ^ shirt ^ a padded jacket - early I04 JOHN FOXE the same. Now I heare say the bishop that now occupieth the same roome will not allow my grants unto them made, but contrarie unto all la we and conscience hath taken from them their livings, and will not suffer them to injoy the same. I beseech you, my lord, be a meane for them ; you shall do a good deed, and God will reward you." Then they brought a faggotte, kindled with fire, and laid the same downe at Dr. Ridleys feete. To whome Master Latimer spake in this manner: "Bee of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man. Wee shall this day light such a candle, by Gods grace, in England, as I trust shall never bee putte out." And so the fire being given unto them, when Dr. Ridley saw the fire flaming up towards him, he cried with a wonderful lowd voice : "In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum : Domine, recipe spiritum meum." And after, repeated this latter part often in Eng- lish, "Lord, Lord, receive my spirit ;" Master Latimer crying as vehementlie on the other side, " O Father of heaven, receive my soule ! " who received the flame as it were imbracing of it. After that he had stroaked his face with his hands, and as it were bathed them a little in the fire, he soone.died (as it appeared) with verie little paine or none. And thus much concerning the end of this olde and blessed servant of God, Master Latimer, for whose laborious travailes,^ fruitfull life, and constant death the whole realme hath cause to give great thanks to almightie God. But Master Ridley, by reason of the evill making of the fire unto him, because the wooden faggots were laide about the gosse ^ and over-high built, the fire burned first be- neath, being kept downe by the wood ; which when he felt, hee desired them for Christ es sake to let the fire come unto him. Which when his brother-in-law heard, but not well understood, intending to rid him out of his paine (for the which cause hee gave attend- ance), as one in such sorrow not well advised what hee did, heaped faggots upon him, so that he cleane covered him, which made the fire more vehement beneath, that it burned cleane all his neather parts, before it once touched the upper ; and that made him leape up and down under the faggots, and often desire them to let the fire come unto him, saying, "1 can- not burne." Which indeed appeared well; labors ' gorse, furze for, after his legges were consumed by reasesn of his struggling through the paine (whereof hee had no release, but onelie his contentation in God), he showed that side toward us cleane, shirt and all untouched with flame. Yet in all this torment he forgate not to call unto God still, having in his mouth, "Lord have mercy upon me," intermedling ^ this cry, "Let the fire come unto me, I cannot burne." In which paines he laboured till one of the standers by with his bill ^ pulled off the fag- gots above, and where he saw the fire flame up, he wrested himself unto that side. And when the flame touched the gunpowder, he was seen to stirre no more, but burned on the other side, falling downe at Master Latimers feete. Which some said happened by reason that the chain loosed ; other said that he fell over the chain by reason of the poise of his body, and the weakness of the neather lims. Some said that before he was like to fall from the stake, hee desired them to holde him to it with their billes. However it was, surelie it mooved hundreds to teares, in beholding the horrible sight ; for I thinke there was none that had not cleane exfled all humanitie and mercie, which would not have lamented to beholde the furie of the fire so to rage upon their bodies. Signes there were of sorrow on everie side. Some tooke it greevouslie to see their deathes, whose lives they held full deare : some pittied their persons, that thought the soules had no need thereof. His brother mooved many men, seeing his miserable case, seeing (I say) him compelled to such infelicilie, that he thought then to doe him best service when he hastned his end. Some cried out of the lucke, to see his indevor (who most dearelie loved him, and sought his release) turne to his greater vexation and increase of paine. But whoso considered their preferments in time past, the places of honour that they some time occupied in this common wealth, the favour they were in with their princes, and the opinion of learning they had in the university where they studied, could not chuse but sor- row with teares to see so great dignity, hon- our, and estimation, so necessary members sometime accounted, so many godly vertues, the study of so manie yeres, such excellent learning, to be put into the fire and consumed in one moment. Wefl ! dead they are, and ^ intermingling '^a kind of weapon consisting of a curved blade fixed at the end of a pole. THOMAS SACKVILLE los the reward of this world they have alreadie. What reward remaineth for them in heaven, the day of the Lords glorie, when hee commeth with his saints, shall shortlie, I trust, declare. THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST (1536-1608) A MIRROR FOR MAGISTRATES From THE INDUCTION Flat dow^n I fell, and with all reverence Adored her, perceiving now that she, A goddess sent by godly providence. In earthly shape thus showed herself to me, To wail and rue this world's uncertainty : 1 73 And while I honored thus her god-head's might With plaining voice these words to me she shright : ^ "I shall thee guide first to the griesly^ lake, And thence unto the blissful place of rest, Where thou shalt see and hear the plaint they make, 178 That whilom here bare saving ^ among the best. This shalt thou see, but great is the unrest That thou must bide before thou canst attain Unto the dreadful place where these remain. And with these words as I upraised stood. And 'gan to follow her that straightforth paced, Ere I was ware, into a desert wood We i|ow were come ; where, hand in hand em- braced, She led the way, and through the thick so traced, As, but I had been guided by her might, It was no way for any mortal wight. 189 But lo ! while thus, amid the desert dark, We passed on with steps and pace unmeet, A rumbling roar, confused with howl and bark Of dogs, shook all the ground under our feet. And struck the din within our ears so deep. As half distraught unto the ground I fell. Besought return, and not to visit hell. 196 But she forth-wnth uplifting me apace Removed my dread, and with a steadfast mind Bade me come on, for here was now the place, The place where we our travel's end should •find. 200 Wherewith I arose, and to the place assigned Astonied I stalk ; when straight we ap- proached near The dreadful place, that you will dread to hear. An hideous hole all vast, wilhouten shape. Of endless depth, o'erwhelmed with ragged stone. With ugly mouth and griesly jaws doth gape, And to our sight confounds itself in one. Here entered we, and yeding ^ forth, anon An horrible lothly lake we might discern. As black as pitch, that cleped ^ is Averne. 210 A deadly gulf where nought but rubbish grows, With foul black swelth ^ in thickened lumps that lies. Which up in the air such stinking vapours throws, That over there may fly no fowl but dies. Choked with the pestilent savours that arise. Hither we come, whence forth we still did pace. In dreadful fear amid the dreadful place. 217 And first wathin the porch and jaws of Hell Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent With tears : and to herself oft would she tell Her wretchedness, and cursing never stent * To sob and sigh ; but ever thus lament With thoughtful care, as she that all in vain Would wear and waste continually in pain. 224 Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there, Whirled on each place, as place that vengeance brought, So was her mind continually in fear. Tossed and tormented with the tedious thought Of those detested crimes which she had wrought ; With dreadful cheer and looks thrown to the sky, 230 Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. Next saw we Dread, all trembling how^ he shook, With foot uncertain proffered here and there ; Benumbed of speech, and with a ghastly look Searched every place all pale and dead for fear, ^ shrieked ^ dreadful ^ bore sway ^ going ^ called ^ scum * cease io6 THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST His cap borne up with staring ^ of his hair, Stoynd ^ and amazed at his own shade for dread, And fearing greater dangers than was need. 238 And next within the entry of this lake Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire. Devising means how she may vengeance take, Never in rest till she have her desire ; But frets within so farforth ^ with the fire Of wreaking flames, that now determines she To die by Death, or venged by Death to be. 245 When fell Revenge with bloody foul pretence Had shown herself as next in order set, With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, Till in our eyes another sight we met : When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet,"* Rueing, alas ! upon the woeful plight Of Misery, that next appeared in sight. 252 His face was lean, and somedeal pined away, And eke his hands consumed to the bone. And what his body was I cannot say. For on his carcass raiment had he none Save clouts and patches, pieced one by one. With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast. His chief defence against the winter's blast. 259 His food, for most,^ was wild fruits of the trees, Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share. Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he. As on the which full daintily would he fare ; His drink the running stream, his cup the bare Of his palm closed, his bed the hard cold ground. To this poor life was Misery y-bound. 266 Whose wretched state when we had well beheld With tender ruth on him and on his feres ^ In thoughtful cares, forth then our pace we held. And by and by, another shape appears Of greedy Care, still brushing up the breresj His knuckles knobbed, his flesh deep dented in. With tawed hands, and hard y-tanned skin. The morrow gray no sooner hath begun To spread his light, even peeping in our eyes, When he is up and to his work y-run ; 276 ^ standing on end ^ astounded ^ excessively * fetched ^ chiefly ® companions ^ briars But let the night's black misty mantles rise, And with foul dark never so" much disguise The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, But hath his candles to prolong his toil. 280 By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath. Small keep ^ took he whom. Fortune frowned on Or whom she lifted up into the throne Of high renown ; but as a living death. So dead alive, of life he drew the breath. 287 The body's rest, the quiet of the heart. The travail's ease, the still night's fear was he, And of our life in earth the better part, Reaver of sight, and yet in whom we see Things oft that tide,^ and oft that never be. Without respect esteeming equally King Cresus' pomp, and Irus' poverty. 294 And next in order sad Old Age we found, His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind. With drooping cheer still poring on the ground. As on the place where nature him assigned To rest, when that the Sisters^ had untwined His vital thread, and ended with their knife The fleeting course of fast declining life. 301 There heard we him with broken and hollow plaint Rue with himself his end approaching fast. And aU for nought his wretched mind torment With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past. And fresh delights of lusty youth forwast.^ Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek, And to be young again of Jove beseek ! ^ 308 But and ® the cruel fates so fixed be That time forepast^ cannot return again, This one request of Jove yet prayed he : That in such withered plight, and wretched pain As Eld, accompanied with his lothsome train. Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief, He might a while yet linger forth his life, 315 And not so soon descend into the pit. Where Death, when he the mortal corps hath slain, ^ heed '^ happen ^ the Fates * wasted away ^ beseech * if ^ passed by A MIRROR FOR MAGISTRATES 107 With retchless ^ hand in grave doth cover it, Thereafter never to enjoy again The gladsome Hght, but, in the ground y-lain. In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought, As he had never into the world been brought. But who had seen him, sobbing how he stood 323 Unto himself, and how he would bemoan His youth forepast, as though it wrought him good To talk of youth, all were his youth foregone,^ He would have mused, and marvelled much vi^hereon This wretched Age should life desire so fain. And knovvs full well life doth but length his pain. 329 Crookbacked he was, toothshakcn, and blear- eyed, Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four, With old tame bones, that rattled by his side. His scalp all piled ^ and he with elde forlore ; - His withered fist still knocking at death's door, Fumbling and drivelling as he draws his breath, _ 335 For brief, the shape and messenger of Death. ^ careless - passed away ^ bare ^ worn with age THE RENAISSANCE EDMUND SPENSER (i552?-i599) From THE SHEPHEARDS CALENDER FEBRUARIE ^GLOGA SeCUNDA Cuddie Thenot CuDDiE. Ah for pittie, wil rancke Winters rage These bitter blasts never ginne tasswage? The kene cold blowes through my beaten hyde, All as I were through the body gryde.^ My ragged routes ^ all shiver and shake, As doen high Towers in an earthquake : They wont in the wind wagge their wrigle tailes, Perke ^ as Peacock ; but nowe it avales.'* The. Lewdly^ complainest thou, laesie ladde, Of Winters wracke for making thee sadde. lo Must not the world wend in his commun course, From good to badd, and from badde to worse, From worse unto that is worst of all, And then returne to his former fall^? Who will not suffer the stormy time, Where will he live tyll the lusty prime? Selfe have I worne out thrise threttie yeares. Some in much ioy, many in many teares. Yet never complained of cold nor heate. Of Sommers flame, nor of Winters threat : 20 Ne ever was to Fortune focman, But gently tooke, that ungently came ; And ever my flocke was my chicfc care, Winter or Sommcr they mought well fare. Cud. No marvcile, Thenot, if thou can- beare CherefuUy the Winters wrath full chearc; For Age and Winter accord full nie. This chill, that cold, this crooked, that wrye ; * pierced ^ young bullocks ^ pert ^ droops ^ igno- rantly " condition 108 And as the lowring Wether lookes downe, So semest thou like good fryday to frowne, 30 But my flowring youth is foe to frost, My shippe unwont in stormes to be tost. The. The soveraigne of seas he blames in vaine. That, once sea-beate, will to sea againe. So loytring live you little heardgroomes. Keeping your beasts in the budded broomes : And when the shining sunne laugheth once, You deemen, the Spring is come attonce; Tho gynne^ you, fond flyes, the cold to scorne, And crowing in pypes made of greene come, 40 You thinken to be Lords of the yeare ; But eft,^ when ye count you freed from feare, Comes the breme ^ winter with chamfred * browes Full of wrinckles and frostie furrowes : Drerily shooting his stormy darte, Which cruddles ^ the blood, and pricks the harte. Then is your carelesse corage accoied," Your careful! heards with colde bene annoied. Then paye you the price of your surquedrie," With weeping, and wayling, and misery. 50 Cud. Ah foolish old man, I scorne thy skill, That wouldest me, my springing youngth to spil: I deeme thy braine emperished bee Through rusty elde, that hath rotted thee : Or sicker ^ thy head veray tottie ^ is. So on thy corbe ^° shoulder it leanes amisse. Now thy selfe hast lost both lopp and topp, Als " my budding braunch thou wouldest cropp : But were thy yeares greene, as now bene myne. To other delights they would encline. 60 Tho wouldest thou learne to caroU of Love, And hery ^^ with hymnes thy lasses glove. Tho wouldest thou pype of Phyllis prayse : But Phyllis is myne for many dayes ; I wonne her with a gyrdlc of gelt,^^ ' then begin "^ again, after ■* hitler '' wrinkled ^ curdles ''' quieted ' pride ^ surely ^ unsteady '" crooked " also ^- praise '' gilt THE SHEPHEARDS CALENDER 109 Embost with buegle about the bek. Such an one shepeheards woulde make full faine, Such an one would make thee younge againe. The. Thou art a fon^ of thy love to boste, All that is lent to love wyll be lost. 70 Cud. Seest howe brag - yond Bullocke beares, So smirke, so smoothe, his pricked eares? His homes bene as broade as Rainebowe bent, His dewelap as lythe as lasse of Kent, See howe he venteth ^ into th& wynd. Weenest of love is not his mynd? Seemeth thy flocke thy coujisell can,* So lustlesse ^ bene they, so weake, so wan. Clothed with cold, and hoary wyth frost. Thy flocks father his corage hath lost : So Thy Ewes, that wont to have blowen ^ bags. Like wailefull widdov^^es hangen their crags ^ : The rather * lambes bene starved with cold, .■\J1 for their Maister is lustlesse and old. The. Cuddie, I wote thou kenst ^ little good, So vainely tadvaimce thy headlesse hood. For Youngth is a bubble blown up with breath, Whose witt is weakenesse, whose wage is death. Whose way is wildernesse, whose ynne ^° Pen- aunce. And stoope gallant Age the hoste of Gree- vaunce. But shall I tel thee a tale of truth, 91 Which I cond ^^ of Tityrus in my youth. Keeping his sheepe on the hils of Kent? CtJD. To nought more, Thenot, my mind is bent. Then to heare novells of his devise : They bene so well thewed, and so wise. What ever that good old man bespake. The. Many meete tales of youth did he make, .\nd some of love, and some of chevalrie : But none fitter than this to applie. 100 Now listen a while, and hearken the end. There grewe an aged Tree on the greene, A goodly Oake sometime had it bene. With armes full strong and largely displayd, But of their leaves they were disarayde : The bodie bigge, and mightely pight,^^ * fool - brisk ^ puffs * know ^ without desire ® full ^ necks * earlier ^ knowest ^'^ inn ^^ learned ^ firmly set Throughly rooted, and of wonderous hight : Whilome had bene the King of the field, And mochell mast ^ to the husband did yielde, And with his nuts larded ^ many swine, no But now the gray rnosse marred his rinc,* His bared boughes were beaten with stormes, His toppe was bald, and wasted with wormes, His honor decayed, his braunches sere. Hard by his side grewe a bragging Brere, Which prowdly thrust into Thelement, And seemed to threat the Firmament. Yt was embellisht with blossom.es fayre, And thereto aye wonned * to repayre The shepheards daughters to gather flowres, To peinct their girlonds with his cclowres. 121 And in his small bushes used to shrcwde The sweete Nightingale singing so lowde : Which made this foolish Brere wexe so bold. That on a time he cast him ^ to scold And snebbe^ the good Oake, for he was old. 'Why standst there (quoth he), thou brutish blocke ? 'Nor for fruict nor for shadowe serves thy stocke. ' Seest how fresh my flowers bene spredde, 'Dyed in Lilly white and Cremsm redde, 130 'W^ith Leaves engrained in lusty greene, 'Colours meete to clothe a mayden Qugene? ' Thy wast bignes '' but combers the grownd, ' And dirks * the beauty of my blossoms rownd. 'The mouldie mosse, Vv'hich thee accloieth,^ ']My Sinamon smell too much annoieth. ' WTherefore soone, I rede ^" thee, hence remove, 'Least thou the price of my displeasure prove.' So spake this bold brere Vvdth great disdame : Little him answered the Oake againe, 140 But yielded, with shame and greefe adav.-ed," That of a weede he was oueravred. Yt chaimced after vpon a day. The Hus-bandman selfe to come that way, Of custome for to survewe ^- his grov/nd. And his trees of state in compasse rownd. Him when the spitefull brere had espyed, Causlesse complained, and lowdly ctyed Unto his Lord, stirring up steme strife : ' O my liege Lord ! the God of my life, 1 50 ' Pleaseth you ponder your Suppliants plaint, 'Caused of wrong, and cruell constraint, ' WTiich I your poore vassall dayly endure : 'And but your goodnes the same recure,^' ^ many acorns ^ fattened ^ rind - were accus- tomed ^ planned ^ reprove ^ vast bigness * dark- ens ^ encumbers ^° advise " daunted ^- look over 13 Tf^nrw'nr no EDMUND SPENSER ' Am like for desperate doole ^ to dye, 'Through felonous force of mine enemie.' Greatly aghast with this piteous plea, Him rested the goodman on the lea, And badde the Brere in his plaint proceede. With painted words tho ^ gan this proude weede i6o (As most usen Ambitious folke) His colowred crime with crafte to cloke. *Ah my soveraigne, Lord of creatures all, 'Thou placer of plants both humble and tall', 'Was not I planted of thine owne hand, 'To be the primrose of all thy land, ' With flowring blossomes, to furnish the prime, 'And scarlet berries in Sommer time? 'Howe falls it then that this faded Oake, ' Whose bodie is sere, whose braunches broke, 'Whose naked Armes stretch unto the fyi;e,i 'Unto such tyrannie doth aspire, 172 'Hindering with his shade my lovely light, 'And robbing me of the swete sonnes sight? ' So beate his old boughes my tender side, ' That oft the bloud springeth from wounds wyde: ' Untimely my flowres forced to fall, 'That bene the honor of your Coronall. 'And oft he lets his cancker wormes light ' Upon^ my braunches, to worke me more spight : 180 And oft his hoarie locks downe doth cast, ' Where with my fresh flowretts bene defast : ' For this, and many more such outrage, ' Craving your goodlihead ^ to aswage 'The ranckorous rigour of his might, 'Nought aske I, but onely to hold my right : ' Submitting me to your good sufferance, 'And praying to be garded from greevance.' To this the Oake cast him to replie Well as he couth "*; but his enemie 190 Had kindled such coles of displeasure, That the good man noulde ^ stay his leasure, But home him hasted with furious heate, Encreasing his wrath with many a threate. His harmefuU Hatchet he hent '^ in hand, (Alas, that it so ready should stand !) And to the field alone lie speedeth, (Ay little helpc to harme there needeth !) Anger nould let him spcakc to the tree, Enaunter ' his rage mought cooled bee ; 200 But to the roote bent his sturdy stroke. And made many wounds in the wast * Oake. The Axes edge did oft turne againe, ^ grief 2 then ^goodness * could ^ would not ^ seized ^ lest perchance ^ vast As halfe unwilling to cutte the graine : Semed, the sencelesse yron dyd feare, Or to wrong holy eld did forbeare. For it had bene an auncient tree. Sacred with many a mysteree. And often crost with the priestes crewe. And often halowed with holy water dewe. 210 But sike ^ fancies weren foolerie. And broughten this Oake to this miserye. For nought mought they quitten him from decay : For fiercely the good man at him did laye. The blocke oft groned under the blow, And sighed to see his neare overthrow. In fine, the Steele had pierced his pitth : Tho ^ downe to the earth he fell forthwith : His wonderous weight made the grounde to qviake, Thearth ^ shronke vnder him, and seemed to shake. 220 There lyeth the Oake, pitied of none. Now stands the Brere like a Lord alone, Puffed up with pryde and vaine pleasaunce. But all this glee had no continuance ; For eftsones ^ Winter gan to approche, The blustering Boreas did encroche, And beate upon the solitarie Brere : For nowe no succoure was scene him nere.^ Now gan he repent his pryde to late ; For naked left and disconsolate, 230 The byting frost nipt his stalke dead. The watrie wette weighed downe his head. And heaped snowe burdned him so sore. That nowe upright he can stand no more : And being downe, is trodde in the durt Of cattell, and bronzed, and sorely hurt. Such was thend ® of this Ambitious brere. For scorning Eld • Cud. Now I pray thee, shepheard, tel it not forth : Here is a long tale, and little worth. 240 So longe have I listened to thy speche. That graffed to the ground is my breche ; My hartblood is welnigh frorne,^ I feele. And my galage ^ growne fast to my heele : But little ease of thy lewd tale I tasted : Hye thee home, shepheard, the day is nigh wasted. Thcnots Emhleme Iddio, perchc e vecchio, Fa suoi al suo essempio.^ ^ such ^ then ^ the earth ^ soon again ^ near ® the end ^ frozen ^ shoe ' God, because he is old, makes his own in his image. THE FAERIE QUEENE III Cuddies Emhleme Niuno vecchio Spaventa Iddio.^ THE FAERIE QUEENE BOOK I. CANTO I A gentle Knight was pricking " on the plaine, Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shielde, Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did re- maine, * The cruell markes of many a bloody fielde ; Yet armes tiU that time did he never wield. His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, As much disdayning to the curbe to yield : FuU jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt, As one for knightly giusts ' and fierce en- counters litt. II But on his brest a bloodie Crosse he bore, lo The deare remembrance of his djdng Lord, For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, And dead, as living, ever him ador'd : Upon his shield the like was also scor'd, For soveraine hope which in his helpe he had. Right faithfuU true he was in deede and word; But of his cheere ^ did seeme too solemn e sad; Yet nothmg did he dread, but ever was ydrad.^ Ill Upon a great adventure he was bond,^ That greatest Gloriana to him gave, 20 (That greatest Glorious Queene of Faery lond ') To winne him worshippe, and her grace to have. Which of all earthly thinges he most did crave : And ever as he rode his hart did earne* To prove his puissance in battell brave Upon his foe, and his new force to leame, Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne. ^ No greybeard fears. God. ^ riding ^jousts * de- meanor * dreaded ^ bound " land ^ yearn IV A lovely Ladie rode him faire beside, Upon a lowly Asse more white then snow, Yet she much whiter; but the same did hide 30 Under a vele,^ that wimpled ^ was full low ; And over all a blacke stole ' shee did throw : As one that inly mournd, so was she sad, And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow ; Seemed in heart some hidden care she had, And by her, in a line,'' a milkewhite lambe she lad.^ V So pure and innocent, as that same lambe, She was in life and every vertuous lore; And by descent from RoyaU lynage came Of ancient Kinges and Queenes, that had of yore Their scepters stretcht from East to West erne shore, 41 And all the world in their subjection held ; Till that infernall feend with foide uprore Forwasted ^ all their land, and them expeld ; Whom to avenge she had this Knight from far compeld. \T Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag, That lasie seemd, in being ever last. Or wearied with bearing of her bag Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past, The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast. And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine Did poure into his Lemans "^ lap so fast 52 That everie wight to shrowd ^ it did con- strain ; And this faire couple eke ^ to shroud them- selves were fain.^" VII Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, A shadie grove not farr away they spide, That promist ayde the tempest to with- stand ; Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride, Did spred so broad that heavens light did hide, ^ veil - folded ^ a long outer garment ■* cord, or rope ^led ^devastated "sweetheart's ( = earth's) * cover ^ also ^^ glad 112 EDMUND SPENSER Not perceable with power of any slarr : 60 And all within were pathes and alleles wide, With footing worne, and leading inward farr. Faire harbour that them seemes ; so in they eatred ar. XXIX At length they chaunst to meet upon the way An aged Sire, in long blacke weedes yclad, His feete all bare, his beard all hoarie gray, And by his belt his booke he hanging had : Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad, And to the ground his eyes were lowly bent, Simple in shew, and voide of malice bad ; And all the way he prayed as he went, 260 And often knockt his brest, as one that did re- pent. XXX He faire the knight saluted, louting ^ low. Who faire him quited,^ as that courteous was; And after asked him, if he did know Of straunge adventures, which abroad did pas. "Ah! my dear sonne," (quoth he) "how should, alas ! 266 Silly old man, that lives in hidden cell, Bidding his beades all day for his trespas, Tydings of warre and worldly trouble tcU? With holy father sits ^ not with such thinges to mell." XXXI "But if of daunger, which hereby doth dwell, And homebredd evil ye desire to heare, Of a straunge man I can you tidings tell, That wasteth all this countrie, farre and neare." "Of such," (saide he,) "I chiefly doe in- qucre, And shall you well rewarde to shew the place In which that wicked wight his dayes cloth wcarc ; Forto all knighthood it is foule disgrace, 278 That such a cursed creature lives so long a space." xxxn "Far hence" (quoth he) "in wastfuU wilder- nesse His dwelling is, by which no living wight May ever passe, but thorough ^ great dis- tresse." "Now," (saide the Ladle,) "draweth to- ward night, And well I wote, that of your later fight Ye all forwearied be ; for what so strong, But, wanting rest, will also want of might? The Sunne, that measures heaven all day long, 287 At night doth baite ^ his steedes the Ocean waves emong. XXXIII "Then with the Sunne take. Sir, your timely rest, And with new day new worke at once begin : Untroubled night, they say, gives counsell best." "Right well, Sir knight, ye have advised bin." Quoth then that aged man: "the way to v.dn Is wisely to advise ; now day is spent : Therefore with me ye may take up your In For this same night." The knight was well content ; 296 So with that godly father to his home they went. XXXIV A litle lowly Hermitage it was, Downe in a dale, hard by a forests side, Far from resort of people that did pas In traveill to and froe : a litle wyde There was an holy chappell edifyde,^ Wherein the Hermite dewly wont to say His holy thinges each morne and everi-tyde ; Thereby a christall streame did gently play, Which from a sacred fountaine welled forth alway. 306 XXXV Arrived there, the litle house they fill, Ne looke for entertainement where none was : ^ bowing 2 answered ^ suits "• meddle through ^ feed ' built THE FAERIE QUEENE 113 Rest is their feast , and all thinges at their will. The noblest mind the best contentment has. With f aire discourse the evening so they pas ; For that olde man of pleasing wordes had store And well coitld file his tongue as smooth as glas : He told of Saintes and Popes, and evermore He strowd an Ave-Mary after and before. 315 XXXVI The drouping night thus creepeth on them fast, And the sad humor loading their eyeliddes, As messenger of Morpheus/ on them cast Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleep them biddes. Unto their lodgings then his guestes he riddes : Where when all drownd in deadly sleepe he fijides, He to his studie goes ; and there amiddes His magick bookes and artes of sundries kindes, 323 He seekes out mighty charmes, to trouble sleepy minds. XXX\'II Then choosing otit few words most horrible, (Let none them read) thereof did verses frame ; With which, and other spelles like terrible, He bad awake blacke Plutoes griesly Dame ; And cursed heven; and spake reprochful shame Of highest God, the Lord of life and light : A bold bad man, that dar'd to call by name Great Gorgon, prince of darknes and dead night; 332 At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to flight. XXXVIII And forth he cald out of deepe darknes dredd Legions of Sprights, the which, like htle flyes Fluttring about his ever-damned hedd, Awaite whereto their service he applyes, To aide his friendes, or fray ^ his enimies. Of those he chose out two, the falsest twoo, And fittest for to forge true-sqeming lyes : The one of them he gave a message too, 341 The other by, him selfe staide, other worke to doo. XXXIX He, making speedy way through spersed ^ ayre, And through the world of waters wide and deepe. To Morpheus house doth hastily repaire. Amid the bowels of the earth fuU steepe. And low, v/here dawning day doth never peepe, His dwelling is ; there Tethys his wet bed Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steepe In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed, 350 Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spred. XL ^^Tiose double gates he findeth locked fast. The one faire fram'd of burnisht Yvory, The other all with silver overcast ; And wakefid dogges before them farre doe lye, • Watching to banish Care their enimy, WTio oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe. By them the Sprite doth passe in quietly, And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deepe 359 In drowsie fit he findes : of nothing he takes keepe.2 XLI And more, to luUe him in his slumber soft, A trickhng streame from high rock tiunbling downe. And ever-drizling raine upon the loft, Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne. No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes. As still are v/ont t 'annoy the walled towne. Might there be heard ; but carelesse Quiet lyes 368 Wrapt m etemaU silence farre from enimyes. XLII The Messenger approching to him spake ; But his waste wordes retournd to him in vaine : ^ the god of sleep - frighten ^ dispersed heed 114 EDMUND SPENSER So sound he slept that nought mought ^ him awak©;j; Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with paine, Whereat he gan to stretch ; but he againe Shooke him so hard that forced him to speake. As one then in a dreame, whose dryer braine Is tost with troubled sights and fancies weake, lie mumbled soft, but would not all his silence breake. 378 XLIII The Sprite then gan more boldly him to wake, And threatned unto him the dreaded name Of Hecate : whereat he gan to quake, And, lifting up his lompish head, with blame Halfe angrie asked him, for what he came. "Hether (quoth he) "me Archimago sent. He that the stubborne Sprites can wisely tame. He bids thee to him send for his intent 386 A fit false dreame, that can delude the sleepers sent." CANTO III I Nought is there under heav'ns wide hollow- nesse, That moves more deare compassion of mind. Then beautie brought t'unworthie wretched- nesse Through envies snares, or fortunes freakes unkind. I, whether lately through her brightnes blynd, Or through alleagcance and fast fealty, Which I do owe unto all womankynd, Feele my hart perst with so great agony, 8 When such I sec, that all for pitty I could dy. II And now it is empassioned so decpe, For fairest Unaes sake, of whom I sing, That my frayle eies these lines with teares do steepe, To thinke how she through guyleful han- deling, Though true as touch, though daughter of a king, _ Though faire as ever living wight was fayre. Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting, Is from her knight divorced in despayre, x\nd her dew loves dery v'd to that vile witches shayre.. iS III Yet she, most faithfull Ladie, all this while Forsaken, wofuU, solitarie mayd. Far from all peoples preace,i as in exile. In wildernesse and wast full deserts straj^d, To seeke her knight ; who, subtily betrayd Through that late vision which th' En- chaunter wrought, Had her abandond. She, of nought affrayd. Through woods and wastnes wide him daily sought ; 26 Yet wished tydinges none of him unto her brought. IV One day, nigh wearie of the 3Tksome v.^ay, From her unhastie beaste she did alight ; And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay, In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight : From her fayre head her fillet she undight, And layd her stole aside. Her angels face, As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place ; Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly grace. 36 V It fortuned, out of the thickest wood A ramping Lyon rushed suddeinly, Hunting full greedy after salvage^ blood. Soone as the royall virgin he did spy, With gaping mouth at her ran greedily. To have attonce devourd her tender corse; But to the pray when as he drew more ny, His bloody rage aswaged with remorse,^ 44 And with the sight amazd, forgat his furious forse. ^ might ^ press, throng ^ savage pity EPITHALAMION 115 VI In stead thereof he kist her wearie feet, -Ajid lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong, As he her wronged innocence did weet.^ O how can beautie maister the mo3t strong, And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! ^^"hose yielded pryde and proud submission. Still dreading death, when she had marked long, Her hart gan melt in great compassion ; 53 And drizling teares did shed for pure affection. From EPITHALAMION Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes Been to me aiding, others to adorn, Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful rimes, That even the greatest did not greatly scorn ■ To hear their names sung in your sunple lays, But joyed in their praise ; And when ye list your own mishaps to mourn, Which Death, or Love, or Fortune's wreck did raise, Your string could soon to sadder tenor turn. And teach the woods and waters to lament Your doleful dreariment : 11 Now lay those sorrowful complaints aside ; And, having all yoiu" heads with garlands crowned, Help me mine own love's praises to resound ; Ne let the same of any be envied ; So Orpheus did for his own bride ! So I unto myself alone will sing ; The woods shall to me answer, and my echo ring. Early, before the world's light-giving lamp His golden beam upon the hills doth spread. Having dispersed the night's uncheerful damp, 21 Do ye awake, and, with fresh lustihed,- Go to the bower of my beloved love, My truest turtle dove ; Bid her awake ; for Hymen is awake, And long since ready forth his mask to move, With his bright tead ^ that flames with many a flake. And many a bachelor to wait on him. In their fresh garments trim ; Bid her awake therefore, and soon her dight, For lo ! the wished day is come at last, 31 ^ know - lustiness torch That shall, for all the pains and sorrows past, Pay to her usury of long delight : And, whilst she doth her dight. Do ye to her of joy and solace sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Bring with you all the nymphs that you can hear. Both of the rivers and the forests green. And of the sea that neighbours to her near. All with gay garlands goodly well beseen ; 40 And let them also with them bring in hand Another gay garland. For my fair love, of lilies and of roses. Bound truelove-wise with a blue silk riband ; And let them make great store of bridal posies, And let them eke bring store of other flowers, To deck the bridal bowers ; And let the ground whereas ^ her foot shall tread. For fear the stones her tender foot should wrong. Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along, 50 And diapered - like the discoloured ^ mead ; Which done, do at her chamber door await. For she will waken straight ; The whiles do ye this song unto her sing. The woods shall to you answer, and your echo ring. Wake now, my love, awake ! for it is time ; The rosy mom long since left Tithon's bed, 75 All ready to her sflver coach to climb ; And Phoebus * 'gins to show his glorious head. Hark, how the cheerful birds do chant their lays And carol of love's praise. The merry lark her matins sings aloft ; So The thrush replies ; the mavis descant plays ; The ouzel shrills ; the ruddock warbles soft ; . So goodly all agree, with sweet concent,* To this day's merriment. Ah ! my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long When meeter were that ye should now awake, T' await the coming of your joyous make,^ And hearken to the birds' love-learned song. The dewy leaves among ! For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, 90 That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring. 1 where - marked ^ vari-coloured ^ the sun * harmony ® mate ii6 EDMUND SPENSER My love is now awake out of her dreams, And her fair eyes, hke stars that dimmed were With darksome cloud, now show their goodly beams More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear. Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, Help quickly her to dight : But first come ye, fair Hours, which were begot. In Jove's sweet paradise, of Day and Night ; Which do the seasons of the year allot, loo And all that ever in this world is fair Do make and still repair : And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian queen, The which do still adorn her beauty's pride. Help to adorn my beautifulest bride ; And as ye her array, still throw between Some graces to be seen. And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing. The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring. Lo ! where she comes along with portly pace. Like Phoebe,^ from her chamber of the East, Arising forth to run her mighty race, 150 Clad all in white, that 'seems a virgin best. So well it her beseems that ye would ween Some angel she had been. Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire. Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween, Do like a golden mantle her attire ; And, being crowned with a garland green, Seem like some maiden queen. Her modest eyes, abashed to behold So many gazers as on her do stare, 1 60 Upon the lowly ground affixed are ; Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold. But blush to hear her praises sung so loud, So far from being proud. Nathless^ do ye still loud her praises sing, That all the w^oods may answer, and your echo ring. :jc :}c ^ :{: :{£ :{e »t; But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, 1S5 The inward beauty of her lively spright,^ Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree. Much more then would ye wonder at that sight. And stand astonished like to those which read Medusa's mazeful head. iqo There dwells sweet love, and constant chastity, Unspotted faith, and comely womanhood, the moon ^ nevertheless spirit Regard of honour, and mild modesty ; There virtue reigns as queen in royal throne, And giveth laws alone. The which the base affections do obey, And yield their services unto her will ; Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may Thereto approach, to tempt her mind to ill. Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures And unrevealed pleasures, 201 Then would ye wonder, and her praises sing. That all the woods should answer, and your echo ring. Open the temple gates unto my love. Open them wide, that she may enter in, And all the posts adorn as doth behove. And all the pillars deck with garlands trim, For to receive this Saint with honour due, That Cometh in to you. With trembling steps and humble reverence She Cometh in, before th' Almighty's view ; Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience, 212 When so ye come into those holy places, To humble your proud faces : Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may The sacred ceremonies there partake. The which do endless matrimony make ; And let the roaring organs loudly play The praises of the Lord in lively notes ; The whiles, with hollow throats, 220 The choristers the joyous anthem sing, That all the woods may answer, and their echo Behold, whiles she before the altar stands. Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks And blesseth her with his two happy hands. How the red roses flush up in her cheeks And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain, Like crimson dyed in grain : That even th' angels, which continually About the sacred altar do remain, 230 Forget their service and about her fly, Oft peeping in her face, that seem.s more fair, The more they on it stare. But her sad ^ eyes, still fast'ned on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty, That suffers not one look to glance awry Which may let in a little thought unsound. Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, The pledge of all our band ? Sing, ye sweet angels, Alleluia sing, 240 That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. 1 CArir^iic AMORETTI 117 Now all is done : bring home the bride again ; Bring home the triumph of our victory : Bring home with you the glory of her gain, With joyance bring her and with jollity. Never had man more joyful day than this Whom heaven would heap with bliss ; Make feast therefore now all this live-long day; This day for ever to me holy is. Pour out the wine without restraint or stay, Pour not by cups, but by the bellyful, 251 Pour out to all that will, And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine, That they may sweat and drunken be withal. Crown ye god Bacchus with a coronal. And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine ; And let the Graces dance unto the rest. For they can do it best : The whiles the maidens do their carol sing, To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring. 260 Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town, And leave your wonted labours for this day : This day is holy ; do ye write it down. That ye forever it remember may ; This day the sun is in his chiefest height. With Barnaby the bright. From whence dechning daily by degrees. He somewhat loseth of his heat and light. When once the Crab behind his back he sees. But for this time it ill ordained was, 270 To choose the longest day in all the year. And shortest night, when longest fitter were : Yet never day so long, but late would pass. Ring ye the bells, to make it wear away. And bonfires make all day ; And dance about them, and about them sing. That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Ah ! when will this long weary day have end, And lend me leave to come unto my love ? How slowly do the hours their numbers spend ! How slowly does sad Time his feathers move ! Haste thee, O fairest planet, to thy home, 282 Within the western foam : Thy tired steeds long since have need of rest. Long though it be, at last I see it gloom. And the bright evening-star with golden crest Appear out of the East. Fair child of beauty ! glorious lamp of love ! That all the hosts of heaven in ranks dost lead, And guidest lovers through the nightes dread. How cheerfully thou lookest from above, 291 And seem'st to laugh atween thy twinkling light, As joying in the sight Of these glad many, which for joy do sing. That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring ! Now cease, ye damsels, your delights forepast ; Enough it is that all the day was yours : Now day is done, and night is nighing fast, Now brmg the bride into the bridal bowers. The night is come, now soon her disarray, 300 .And in her bed her lay ; Lay her in lilies and in violets, And silken curtains over her display, And odoured sheets, and Arras coverlets. Behold how goodly my fair love does lie, In proud humility ! Like unto Maia, whenas Jove' her took In Tempe, lying on the flowery grass, 'Twixt sleep and wake, after she weary was With bathing in the AcidaHan brook. 310 Now it is night, ye damsels may be gone, And leave my love alone. And leave likewise your former lay to sing : The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo ring. Song! made in lieu of Juany ornaments, 427 With which my love should duly have been decked, Which cutting ojf through hasty accidents. Ye would not stay your due time to expect, 430 But promised both to recompense ; Be unto her a goodly ornament, And for short time an endless monument! AMORETTI vni More than most fair, full of the living fire Kindled above unto the Maker near ; No eyes, but joys, in which all powers con- spire. That to the world naught else be counted dear ; Through your bright beams doth not the blinded guest Shoot out his darts to base affections wound ; But angels come, to lead frail minds to rest In chaste desires, on heavenly beauty bound. You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within ; You stop my tongue, and teach my heart to speak ; 10 11} EDMUND SPENSER You calm the storm that passion did begin, Strong through your cause, but by your virtue weak. Dark is the world where your light shined never ; Well is he born that may behold you ever. XXIV Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide By conduct of some star doth make her way, Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty guide, / Out of her course doth wander far astray ; So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray Me to direct, with clouds is overcast. Do wander now, in darkness and dismay. Through hidden perils round about me placed ; Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past, My Helice, the lodestar of my life, lo Will shine again, and look on me at last, With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief : Till then I wander careful, comfortless, In secret sorrow and sad pensiveness. PROTHALAMION Calm was the day, and through the trembling air Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play, A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair ; When I (whom sullen care, Through discontent of my long fruitless stay In princes' court, and expectation vain Of idle hopes, which still do fly away, Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain) Walked forth, to ease my pain, lo Along the shore of silver streaming Thames ; Whose rutty ^ bank, the which his river hems, Was painted all with variable flowers. And all the meads adorned with dainty gems, Fit to deck maidens' bowers. And crown their paramours, Against the bridal day, which is not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. There, in a meadow, by the river's side, A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy, 20 All lovely daughters of the flood thereby, With goodly greenish locks, all loose untied, As each had been a bride : And each one had a little wicker basket, Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously. In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket. And with fine fingers cropt full feateously ^ The tender stalks on high. Of every sort which in that meadow grew They gathered some ; the violet, paUid blue. The little daisy, that at evening closes, 31 The virgin lily, and the primrose true. With store of vermeil roses. To deck their bridegroom's posies, Against the bridal day, which was not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, tiU I end my song. With that, I saw two swans of goodly hue Come softly swimming down along the Lee ; 38 Two fairer birds I yet did never see ; The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew Did never whiter shew, Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be For love of Leda, whiter did appear ; Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he. Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near ; So purely white they were. That even the gentle stream, the which them bare, Seemed foul to them, and bade his billows spare To wet their silken feathers, lest they might Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair. And mar their beauties bright, 51 That shone as heaven's fight, Against their bridal day, which was not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, tiU I end my song. Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fiU, Ran all in haste to see that silver brood. As they came floating on the crystal flood ; Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still, Their wondering eyes to fiU ; 59 Them seemed they never saw a sight so fair Of fowls so lovely, that they sure did deem Them heavenly bom, or to be that same pair Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team ; For sure they did not seem To be begot of any earthly seed, ^ rooty ^ neatly PROTHALAMION 119 But ralher angels, or of angels' breed ; Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say. In sweetest season, when each flower and weed The earth did fresh array ; So fresh they seemed as day, 70 Even as their bridal day, which was not long : Sweet Thames ! rim softly, till I end my song. Then forth they all out of their baskets drew Great store of flowers, the honour of the field, That to the sense did fragrant odours yield. All which upon those goodly birds they threw, And all the waves did strew, That like old Peneus' waters they did seem, When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore, Scattered with flowers, through Thessaly they stream, 80 That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store, Like a bride's chamber floor. Two of those nymphs, meanwhile, two gar- lands bound Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found, The which presenting all in trim array, Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crowned. Whilst one did sing this lay, Prepared against that day, Against their bridal day, which was not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 90 "Ye gentle birds ! the world's fair ornament. And heaven's glory, whom this happy hour Doth lead unto your lover's blissful bower, Joy may you have, and gentle hearts' content Of your love's couplement ; And let fair Venus, that is queen of love. With her heart-quelling son upon you smile, Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile For ever to assoil ; 100 Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord. And blessed plenty wait upon your board ; And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound, That fruitful issue may to you afford, Which may your foes confound, And make your joys redound Upon your bridal day, which is not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song." So ended she ; and all the rest around To her redoubled that her undersong, 1 1 o W' hich said their bridal day should not be long : And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground Their accents did resound. So forth those joyous birds did pass along, Adown the Lee, that to them murmured low, As he would speak, but that he lacked a tongue, Yet did by signs his glad affection show. Making his stream run slow. And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell 'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel The rest, so far as Cynthia^ doth shend - 121 The lesser stars. So the}', enranged well, Did on those two attend. And their best service lend. Against their wedding day, which was not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. At length they all to merry London came. To merry London, my most kindly nurse. That to me gave this life's first native source ; Though from another place I take my name, An house of ancient fame: 131 There v.'hen they came, whereas ^ those bricky towers The which on Thames' broad, aged back do ride. Where now the studious la\^yers have their bowers. There whilom wont the Templar Knights to bide. Till they decayed through pride : Next whereunto there stands a stately place. Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace Of that great lord which therein wont to dwell. Whose want too well now feels my friendless case ; i 40 But ah ! here fits not well Old woes, but joys, to tell, Against the bridal day, which is not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer. Great England's glory, and the world's wide wonder. the moon ^ shame ^ where I20 EDMUND SPENSER Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder, And Hercules' two pillars standing near Did make to quake and fear : Fair branch of honour, flower of cTiivalry ! 1 50 That fillest England with thy triumph's fame, Joy have thou of thy noble victory. And endless happiness of thine own name, That promiseth the same ; That through thy prowess and victorious arms Thy country may be freed from foreign harms ; And great Elisa's glorious name may ring Through all the world, filled with thy wide alarms, Which some brave muse may sing To ages following, 160 Upon the bridal day, which is not long : Sweet Thames ' run softly, till I end my song. From those high towers this noble lord issuing, Like radiant Hesper when his golden hair In th' ocean billows he hath bathed fair, Descended to the river's open viewing, With a great train ensuing. Above the rest were goodly to be seen Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature Beseeming well the bower of any queen, 170 With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature. Fit for so goodly stature, That like the twins of Jove they seemed in sight, Which deck the baldrick of the heavens bright ; They two, forth pacing to the river's side. Received those two fair brides, their love's delight ; Which, at th' appointed tide, Each one did make his bride, 178 Against their bridal day, which is not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. From AN HYMN IN HONOUR OF BEAUTY What time this world's great Workmaster did cast To make all things such as we now behold, 30 It seems that he before his eyes had placed A goodly pattern, to whose perfect mould He fashioned them as comely as he could. That now so fair and seemly they appear As nought may be amended anywhere. 35 That wondrous pattern, wheresoe'er it be, Whether in earth laid up in secret store. Or else in heaven, that no man may it see With sinful eyes, for fear it to deflore,^ Is perfect Beauty, which all men adore ; 40 Whose face and feature doth so much excel All mortal sense, that none the same may tell. Thereof as every earthly thing partakes Or more or less, by influence divine. So it more fair accordingly it makes, 45 And the gross matter of this earthly mine Which clotheth it, thereafter doth refine. Doing away the dross which dims the light Of that fair beam which therein is empight.^ For, through infusion of celestial power 50 The duller earth it quickeneth with delight. And life-full spirits privily doth pour Through all the parts, that to the looker's sight They seem to please. That is thy sovereign might, O Cyprian queen ! which, flowing from the beam Of thy bright star, thou into them dost stream. That is the thing which giveth pleasant grace To all things fair, that kindleth lively fire. Light of thy lamp ; which, shining in the face. Thence to the soul darts amorous desire, 60 And robs the hearts of those which it admire ; Therewith thou pointest thy son's poisoned arrow. That wounds the life, and wastes the inmost How vainly then do idle wits invent That beauty is nought else but mixture made Of colours fair, and goodly temp'rament ' 66 Of pure complexions, that shall quickly fade And pass away, like to a summer's shade ; Or that it is but comely composition 69 Of parts well measured, with meet disposition ! Hath white and red in it such wondrous power. That it can pierce through th' eyes unto the heart. And therein stir such rage and restless stour,* As nought but death can stint his dolour's smart ? Or can proportion of the outward part 75 Move such affection in the inward mind, That it can rob both sense, and reason blind? ' sully "^ placed ^ mixture * strife AN HYMN OF HEAVENLY BEAUTY 121 Why do not then the blossoms of the field, Which are arrayed with much more orient hue, And to the sense most dainty odours yield, 80 Work like impression in the looker's view ? Or why do not fair pictures like power shew, In which of ttimes we nature see of ^ art Excelled in perfect limning every part ? 84 But ah ! believe me, there is more than so. That works such wonders in the minds of men ; I, that have often prov'd, too well it know, And whoso list the like assays to ken Shall find by trial, and confess it then. That Beauty is not, as fond men misdeem, go An outward show of things that only seem. For that same goodly hue of white and red, With which the cheeks are spruikled, shall decay. And those sweet rosy leaves, so fairly spread Upon the lips, shall fade and fall away 95 To that they were, even to corrupted clay : That golden wire, those sparkling stars so bright Shall turn to dust, and lose their goodly light. Bub that fair lamp, from whose celestial ray That light proceeds which kindleth lovers' fire, Shall never be extinguished nor decay; loi But when the vital spirits do expire, Unto her native planet shall retire ; For it is heavenly born and cannot die, Being a parcel of the purest sky. 105 So every spirit, as it is most pure, 127 And hath in it the more of heavenly light , So it the fairer body doth procure To habit in, and it more fairly dight ^ 130 With cheerful grace and amiable sight ; For of the soul the body form doth take ; For soul is form, and doth the body make. Therefore, wherever that thou dost behold A comely corps, ^ with beauty fair endued, 135 Know this for certain, that the same doth hold A beauteous soul, with fair conditions thewed,^ Fit to receive the seed of virtue strewed ; For all that fair is, is by nature good ; That is a sign to know the gentle blood. 140 Yet oft it falls that many a gentle mind Dwells in deformed tabernacle drowned, Either by chance, against the course of kind. Or through unaptness in the substance found, Which it assumed of some stubborn ground, That will not yield unto her form's direction, But is deformed with some foul imperfection. And oft it falls (ay me, the more to rue !) That goodly beauty, albe heavenly borne, Is foul abused, and that celestial hue, 150 Which doth the world with her delight adorn, Made but the bait of sin, and sinners' scorn. Whilst every one doth seek and sue to have it, But every one doth seek but to deprave it. Yet nathemore ^ is that fair beauty's blame. But theirs that do abuse it unto ill: 156 Nothing so good, but that through guilty shame May be corrupt, and wrested unto will : Natheless the soul is fair and beauteous still. However flesh's fault it filthy make ; 160 For things immortal no corruption take. From AN HYMN OF HEAVENLY BEAUTY The means, therefore, which unto us is lent, Him to behold, is on his works to look. Which he hath made in beauty excellent. And in the same, as in a brazen book, 130 To read enregistered in every nook His goodness, which his beauty doth declare ; For all that's good is beautiful and fair. Thence gathering plumes of perfect specula- tion. To imp the wings of thy high-flying mind, 135 Mount up aloft, through heavenly contempla- tion. From this dark world, whose damps the soul do blind. And like the native brood of eagle's kind. On that bright Sun of Glory fix thine eyes. Cleared from gross mists of frail infirmities. Humbled with fear and awful reverence, 141 Before the footstool of his Majesty, Throw thyself down, with trembling inno- cence, Ne dare look up with corruptible eye On the dread face of that great Deity, 145 For fear lest, if he chance to look on thee. Thou turn to nought, and quite confoimded be. ^ by ^ adorn ^ body * qualities endowed ^ none the more 122 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY But lowly fall before his mercy-seat, Close covered with the Lamb's integrity From the just wrath of his avengeful threat 150 That sits upon the righteous throne on high ; His throne is buUt upon Eternity, More firm and durable than steel or brass, Or the hard diamond, which them both doth pass. His sceptre is the rod of Righteousness, 155 With which he bruiseth all his foes to dust And the great Dragon strongly doth repress Under the rigour of his judgment just ; His seat is Truth, to which the faithful trust. From whence proceed her beams so pure and bright 1 60 That all about him sheddeth glorious light. :^ ric * * :i: * * Ah, then, my hungry soul ! which long hast fed On idle fancies of thy foolish thought. And, with false beauty's flattering bait misled. Hast after vain deceitful shadows sought, 291 Which all are fled, and now have left thee nought But late repentance through thy follies' prief ; ^ Ah ! cease to gaze on matter of thy grief : And look at last up to that Sovereign Light, From whose pure beams all perfect beauty springs, 296 That kindleth love in every godly spright, Even the love of God ; which loathing brings Of this vile world and these gay-seeming things : With whose sweet pleasures being so possessed, Thy straying thoughts henceforth forever rest. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (i 554-1586) ASTROPHEL AND STELLA I Loving in truth, and fain ^ in verse my love to show, That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my i^ain, — Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain, — ^ proof ^ desirous I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe ; Studying inventions fine, her wits to enter- tain. Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun- burn'd brain. But words came halting forth, wanting In- vention's stay ; Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows ; 10 And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way. Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite ; "Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write." XV You that do search for every purling spring Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows, And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows Near thereabouts, into your poesie wring ; ^ Ye that do dictionary's method bring Into your rimes, running in rattling rows ; You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes With new-born sighs and denizen'd wit do sing ; You take wrong ways ; those far-fet^ helps be such As do bewray a want of inward touch,^ 10 And sure, at length stol'n goods do come to light : But if, both for your love and skUl, your name You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame, Stella behold, and then begin to endite. XXXI With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ! How silently, and with how wan a face ! What, may it be that even in heav'nly place That busy archer '^ his sharp arrows tries ! Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, I read it in thy looks ; thy languished grace, ^ force ^ far-fetched ^ feeling ^ Cupid HYMN TO APOLLO 123 To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.^ Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me. Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit ? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet 12 Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? XXXIX Come, Sleep ! Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place^ of wit, the balm of woe. The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Th' indifferent judge between the high and low ; With shield of proof shield me from out the prease ^ Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw : make in me those civil wars to cease ; 1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sv.-eetest bed, A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light, 10 A rosy garland and a weary head : And if these things, as being thine in right, Move not thy heavy^ grace, thou shaft in me, Livelier then else-w^here, Stella's image see. XLI Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize. Both by the judgment of the English eyes And of some sent from that sweet enemy France ; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance, Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise ; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance ; Others, because of both sides I do take 9 IVIy blood from them who did excell in this, Think Nature me a man-at-arms did make. How far they shot awry ! the true cause is, Stella looked on, and from her heav'nly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. THE NIGHTINGALE The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking. While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making, And mournfully bewailing, 5 Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of painful sadness : Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth : 11 Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart in- vadeth. HYMN TO APOLLO Apollo great, whose beams the greater world do light. And in our little world do clear our inw-ard _ sight. Which ever shine, though hid from earth by earthly shade. Whose lights do ever live, but in our darkness fade; Thou god whose youth was decked with spoil of Python's skin 5 (So humble knowledge can throw down the snakish sin) ; Latona's son, whose birth in pain and travail long Doth teach, to learn the good what travails do belong ; In travail of our life (a short but tedious space) , While brickie ^ hour-glass runs, guide thou our panting pace : 10 Give us foresightful minds ; give us minds to obey What foresight tells ; our thoughts upon thy knov/ledge stay. Let so our fruits grow up that Nature be main- tained. But so our hearts keep dow'n, with vice they be not stained. Let this assured hold our judgments over- take. That nothing wins the heaven but what doth earth forsake. 16 ^ reveals - place of refreshment ^ throng brittle 124 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY ARCADIA BOOK I. CHAP. I And now they were already come upon the stays/ when one of the sailors descried a galley which came with sails and oars directly in the chase of them, and straight perceived it was a well-known pirate, who hunted, not only for goods, but for bodies of men, which he employed either to be his galley-slaves or to sell at the best market. Which when the master understood, he commanded forthwith to set on all the canvas they could and fly homeward, leaving in that sort poor Pyrocles, so near to be rescued. But what did not Musidorus say? what did he not offer, to persuade them to venture the fight? But fear, standing at the gates of their ears, put back all persuasions ; so that he had nothmg to accompany Pyrocles but his eyes, nor to succour him but his wishes. Therefore pray- ing for him, and casting a long look that way, he saw the galley leave the pursuit of them and turn to take up the spoils of the other wreck ; and, lastly, he might well see them lift up the young man ; and, "Alas !" said he to himself, "dear Pyrocles, shall that body of thine be enchained? Shall those victori- ous hands of thine be commanded to base offices? Shall virtue become a slave to those that be slaves to viciousness? Alas, better had it been thou hadst ended nobly thy noble days. What death is so evil as unworthy servitude?" But that opinion soon ceased when he saw the galley setting upon another ship, which held long and strong fight with her ; for then he began afresh to fear the life of his friend, and to wish well to thc'pirates, whom before he hated, lest in their ruin he might perish. But the fishermen made such speed into the haven that they absented his eyes from beholding the issue ; where being entered, he could procure neither them nor any other as then ^ to put themselves into the sea ; so that, being as full of sorrow for being unable to do anything as void of counsel how to do anything, besides that sickness grew something upon him, the honest shepherds Strephon and Claius (who, being themselves true friends, did the more perfectly judge the justness of his sorrow) advise him that he ^ come upon the stay.s = go about from one tack to another '^ as then = at the time should mitigate somewhat of his woe, shice he had gotten an amendment in fortune, being come from assured persuasion of his death to have no cause to despair of his life, as one that had lamented the death of his sheej) should after know they were but strayed, would receive pleasure, though readily he knew not where to find them. CHAP. II "Now, sir," said they, "thus for ourselves it is. We are, in profession, but shepherds, and, in this country of Laconia, little better than strangers, and, therefore, neither in skill nor ability of power greatly to stead you. But what we can present unto you is this : Arcadia, of which country we are, is but a little way hence, and even upon the next con- fines. There dwelleth a gentleman, by name Kalander, who vouchsafeth much favour unto us ; a man who for his hospitality is so much haunted ^ that no news stir but come to his ears ; for his upright dealing so beloved of his neighbours that he hath many ever ready to do him their uttermost service, and, by the great goodwill our Prince bears him, may soon obtain the use of his name and credit, which hath a principal sway, not only in his own Arcadia, but in all these countries of Peloponnesus ; and, which is worth all, all these things give him not so much power as his nature gives him will to benefit, so that it seems no music is so sweet to his ear as de- served thanks. To him we wiU bring you, and there you may recover again your health, without which you cannot be able to make any diligent search for your friend, and, therefore but in that respect, you must labour for it. Besides, we are sure the comfort of courtesy and ease of wise counsel shall not be wanting." Musidorus (who, besides he was merely ^ unacquainted in the country, had his wits astonished ^ with sorrow) gave easy consent to that from which he saw no reason to dis- agree ; and therefore, defraying ^ the mariners with a ring bestowed upon them, they took their journey together through Laconia, Claius and Strephon by course carrying his chest for him, Musidorus only bearing in his counte- nance evident marks of a sorrowful mind ^ visited - entirely ^ stricken * paying ARCADIA 125 supported with a weak body ; which they per- ceiving, and knowing that the violence of sorrow is not, at the first, to be striven withal (being like a mighty beast, sooner tamed with following than overthrown by withstanding) they gave way unto it for that day and the next, never troubling him, either with asking questions or finding fault with his melancholy, but rather fitting to his dolour dolorous dis- courses of their own and other folk's misfor- tunes. Which speeches, though they had not a lively entrance to his senses, shut up in sor- row, yet, like one half asleep, he took hold of much of the matters spoken unto him, so as a man may say, ere sorrow was aware, they made his thoughts bear away something else beside his own sorrow, which wrought so in him that at length he grew content to mark their speeches, then to marvel at such wit in shepherds, after to like their company, and lastly to vouchsafe conference ; so that the third day after, in the time that the morning did strow roses and violets in the heavenly floor against the coming of the sun, the night- ingales, striving one with the other which could in most dainty variety recount their wrong-caused sorrow, made them put off their sleep ; and, rising from under a tree, which that night had been their pavilion, they went on their journey, which by and by welcomed IMusidorus' eyes, wearied with the wasted soil of Laconia, with delightful prospects. There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with refreshing of silver rivers ; meadows enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers ; thickets v.hich, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so to by the cheerful disposi- tion of many well-tuned birds ; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security, v.hile the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dams' comfort : here a shepherd's boy piping, as though he should never be old ; there a young" shepherdess knitting, and v.-ithal singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice's music. As for the houses of the country (for many houses came under their eye) they were all scattered, no two being one by the other, and yet not so far off as that it barred mutual succour : a show, as it were, of an accompanable ^ soli- tariness, and of a civiP wildness. "I pray you," said IMusidorus, then first unsealing his long-silent lips, "what countries be these we pass through, which are so diverse in show, the one wanting no store,'-' the other having no store but of want?" "The country," answered Claius, "where you were cast ashore, and now are passed through, is Laconia, not so poor by the barrenness of the soil (though in itself not passing fertile) as by a civil war, which, being these two years within the bowels of that estate, between the gentlemen and the peas- ants (by them named helots) hath in this sort, as it were, disfigured the face of nature and made it so unhospitall as now you have found it ; the towns neither of the one side nor the other wilhngly opening their gates to strangers, nor strangers willingly entering, for fear of being mistaken. "But this country, where now you set your foot, is Arcadia; and even hard by is the house of Kalander, whither we lead you: this country being thus decked with peace and (the child of peace) good husbandry. These houses you see so scattered are of men, as we two are, that live upon the commodity of their sheep, and therefore, in the division of the Arcadian estate, are termed shepherds ; a happy people, wanting ^ little, because they desire not much." "What cause, then," said Musidorus, "made you venture to leave this sweet life and put yourself in yonder unpleasant and dangerous realm?" "Guarded with pov- erty," answered Strephon, "and guided with love." "But now," said Claius, "since it hath pleased you to ask anything of us, whose baseness is such as the very knowledge is darkness, give us leave to know something of you and of the young man you so much la- ment, that at least we may be the better in- structed to inform Kalander, and he the better know how to proportion his entertain- ment." Musidorus, according to the agree- ment between Pyrocles and him to alter their names, answered that he called himself Palladius, and his friend Daiphantus. "But, till I have him again," said he, "I am indeed nothing, and therefore my story is of nothing. His entertainment, since so good a man he is, cannot be so low as I account my estate; and, in simi, the sum of all his courtesy may companionable civilized ^ plenty ^ lacking 126 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY be to help me by some means to seek my friend." They perceived he was not wilhng to open himself further, and therefore, without further questioning, brought him to the house ; about which they might see (with fit consider- ation both of the air, the prospect, and the nature of the ground) all such necessary additions to a great house as might well show Kalander knew that provision is the founda- tion of hospitality, and thrift the fuel of mag- nificence. The house itself was built of fair and strong stone, not affecting so much any extraordinary kind of fineness as an honour- able representing of a firm stateliness ; the lights, doors, and stairs rather directed to the use of the guest than to the eye of the artificer, and yet as the one chiefly heeded, so the other not neglected ; each place handsome without curiosity, and homely without loathsomeness ; not so dainty as not to be trod on, nor yet slubbered up ^ with good-fellowship ; ^ all more lasting than beautiful, but that the con- sideration of the exceeding lastingness made the eye believe it was exceeding beautiful ; the servants, not so many in number as cleanly in apparel and serviceable in behav- iour, testifying even in their countenances that their master took as well care to be served as of them that did serve. One of them was forthwith ready to welcome the shepherds, as men who, though they were poor, their master greatly favoured ; and understanding by them that the young man v/ith them was to be much accounted of, for that they had seen tokens of more than common greatness, howsoever now eclipsed with fortune, he ran to his master, who came presently forth, and pleasantly welcoming the shepherds, but es- pecially applying him to Musidorus, Strephon privately told him all what he knew of him, and particularly that he found this stranger was loth to be known. "No," said Kalander, speaking aloud, "I am no herald to inquire of men's pedigrees; it sufficeth me if I know their virtues ; which, if this young man's face be not a false witness, do better apparel his mind than you have done his body." While he was speaking, there came a boy, in show like a merchant's prentice, who, taking Strephon by the sleeve, delivered him a letter, written jointly both to him and Claius from Urania ; which they no sooner had read, but that with short leave-taking of Kalander, who quickly guessed and smiled at the matter, and once again, though hastily, recommending the young man unto him, they went away, leaving Musidorus even loth to part with them, for the good conversation he had of them, and obligation he accounted himself tied in unto them ; and therefore, they delivering his chest unto him, he opened it, and would have presented them with two very rich jewels, but they absolutely refused them, telling him they were more than enough rewarded in the knowing of him, and without hearkening unto a reply, like men whose hearts disdained all desires but one, gat speedily away, as if the letter had brought wings to make them fly. But by that sight Kalander soon judged that his guest was of no mean calling ; ^ and therefore the more respectfully enter tainmg him, Musidorus found his sick- ness, which the fight, the sea, and late travel had laid upon him, grow greatly, so that fear- ing some sudden accident, he delivered the chest to Kalander, which was full of most precious stones, gorgeously and cmmingly set in divers manners, desiring him he would keep those trifles, and if he died,' he would bestow so much of it as was needful to find out and redeem a young man naming him- self Daiphantus, as then in the hands of La- conian pirates. But Kalander seeing him faint more and more, with careful speed conveyed him to the most commodious lodging in his house ; where, being possessed with an extreme burning fever, he continued some while with no great hope of life ; but youth at length got the victory of sickness, so that in six weeks the excellency of his returned beauty was a credible ambas- sador of his health, to the great jo}^ of Kal- ander, who, as in this time he had by certain friends of his, that dwelt near the sea in Messenia, set forth a ship and a galley to seek and succour Daiphantus, so at home did he omit nothing which he -thought might either profit or gratify Palladius. For, having found in him (besides his bodily gifts, beyond the degree of admiration) by daily discourses, which he delighted himself to have with him, a mind of most excellent composition (a piercing wit, quite void of ostentation, high-erected thoughts seated in a heart of courtesy, an eloquence as sweet in * made slovenly ^ revelry rank JOHN LYLY 127 the uttering as slow to come to the uttering, a behaviour so noble as gave a majesty to adversity, and all in a man whose age could not be above one-and-twenty years), the good old man was even enamoured with a fatherly love towards him, or rather became his servant by the bonds such virtue laid upon him ; once, he acknowledged himself so to be, by the badge of diligent attendance. JOHN LYLY (1554-1606) From EUPHUES AND HIS ENGLAND "I perceive, Camilla, that be your cloth never so bad, it will take some colour, and your cause never so false, it will bear some show of probability, wherein you manifest the right nature of a woman, who having no way to win, thinketh to overcome with words. This I gather by your answer, that beauty may have fair leaves, and foid fruit, that all that are amiable are not honest, that love proceedeth of the woman's perfection, and the man's follies, that the trial looked for, is to perform whatsoever they promise, that in mind he be virtuous, in body comely, such a husband in my opinion is to be wished for, but not looked for. Take heed, Camilla, that seeking all the wood for a straight stick you choose not at the last a crooked staS, or prescribing a good coimsel to others, thou thyself foUow the worst : much like to Chius, who selling the best wine to others, drank himself of the lees." "Truly," quoth Camilla, "my wool was black, and therefore it could take no other colour, and my cause good, and therefore admitteth no cavil : as for the rules I set down of love, they were not coined of me, but learned, and, being so true, believed. If my fortune be so ill that, searching for a wand, I gather a cammock,^ or, selling wine to other, I drink vinegar myself, I must be content, that of the worst, poor help, patience,^ which by so much the more is to be borne, by how much the more it is perforce." As Surius was speaking, the Lady Flavia prevented him, saying, "It is time that you break off your speech, lest we have nothing to speak, for should you wade any farther, you ^ crooked stick ^ = with the only contentment possible at the worst, the poor help patience would both waste the night and leave us no time, and take our reasons and leave us no matter ; that every one therefore may say somewhat, we command you to cease ; that you have both said so well, we give you thanks." The Lady Flavia speaking in his cast,^ proceeded in this manner : "Truly, Martins, I had not thought that as yet your colt's tooth stuck in your mouth," or that so old a truant in love, could hitherto remember his lesson. You seem not to infer that it is requisite they should meet, but being in love that it is convenient, lest, falling into a mad mood, they pine in their own peevish- ness. Why then let it follow, that the drunk- ard which surfeiteth with wine be always quaifing, because he liketh it, or the epicure which glntteth himself with meat be ever eating, for that it contenteth him, not seeking at any time the means to redress their vices, but to renew them. But it fareth with the lover as it doth with hun that poureth in much wine, who is ever more thirsty than he that drinketh moderately, for having once tasted the delights of love, he desireth most the thing that hurteth him most, not laying a plaster to the wound, but a corrosive. "I am of this mind, that if it be dangerous, to lay flax to the fire, salt to the e}'es, sulphur to the nose, that then it cannot be but perilous to let one lover come in presence of the other." Surius overhearing the lady, and seeing her so earnest, ^.Ithough he were more earnest in his suit to Camilla, cut her off with these words : "Good Madam, give me leave either to depart, or to speak, for in truth you gall me more with these terms, than you wist,^ in seeming to inveigh so bitterly against the meeting of lovers, which is the onl}^ marrow of love, and though I doubt not but that Martius is sufficiently armed to answer you, yet would I not have those reasons refelled,'' which I loathe to have repeated. It may be you utter them not of malice you bear to love, but only to move controversy where there is no question : ^ for if thou en\'y to have lovers meet, why did you grant us; if allow it, why seek you to separate us?" ^ st3'le, manner ^ i.e. I had not thought that you still retained the wanton tendencies of your youth ^ know * refuted * difference of opinion 128 JOHN LYLY The good lady could not refrain from laughter, when she saw Surius so angry, who in the midst of his own tale, was troubled with hers, whom she thus again answered. "I cry you mercy ,^ gentleman, I had not thought to have catched you, when I fished for another, but I perceive now that with one bean it is easy to get two pigeons, and with one bait to have divers bites. I see that others may guess where the shoe wrings, besides him that wears it." "Madam," quoth Surius, "you have caught a frog, if I be not deceived, and therefore as good it were not to hurt him, as not to eat him, but if all this while you angled to have a bite at a lover, you should have used no bitter medi- cines, but pleasant baits." "I cannot tell," answered Flavia, "whether my bait were bitter or not, but sure I am I have the fish by the gill, that doth me good." Camilla not thinking to be silent, put in her spoke as she thought into the best wheel, saying, "Lady, your cunning may deceive you in fishing with an angle, therefore to catch him you would have, you were best to use a net." "A net !" quoth Flavia, "I need none, for my fish playeth in a net already." With that Surius began to wince, replying immediately, " So doth many a fish, good lady, that slippeth out, when the fisher thinketh him fast in, and it may be, that either your net is too weak to hold him, or your hand too wet." "A wet hand," quoth Flavia, "will hold a dead her- ring:" "Aye," quoth Surius, "but eels are no herrings." "But lovers are," said FJavia. Surius not willing to have the grass mown, whereof he meant to make his hay, began thus to conclude : " Good Lady, leave off fishing for this time, and though it be Lent, rather break a statute which is but penal, than sew ^ a pond that may be perpetual." " I am content," quoth Flavia, "rather to fast for once, than to want a pleas- ure forever: yet, Surius, betwixt us two, I will at large prove, that there is nothing in love more venomous than meeting, which filleth the mind with grief and the body with diseases: for having the one, he cannot fail of the other. But now, Philautus and niece Francis, since I am cut off, begin you : but be short, because the time is short, and that I was more short than I would." APELLES' SONG Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows. His mother's doves and team of sparrows : Loses them too ; then down he throws 5 The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how); With these the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin ; All these did my Campaspe win. 10 At last he set her both his eyes ; She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love, has she done this to thee? What shall, alas ! become of me ? SPRING'S WELCOME What bird so sings, yet so does wail ? 'tis the ravished nightingale. "Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu," she cries. And still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick-song ! who is't now we hear ? 5 None but the lark so shrill and clear ; Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings. The morn not waking till she sings. Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat Poor robin redbreast tunes his note; 10 Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing. Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring ; Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring ! FAIRY REVELS Omnes. Pinch him, pinch him black and blue; Saucy mortals must not view What the queen of stars is doing, Nor pry into our fairy wooing. 1 Fairy. Pinch him blue — ■ 5 2 Fairy. And pinch him black — 3 Fairy. Let him not lack Sharp nails to pinch him blue and red. Till sleep has rocked his addlehead. 4 Fairy. For the trespass he hath done, 10 Spots o'er all his flesh shall run. Kiss Endymion, kiss his eyes, Then to our midnight heydeguyes.^ ^ I beg your pardon "^ drain, empty ^ countrv dances THOMAS LODGE 129 THOMAS LODGE (i558?-i625) From ROS.ALYNDE: EUPHUES' GOLDEN LEGACY They came no sooner nigh the folds, but they might see where their discontented forester was walking in his melancholy. As soon as AJiena saw him, she smiled, and said to Ganimede: "Wipe your eyes, sweeting, for yonder is your sweetheart this morning, in deep prayers no doubt to Venus, that she ma}' make you as pitiful as he is passionate. Come on, Ganimede, I pray thee let's have a little sport with him." "Content," quoth Ganimede, and with that, to waken him out of his deep memento,^ he - began thus : "Forester, good fortune to thy thoughts, and ease to thy passions ! What .makes you so early abroad this morn, in contemplation, no doubt, of your Rosalynde? Take heed, forester, step not too far; the ford may be deep, and you slip over the shoes. I tell thee, flies have their spleen, the ants choler, the least hairs shadows, and the smallest loves great desires. Tis good, forester, to love, but not to overlove, lest, in loving her that likes not thee, thou fold thyself in an endless labyrinth." Rosader seeing the fair shep- herdess and her pretty swain, in whose com- pany he felt the greatest ease of his care, he returned them a salute on this manner: " Gentle shepherds, all hail, and as healthful be your flocks as you happy in content. Love is restless, and my bed is but the cell of my bane, in that there I find busy thoughts and broken slumbers. Here, although every- where passionate,^ yet I brook love with more patience, in that every object feeds mine eye with variety of fancies. When I look on Flora's beauteous tapestry, checkered with the pride ni all her treasure, I call to mind the fair face of Rosalynde, whose heavenly hue exceeds the rose and the lily in their highest excellence. The brightness of Phoebus' shine puts me in mind to think of the sparkling flames that flew from her eyes and set my heart first on fire ; the sweet harmony of the birds puts me in remembrance of the rare, melody of her voice, which like the Syren enchanteth the ears of the hearer. Thus ' meditation ^ he = Rosalynde disguised as Ganimede ' troubled in contemplation I salve my sorrows, with applying the perfection of every object to the excellence of her qualities." "She is much beholding imto you," quoth Aliena, "and so much that I have oft wished with myself that if I should ever prove as amorous as CEnone, I might find as faithful a Paris as yourself." "How say you by this Item, forester?" quoth Ganimede. "The fair shepherdess favours you, who is mistress of so many flocks. Leave off, man, the supposition of Rosalynde's love, whenas, watching at her, you rove be- yond the moon ; and cast your looks upon my mistress, who no doubt is as fair though not so royal. One bird in the hand is worth two in the wood ; better possess the love of Aliena, than catch frivolouslv at the shadow of Rosa- lynde." "I'll tell thee, boy," quoth RosaSer; "so is my fancy fixed on my Rosalynde, that were thy mistress as fair as Leda or Danae, whom Jove courted in transformed shapes, mine eyes would not vouch ^ to entertain their beauties ; and so hath Love locked me in her perfections, that I had rather only contem- plate in her beauties, than absolutely possess the excellence of any other." "Venus is to blame, forester, if, having so true a servant of you, she reward you not with Rosah'nde, if Rosalynde were more fairer than herself. But leaving this prattle, now ril put you in mind of your promise about those sonnets which you said were at home in your lodge." "I have them about me," quoth Rosader; "let us sit down, and then you shall hear what a poetical fury Love will infuse into a man." With that they sat down upon a green bank shadowed with fig trees, and Rosader, fetching a deep sigh, read them this sonnet : Rosader 's Sonnet In sorrow's cell I laid me down to sleep, But waking woes were jealous of mine eyes. They made them watch, and bend themselves to weep ; But weeping tears their want could not suffice. Yet since for her they wept who guides my heart. They, weeping, smile and triumph in their smart. ^ condescend I30 THOMAS LODGE Of these my tears a fountain fiercely springs, Where Venus bains ^ herself incensed with love; Where Cupid boweth his fair feathered wings. But I behold what pains I must approve. Care drinks it dry ; but when on her I think, Love makes me weep it full unto the brink. Meanwhile my sighs yield truce vmto my tears, By them the winds increased and fiercely blow ; Yet when I sigh, the flame more plain appears, And by their force with greater power doth glow. Amidst these pains all Phoenix-like I thrive, Since Love that yields me death may life revive. , Rosader, en esperance.^ "Now surely, forester,'' quoth Aliena, "when thou madest this sonnet, thou wert in some amorous quandary, neither too fearful, as despairing of thy mistress' favours, nor too gleesome, as hoping in thy fortunes." "I can smile," quoth Ganimede, "at the sonet- toes, canzones, madrigals, rounds and rounde- lays, that these pensive patients pour out, when their eyes are more full of wantonness than their hearts of passions. Then, as the fishers put the sweetest bait to the fairest fish, so these Ovidians,^ holding Amo in their tongues, when their thoughts come at hap- hazard, write that they be wrapped in an end- less labyrinth of sorrow, when, walking in the large lease of liberty, they only have their humours in their inkpot. If they find women so fond,^ that they will with such painted lures come to their lust, then they triumph till they be full gorged with pleasures ; and then fly they away, like ramage kites, to their own content, leaving the tame fool, their mistress, full of fancy, yet without ever a feather. If I hey miss (as dealing with some wary wanton, that wants not such a one as themselves, but spies their subtilty), they end their amours with a few feigned sighs ; and so their excuse is, their mistress is cruel, and they smother passions with patience. Such, gentle forester, we may deem you to be, that rather pass away the time here in these woods with writing amorets, than to be deeply enamoured, as * bathes ^ in hope 'devotees of Ovid's Art of Love '^ foolish ^ untamed hawks you say, of your Rosalynde. If you be such a one, then I pray God, when you think your, fortunes at the highest, and your desires to be most excellent, then that you may with Ixion embrace Juno in a cloud, and have nothing but a marble mistress to release your martyr- dom ; but if you be true and trusty, eye- pained and heart-sick, then accursed be Rosalynde if she prove cruel ; for, forester, (I flatter not) thou art worthy of as fair as she." Aliena, spying the storm by the wind, smiled to see how Ganimede flew to the fist without any call ; but Rosader, who took him flat for a shepherd's swain, made him this answer : "Trust me, swain," quoth. Rosader, "but my canzon ^ was written in no such humour ; for mine eye and my heart are relatives, the one drawing fancy ^ by sight, the other enter- taining he¥ by sorrow. If thou sawest my Rosalynde, with what beauties Nature hath favoured her, with what perfection the heav- ens hath graced her, with what qualities the Gods have endued her, then wouldst thou say, there is none so fickle that could be fleeting unto her. If she had been ^^neas' Dido, had Venus and Juno both scolded him from Car- thage, yet her excellence, despite of them, would have detained him at Tyre. If Phyllis had been as beauteous, or Ariadne as virtu- ous, or both as honourable and excellent as she, neither had the philbert tree sorrowed in the death of despairing Phyllis, nor the stars have been graced wath Ariadne, but Demo- phoon and Theseus had been trusty to their paragons. I will tell thee, swain, if with a deep insight thou couldst pierce into the secret of my loves, and see what deep impres- sions of her idea affection hath made in my heart, then wouldst thou confess I were pass- ing passionate, and no less endued with ad- mirable patience." "Why," quoth Aliena, "needs there patience in Love?" "Or else in nothing," quoth Rosader ; " for it is a rest- less sore that hath no ease, a canker that still frets, a disease that taketh away all hope of sleep. If, then, so many sorrows, sudden joys, momentary pleasures, continual fears, daily griefs, and nightly woes be found in love, then is not he to be accounted patient, that smoth- ers all these passions with silence?" "Thou speakest by experience," quoth Ganimede, "and therefore we hold all thy words for ' a kind of song ^ love ROBERT GREENE 131 axioms. But is love such a lingering mal- ady?" "It is," quoth he, "either extreme or mean, according to the mind of the party that entertains it; for as the weeds grow longer untouched than the pretty flowers, and the flint lies safe in the quarry, when the emerald is suffering the lapidary's tool, so mean men are freed from Venus' injuries, when kings are environed with a labyrinth of her cares. The whiter the lawn is, the deeper is the mole,^ the more purer the chrys- olite the' sooner stained ; and such as have their hearts fuU of honour, have their loves fuU of the greatest sorrows. But in whomso- ever," quoth Rosader, "he fixeth his dart, he never leaveth to assault him, till either he hath won him to folly or fancy ; for as the moon never goes without the star Lunisequa,^ so a lover never goeth without the unrest of his thoughts. For proof you shall hear another fancy of my making." "Now do, gentle forester," quoth Ganimede. And w^ith that he read over this sonetto : Rosader's Second Sonetto Turn T my looks unto the skies, Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes ; If so I gaze upon the ground. Love then in.every flower is found ; Search I the shade to fly my pain, He meets me in the shade again ; Wend I to walk in secret grove. Even there I meet with sacred Love ; If so I bain ^ me in the spring, Even on the brink I hear him sing ; 10 If so I meditate alone. He will be partner of my moan ; If so I mourn, he weeps with me; And where I am, there will he be. Whenas I talk of Rosalynde, The God from coyness waxeth kind, And seems in selfsame flames to fry. Because he loves as well as I. Sweet Rosaljmde, for pity rue, For- why ^ than Love I am more true ; 20 He, if he speed ^ will quickly fly, But in thy love I live and die. " How like you this sonnet ? " quoth Rosader. " Marry," quoth Ganimede, " for the pen well, for the passion ill ; for as I praise the one, I pity the other " . . . . ^ discolored spot ^ Moon-follower * because ^ succeed ^ bathe ROBERT GREENE (i56o?-i592) SONG Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content ; The qvuet mind is richer than a crown ; Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent ; The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown : Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, 5 Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. The homely house that harbours quiet rest ; The cottage that affords no pride nor care ; The mean that 'grees with country music best ; The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare ; Obscured life sets down a type of bliss : 1 1 A mind content both crown and kingdom is. PHILOMELA'S ODE Sitting by a river's side, Where a silent stream did glide, Muse I did of many things That the mind in quiet brings. I 'gan think how some men deem Gold their god ; and some esteem Honour is the chief content That to man in life is lent. And some others do contend, Quiet none like to a friend. 10 Others hold there is no wealth Compared to a perfect health. Some man's mind in quiet stands, When he is lord of many lands. But I did sigh, and said all this Was but a shade of perfect bliss ; And in m}^ thoughts I did approve, Nought so sweet as is true love. Love 'twixt lovers passeth these, W^hen mouth kisseth and heart 'gres, 20 With folded arms and lips meeting, Each soul another sweetly greeting; For by the breath the soul fleeteth, And soul with soul in kissing meeteth. If love be so sweet a thing. That such happy bliss doth bring, Happy is love's sugared thrall, But unhappy maidens all. Who esteem your virgin blisses Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses. 30 No such quiet to the mind As true Love with kisses kind ; 132 ROBERT GREENE But if a kiss prove unchaste, Then is true love quite disgraced. Though love be sweet, learn this of me. No sweet love but honesty. SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD Weep not, my wanton,^ smile upon my knee, When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Mother's wag, pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy ; When thy father first did see 5 Such a boy by him and me. He was glad, I was woe, ■ Fortune changed made him so, When he left his pretty boy. Last his sorrow, first his joy. lo Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Streaming tears that never stint, Like pearl drops from a flint. Fell by course from his eyes, 15 That one another's place supplies ; Thus he grieved in every part. Tears of blood fell from his heart. When he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. 20 Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee. When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. The wanton smiled, father wept. Mother cried, baby leapt ; More he crowed, more he cried, 25 Nature could not sorrow hide : He must go, he must kiss Child and mother, baby bless. For he left his pretty boy. Father's sorrow, father's joy. 30 Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. THE SHEPHERD'S WIFE'S SONG Ah, what is love? It is a pretty thing. As sweet unto a shepherd as a king ; And sweeter too : For kings have cares that wait upon a crown. And cares can make the sweetest love to frown. 5 Ah then, ah then. If country loves such sweet desires do gain. What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? His flocks are folded, he comes home at night, As merry as a king in his delight ; i o And merrier too : For kings bethink them what the state require, Where ^ shepherds careless carol by the fire. Ah then, ah then. If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 1 5 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat His cream and curds as doth the king hi? meat ; And blither too : For kings have often fears when they do sup, Where ^ shepherds dread no poison in their cup. Ah then, ah then, 22 If country loves such sweet desires do gain. What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? To bed he goes, as wanton then, I ween, 25 As is a king in dalUance with a queen ; More wanton too : For kings have many griefs affects ^ to rnove. Where ^ shepherds have no greater grief than love. Ah then, ah then, 30 If country loves such sweet desires do gain. What lady would not love a shepherd swain? Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound. As doth the king upon his bed of down ; More sounder too : 35 For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill. Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill. Ah then, ah then, If country loves such sweet desires do gain. What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? Thus with his wife he spends the year, as blithe 41 As doth the king at every tide or sithe ; ^ And blither too : For kings have wars and broils to take in hand When shepherds laugh and love upon the land. 45 Ah then, ah then. If country loves such sweet desires do gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain? ^ a icrm of endear nient = spoiled darling ^ whereas ^ emotions •' time A GROAT'S WORTH OF WIT 133 Fkom a GROAT'S WORTH OF WIT, BOUGHT WITH A MILLION OF REPENTANCE • On the other side of the hedge sat one that heard his sorrow, who getting over, came towards him, and brake off his passion. When he approached, he saluted Roberto in this sort. " Gentleman," quoth he, " (for so you seem) I have by chance heard you discourse some part of your grief ; which appeareth to be more than you will discover, or I can conceit.^ But if you vouchsafe ^ such simple comfort as my ability will yield, assure yourself that I will endeavour to do the best, that either may procure your profit, or bring you pleasure: the rather, for that I suppose you are a scholar, and pity it is men of learning should live in lack." Roberto wondering to hear such good words, for that this iron age affords few that esteem of virtue, returned him thankfid gratulations, and (urged by necessity) uttered his present grief, beseeching his advice how he might be employed. "Why, easily," quoth he, "and greatly to your benefit : for men of my pro- fession get by scholars their whole living." "What is your profession?" said Roberto. "Truly, sir," said he, "I am a player." "A player," quoth Roberto, "I took you rather for a gentleman of great living, for if by out- ward habit men should be censured,^ I tell you you would be taken for a substantial man." "So am I, where I dwell (quoth the player), reputed able at my proper cost to buUd a windmill.* What though the world once went hard with me, when I was fain to carry my playing fardel * a-footback ; Tempora mutan- tur^ I know you know the meaning of it better than I, but I thus construe it ; it is otherwise now ; for my very share in playing apparel will not be sold for two hundred pounds." "Truly (said Roberto) it is strange, that you should so prosper in that vain practice, for that it seems to me your voice is nothing gracious." "Nay then," said the player, "I mislike your judgment: why, I am as famous for Delphrigus, and the King of Fairies, as ever was any of my time. The Twelve Labours of Hercules have I terribly thundered on the stage, and placed three scenes ^ conceive - supply to receive ' judged * pro- verbially expensive ^ bundle " Times change AE of the Devil on the Highway to Heaven." "Have ye so? (said Roberto) then I pray you pardon me." " Nay, more (quoth the player), I can serve to make a pretty speech, for I was a country author; passing at a moral,^ for it was I that penned the Moral of Man's Wit, the Dialogue of Dives, and for seven years space was absolute interpreter of the puppets. But now my almanac is out of date. The people make no estimation. Of Morals teaching education. Was not this pretty for a plain rhyme ex- tempore? if ye will, ye shall have more." "Nay it is enough," said Roberto, "but how mean you to use me ? " "Why, sir, in making plays," said the other, "for which you shall be well paid, if you will take the pains." Here (gentlemen) break I off Roberto's speech ; whose life in most parts agreeing with mine, found one self punishment as I have done. Hereafter suppose me the said Ro- berto, and I will go on with that he promised : Greene will send you now his groatsworth of wit, that 2 never showed a mitesworth in his life : and though no man now be by to do me good, yet, ere I die, I will by my repentance endeavour to do aU men good. And therefore (while life gives leave) will send warning to my old consorts,^ which have lived as loosely as myself, albeit weakness will scarce suffer me to write, yet to my fellow scholars about this City, will I direct these few ensuing lines. To those Gentlemen his Quondam acquaintance, that spend their wits in making Plays, R. G. wisheth a better exercise, and wisdom to prevent his extremities. If woefid experience may move you (gentle- men) to bev/are, or unheard-of wretchedness entreat you to take heed, I doubt not but you will look back with sorrow on your time past, and endeavour with repentance to spend that which is to come. Wonder not (for with thee will I first begin), thou famous gracer of tragedians, that Greene, who hath said with thee like the fool in his heart, "There is no God," should now give glory unto his great- ^ morality play - who ^ companions 134 ROBERT GREENE ness : for penetrating is his power, his hand Hes heavy upon me, he hath spoken unto me with a voice of thunder, and I have felt he is a God that can punish enemies. Why should thy excellent wit, his gift, be so blinded, that thou shouldst give no glory to the giver ? Is it pestilent Machiavellian policy that thou hast studied ? O Punish ^ folly ! What are his rules but mere confused mockeries, able to extirpate in small time the generation of man- kind. For if Sic volo, sic jubeo,^ hold in those that are able to command : and if it be lawful Fas et nefas ^ to do anything that is beneficial, only tyrants should possess the earth, and they striving to exceed in tyrann3^ should each to other be a slaughter man ; till the mightiest outliviiig all, one stroke were left for Death, that in one age man's life should end. The brother * of this Diabolical Atheism is dead, and in his life had never the felicity he aimed at : but as he began in craft, lived in fear and ended in despair. Qiiam inscrutahUia sunt Dei judicia? ^ This murderer of many brethren had his conscience seared like Cain : this betrayer of Him that gave his life for him inherited the portion of Judas : this apostata perished as ill as Julian : and wilt thou, my friend, be his disciple? Look unto me, by him persuaded to that liberty, and thou shalt find it an infernal bondage. I know the least of my demerits merit this miserable death, but willful striving against known truth, ex- ceedeth all the terrors of my soul. Defer not (with me) till this last point of extremity ; for little knowest thou how in the end thou shalt be visited. With thee I join young Juvenal, that biting satirist, that lastly with me together writ a comedy. Sweet boy, might I advise thee, be advised, and get not many enemies by bitter words : inveigh against vain men, for thou canst do it, no man better, no man so well : thou hast a liberty to reprove all, and none more ; for, one being spoken to, all are offended ; none being blamed, no man is in- jured. Stop shallow water still running, it will rage ; tread on a worm and it will turn : then blame not scholars vexed with sharp lines, if they reprove thy too much liberty of reproof. And thou no less deserving than the other * Punic, treacherous ^ So I wish, so I command. ^ whether right or wrong ■• ? brochcr = l^eginner ^ How inscrutable arc the judgments of God ! two, in some things rarer, in nothing inferior ; driven (as myself) to extreme shifts, a little have I to say to thee : and were it not an idola- trous oath, I would swear by sweet S. George, thou art unworthy better hap, sith ^ thou de- pendest on so mean a stay. Base minded men all three of you, if by my misery ye be not warned : for unto none of you, like me, sought those burrs to cleave : those puppets, I mean, that speak from our mouths, those antics garnished in our colours. Is it not strange that I, to whom they all have been beholding : is it not like that you, to whom they all have been beholding, shall, were ye in that case that I am now, be both at once of them forsaken ? Yes, trust them not : for there is an upstart Crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his Tiger'' s heart wrapped in a Player's hide, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you : and being an absolute Johannes fac totum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a country. that I might entreat your rare wits to be employed in more profitable courses : and let those Apes imitate your past excellence, and never more acquaint them with your ad- mired inventions. I know the best husband of you all will never prove an usurer, and the kindest of them all wdll never prove a kind nurse: yet whilst you may, seek you better masters ; for it is pity men of such rare wits, should be subject to the pleasures of such rude grooms. In this I might insert two more, that both have writ against these buckram gentlemen : but let their own works serve to witness against their own wickedness, if they per- severe to maintain any more such peasants. For other new comers, I leave them to the mercy of these painted monsters, who (I doubt not) will drive the best minded to de- spise them : for the rest, it skills not though they make a jest at them. But now return I again to you three, know- ing my misery is to you no news : and let me heartily entreat you to be warned by my harms. Delight not, as I have done, in irre- ligious oaths; for from the blasphemer's house a curse shall not depart. Despise drunkenness, which wasteth the wit, and makcth men all equal unto beasts. Fly lust, as the deathsman of the soul, and defile not the temple of the Holy Ghost. Abhor those CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 13s epicures, whose loose life hath made religion loathsome to your ears ; and ^Yhen they sooth you with terms of mastership, remember Robert Greene, whom they have so often flattered, perishes now for want of comfort. Remember, gentlemen, your lives are like so many lighted tapers, that are with care de- livered to all of you to maintain ; these with wind-puffed wrath may be extinguished, which drunkenness put out, which negligence let fall : for man's time of itself is not so short, but it is more shortened by sin. The fire of my light is now at the last snuff, and the want of wherewith to sustain it, there is no substance left for life to feed on. Trust not then, I beseech ye, to such weak stays : for they are as changeable in mind, as in many attires. Well, my hand is tired, and I am forced to leave where I would begin ; for a whole book cannot contain these wrongs, which I am forced to knit up in some few lines of words. Desirous that you should live, though himself be dying, Robert Greene. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE ^ (i 564-1 593) HERO AND LEANDER From THE FIRST SESTIAD On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood. In view and opposite two cities stood, Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might ; The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight. At Sestos Hero dwelt ; Hero the fair. Whom young Apollo courted for her hair. And offer'd as a dower his burning throne. Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon. The outside of her garments were of lawn, 9 The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn ; Her wide sleeves green, and border'd with a grove. Where Venus in her naked glory strove To please the careless and disdainful eyes Of proud Adonis, that before her lies ; Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain. Made with the blood of wTetched lovers slain. Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath, From whence her veil reach'd to the ground beneath ; ^ See also p. 165. Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves, Whose workmanship both man and beast de- ceives. Many would praise the sweet smell as she past, When 'twas the odour which her breath forth cast ; 2 2 And there, for honey, bees have sought in vain, And, beat from thence, have Ughted there again. About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone. Which, lighten'd by her neck, like diamonds shone. She ware no gloves ; for neither sun nor wind Would bum or parch her hands, but, to her mind. Or warm or cool them, for they took delight To play upon those hands, they were so white. Buskins of shells, all silver'd, used she, 31 And branch'd with blushing coral to the knee; Where sparrows perch'd of hollow pearl and gold. Such as the world would wonder to behold : Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills, Which as she went, would chirrup through the biUs. Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd. And, looking in her face, was strooken bhnd. But this is true ; so like was one the other. As he imagin'd Hero was his mother ; 40 And oftentimes into her bosom flew. About her naked neck his bare arms threw, And laid his childish head upon her breast, And, with still panting rock, there took his rest. So lovely-fair w'as Hero, Venus' mm. As Nature wept, thinking she was xmdone, Because she took more from her than she left, And of such wondrous beauty her bereft : Therefore, in sign her treasure suifer'd wrack, Since Hero's time hath half the world been black. Amorous Leander, beautiful and young 5 1 (Whose tragedy divine INIusaeus sung). Dwelt at Abydos ; since him dwelt there none For whom succeeding times make greater moan. His dangling tresses, that were never shorn. Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne, Would have allur'd the venturous youth of Greece To hazard more than for the golden fleece. Fair Cynthia wished his arms might be her Sphere ; Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there. 136 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE His body was as straight as Circe's wand ; 61 Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand. Even as deUcious meat is to the taste, So was his neck in touching, and surpast The white of Pelops' shoulder : I could tell ye, How smooth his breast was, and how white his belly ; And whose immortal fingers did imprint That heavenly path with many a curious dint That runs along his back ; but my rude pen Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men, 70 Much less of powerful gods : Let it suffice That my slack Muse sings of Leander's eyes ; Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his That leapt into the water for a kiss Of his own shadow, and, despising many, Died ere he could enjoy the love of any. Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen, Enamour'd of his beauty had he been. His presence made the rudest peasant melt, That in the vast ul^landish country dwelt ; 80 The barbarous Thracian soldier, mov'd with nought. Was mov'd with him, and for his favour sought. Some swore he was a maid in man's attire, For in his looks were all that men desire, — A pleasant-smiling cheek, a speaking eye, A brow for love to banquet royally ; And such as knew he was a man, would say, "Leander, thou art made for amorous play ; Why art thou not in love, and loved of all? Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall." The men of wealthy Sestos every year, 91 For his sake whom their goddess held so dear, Rose-cheek'd Adonis, kept a solemn feast. Thither resorted many a wandering guest To meet their loves ; such as had none at all Came lovers home from this great festival ; For every street, like to a firmament, Glister'd with breathing stars, who, where they went, Frighted the melancholy earth, which deem'd Eternal heaven t© burn, for so it seem'd 100 As if another Phaeton had got The guidance of the sun's rich chariot. But, far above the loveliest. Hero shin'd. And stole away th' enchanted gazer's mind ; For like sca-nymphs' inveigling harmony, So was her beauty to the standers by ; Nor that night-wandering, pale, and watery star^ (When yawning dragons draw her thirling ' car From Latmus' mount up to the gloomy sky. Where, crown'd with blazing light and maj- esty, no She proudly sits) more over-rules the flood Than she the hearts of those that near her stood. Even as, when gaudy nymphs pursue the chase. Wretched Ixion's shaggy-footed race, Licens'd with savage heat, gallop amain From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain, So ran the people forth to gaze upon her, And all that view'd her were enamour'd on her. And as, in fury of a dreadful fight j Their fellows being slain or put to flight, 120 Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead- strooken, So at her presence all surpris'd and tooken, Await the sentence of her scornful eyes ; He whom she favours lives ; the other dies. There might you see one sigh ; another rage ; And some, their violent passions to assuage. Compile sharp satires ; but, alas, too late ! For faithful love will never turn to hate. And many, seeing great princes were denied, Pin'd as they went, and thinking on her died. On this feast-day — O cursed day and hour ! — Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower To Venus' temple, where unhappily. As after chanc'd, they did each other spy. So fair a church as this had Venus none : The walls were of discolour'd ^ jasper-stone. Wherein was Proteus carved ; and over-head A lively vine of green sea- agate spread, Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus hung, And with the other wine from grapes out- wrung. 140 Of crystal shining fair the pavement was ; The town of Sestos call'd it Venus' glass : And in the midst a silver altar stood : There Hero, sacrificing turtles' blood. Vailed' to the ground, veiling her eyelids close ; And modestly they opened as she rose. 160 Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head ; And thus Leander was enamoured. ' the moon ^ piercing the air ^ vari-colored ' bent WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 137 Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gaz'd, Till with the fire that from his countenance blaz'd Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook : Such force and virtue hath an amorous look. It lies not in our power to love or hate, For will in us is over-rul'd by fate. When two are stript, long ere the course begin, We wish that one should lose, the other win ; And one especially do we affect 171 Of two gold ingots, like in each respect : The reason no man knows, let it suffice, What we behold is censur'd ^ by our eyes. Where both deliberate, the love is slight : Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight? WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616) From VENUS AND ADONIS Thus hoping that Adonis is alive. Her rash suspect ^ sh-e doth extenuate ;^ loio And that his beauty may the better thrive. With Death she humbly doth insinuate ; Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories ; His victories, his triumphs, and his glories. "O Jove," quoth she, "how much a fool was I To be of such a weak and silly mind To wail his death who lives and must not die Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind ! For he being dead, with him is beauty slain. And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again. "Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear 10 21 As one with treasure laden, hemm'd with thieves ; Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear. Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves." Even at this word she hears a merry horn, Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn. As falcon to the lure, away she flies ; The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light ; And in her haste unfortunately spies The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight ; Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view, 1 03 1 Like stars ashamed of day, themselves with- drew ; ^ judged ^ suspicion ^ lessen Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit, Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain, And there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit, Long after fearing to creep forth again ; So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled Into the deep dark cabins of her head : Where they resign their office and their light To the disposing of her troubled brain ; 1040 Who bids them still consort with ugly night. And never wound the heart with looks again ; Who, like a king perplexed in his throne. By their suggestion gives a deadly groan. Whereat each tributary subject quakes ; As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground. Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes. Which with cold terror doth men's minds con- found. This mutiny each part doth so surprise That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes; 1050 And, being open'd, threw unwilling light Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd In his soft flank ; whose wonted lily white With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd. No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed, But stole his blood and seem'd with him to bleed. This solemn sympathy poor \'enus noteth ; Over one shoulder doth she hang her head ; Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth ; She thinks he could not die, he is not dead : Her voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow ; Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now. 1062 Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly. That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three ; And then she reprehends her manghng eye. That makes more gashes where no breach should be : His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled ; For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled. 138 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE " My tongue cannot express my grief for one, And yet," quoth she, "behold two Adons dead ! My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone, Mine eyes are turn'd to tire, my heart to lead : Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire ! So shall I die by drops of hot desire. "Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost ! What face remains alive that's worth the viewing ? Whose tongue is music now ? what canst thou boast Of things long since, or any thing ensuing? The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim ; 1079 But true-sweet beauty lived and died with him. " Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature vv^ear ! Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you : Having no fair to lose, you need not fear ; The sun doth scorn you and the wind doth hiss you : But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair : ^ "And therefore would he put his bonnet on. Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep ; The wind would blow it off and, being gone, Play with his locks : then would Adonis weep ; And straight, in pity of his tender years. They both would strive who first should dry his tears. 1092 "To see his face the lion walk'd along Behind some hedge, because he woidd not fear ^ him ; To recreate himself when he hath sung. The tiger would be tame and gently hear him ; If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey And never fright the silly lamb that day. "When he beheld his shadow in the brook, The fishes spread on it their golden gills ; When he was by, the birds such pleasure took. That some would sing, some other in their bills Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries; 11 03 He fed them with his sight, they him with berries. ^ beauty frighten "But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar, Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave, Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore ; Witness the entertainment that he gave : If he did see his face, why then I know He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him " 'Tis true, 'tis true ; thus was Adonis slain : He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear. Who did not whet his teeth at him again, 1 1 13 But by a kiss thought to persuade him there ; And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin. "Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess, With kissing him I should have kill'd him first ; But he is dead, and never did he bless 11 19 My youth with his ; the more am I accurst." With this, she falleth in the place she stood, And stains her face with his congealed blood. She looks upon his lips, and they are pale ; She takes him by the hand, and that is cold ; She whispers in his ears a heavy tale, As if they heard the woeful words she told ; She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes. Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies; Two glasses, where herself herself beheld A thousand times, and now no more reflect ; Their virtue lost, wherein they late exceU'd, And every beauty robb'd of his effect : 1 13 2 "Wonder of time," quoth she, "this is my spite. That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light. "Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy: Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend : It shall be waited on with jealousy, Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end. Ne'er settled equally, but high or low, 1139 That all love's pleasure shall not match his "It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud, Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while ; The bottom poison, and the top o'erstrawVP With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile : The strongest body shall it make most weak. Strike ihc wise dumb and teach the fool to speak. ^ o'erstrewcd SONNETS 139 "It shall be sparing and too full of riot ; Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures ; The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet, Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures; 11 50 It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild, Make the young old, the old become a child. "It shall suspect where is no cause of fear; It shall not fear where it should most mistrust ; It shall be merciful and too severe. And most deceiving when it seems most just ; Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward ; Put ^ fear to valour, courage to the coward. "It shall be cause of war and dire events, And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire ; Subject and servile to all discontents, 1 1 6 1 As dry combustious matter is to fire : Sith in his prime ^ Death doth my love de- stroy, They that love best their loves shall not enjoy." SONNETS XII When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night ; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; 'When lofty trees I see barren of leaves. Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard. Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves for- sake 1 1 And die as fast as they see others grow ; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence Save breed ,3 to brave him when he takes thee hence. XV When I consider every thing that grows Holds* in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence com- ment ; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and check'd even by the self-same sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory ; Then the conceit ^ of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, 10 Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay, To change your day of youth to sullied night ; And all in war with Time for love of you. As he takes from you, I engraft you new. XVII Who will believe ray verse in time to come. If it were till'd with your most high deserts ? Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life and shows not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, "This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces." So should my papers yellow'd with their age Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongvie, And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage 1 1 And stretched metre of an antique song : But were some child of yours alive that time. You shoidd live twice; in it and in my rhyme. XXIX When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I aU alone beweep my outcast state And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least ; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, 10 Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate ; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. *give 2 youth "offspring ^remains ^conception, thought I40 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE XXX When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste : Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight : Then can I grieve at grievances foregone. And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er lo The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, AU losses are restored and sorrows end. XXXII If thou survive my well-contented day. When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen. Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men. O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought : "Had my friend's Muse grown with this grow- ing age, lo A dearer birth than this his love had brought. To march in ranks of better equipage : But since he died and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love." LV Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme ; But you shall shine more bright in these con- tents Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his ^ sword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. ^ Mars's 'Gainst death and all-oblivious^ enmity Shall you pace forth ; your praise shall still find room lo Even in the eyes of aU posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgement that yourself arise. You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes. LXIV When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometime^ lofty towers I see down-razed And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore. And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss and loss with store ; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay ; lo Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose. LXV Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'er-sways their power. How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, ^ When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays ? O fearful meditation ! where, alack. Shall Time's best jewel from^ Time's chest lie hid? TO Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoiH of beauty can forbid? O, none, unless this miracle have might. That in black ink my love may still shine bright. LXVI Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, — As,^ to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing^ trimm'd in jollity. And purest faith unhappily forsworn, ^ blotting out all things ^ formerly ' out of * spoiling ^ as, for example ^ i.e., one of no merit SONNETS 141 ,\nd gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway ^ disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And foUy doctor-like controlling skill, 10 And simple truth miscall'd simplicity ,- And captive good attending captain ill : Tired with all these, from these would I be gone. Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. LXXI No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dweU : Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it ; for I love you so That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe. O, if, I say, you look upon this verse 9 When I perhaps compounded am with clay. Do not so much as my poor name rehearse. But let your love even with my life decay. Lest the wise world should look into your moan And mock you with^ me after I am gone. LXXIII That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold. Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang, In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west. Which by and by black night doth take away. Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his"* youth doth lie, 10 As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, ■> To love that well which thou must leave ^ ere long. ' power ^ foolishness ^ because of * its = the fire's ^ give up xcvn How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year ! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen ! What old December's bareness ever>' where ! And yet this time removed was summer's time. The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime, Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease : Yet this abimdant issue seem'd to me 9 But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit ; For summer and his pleasures wait on thee. And, thou away, the very birds are mute ; Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.i XCVIII From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied Aprfl dress'd in all his trim Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing. That 2 heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smeU Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew ; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 10 They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away, As with your shadow, I with these did play. XCIX The forward violet thus did I chide : Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. The lily I condemned for thy hand. And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair. The roses fearfully on thorns did stand. One blushing shame, another white despair ; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath ; 1 1 ^ nearness ^ so that 142 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee. CVI When in the chronicle of wast ed * time I see descriptions of the fairest wights. And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, Then, in the blazon ^ of sweet beauty's best. Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have express'd Even such a beauty as 3'ou master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; 10 And. for^ they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing : For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. CVII Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come. Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured And the sad augurs mock their own presage ; Incertainties now crown themselves assured And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Nov/ with the drops of this most balmy time 9 My love looks fresh, and Death to me sub- scribes,'* Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes : And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. CIX O, never say that I was false of heart, Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.^ As easy might I from myself depart As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie : That is my home of love : if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that myself bring water for my stain. ^past 2 (jL'scription ^because ^submits ^ diminish Never believe, though in my nature reign'd All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, 10 That it could so preposterously be stain'd, To leave for nolhing all thy sum of good; For nothing this wide universe I call, Save thou, my rose ; in it thou art my all. CX Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there And made myself a motley ^ to the view, Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, Made old offences of affections new ; Most true it is that I have look'd on truth Askance and strangely ; but, by all above, These blenches^ gave my heart another youth, And worse essays proved thee my best of love. Now all is done, have what shall have no end : Mine appetite I never more will grind 10 On newer proof, to try an older friend, A god in love, to whom I am confin'd.^ Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best. Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. CXI O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand. And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer's hand. Pity me then and wish I were renew 'd ; Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink Potions of eisel * 'gainst my strong infection ; No bitterness that I will bitter think, 11 Nor double penance, to correct correction. Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye Even that your pity is enough to cure me. CXVT Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration fixids, Or bends with the remover to remove : O, no I it is an ever-fixed mark ^ fool ^ failures ^ bound ^ a bitter drink used as a prophylactic SONGS FROM THE PLAYS 143 That looks on tempests and is never shaken ; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's^ unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool,- though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 10 Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. CXL\1 Poor soul, the centre of m}^ sinful earth, [Amidst] these rebel powers that thee array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store ; 10 Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more: So shah thou feed on Death, that feeds on men. And Death once dead, there's no more dying then. SONGS FROM THE PLAYS From LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail. When blood is nipped and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit, tu-who I a merry note. While greasy Joan doth keel ^ the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow. And coughing drowns the parson's saw. And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit, tu-who ! a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. From A MIDSUMISIER NIGHTS DREAM Over hill, over dale, Thorough ^ bush, thorough brier. Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere. Swifter than the moones sphere; And I serve the Fairy Queen, To dew her orbs upon the green. The cowshps tall her pensioners - be ; In their gold coats spots you see : 10 Those be rubies, fairy favours. In those freckles live their savours. I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. From TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA \\Tio is Silvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she ; The heaven such grace did lend her. That she might admired be. 5 Is she kind as she is fair ? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair To help him of his blindness. And, being help'd, inhabits there. 10 Then to Silvia let us sing. That Silvia is excelling ; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling : To her let us garlands bring. 1 5 From THE ^MERCHANT OF VENICE Tell me, where is fancy ^ bred. Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engendered in the eyes, 5 With gazing fed ; and fancy dies In the cradle where it Ues : Let us all ring fancy's knell ; I'U begin it, — Ding-dong, bell. Ding, dong, bell. 10 ^ occult influence - dupe * cool, stir through - body-guard ^ romantic lo\-e 144 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE From AS YOU LIKE IT Under the greenwood tree Who loves to he with me, ■ And turn ^ his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither ! come hither ! come hither ! 5 Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i' the sun, 10 Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets, Come hither ! come hither ! come hither ! Here shall he see No enemy 15 But winter and rough weather. From AS YOU LIKE IT Blow, blow, thou winter wind ! Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude ; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, 5 Although thy breath be rude. Heigh ho ! sing, heigh ho ! unto the green holly : Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : Then, heigh ho, the holly ! This life is most jolly. 10 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky ! That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot ; Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp 15 As friend remembered not. Heigh ho ! sing, heigh ho ! etc. From MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more ! Men were deceivers ever. One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never : ^ adapt Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny. Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny ! 8 Sing no more ditties, sing no moe ^ Of dumps so dull and heavy ! The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy : Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny ! 16 From TWELFTH NIGHT O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear ; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low : Trip no further, pretty sweeting, Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. 6 What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter ; What's to come is still unsure : In delay there lies no plenty ; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty ,2 Youth's a stuff will not endure. 12 From TWELFTH NIGHT Come away,' come away, Death ! And in sad cypress ^ let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it ! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. 8 Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coflin let there be strown ; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : A thousand thousand sighs to save. Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave. To weep there ! ife * more - often and often ' come here * a crape used for funerals SONGS FROM THE PLAYS 145 From HAMLET How should I your true love know From another one? By his cockle hat and staff, And his sandal shoon. 4 He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone ; At his head a grass-green turf. At his heels a stone. 8 White his shroud as the mountain snow, Larded^ with sweet flowers. Which bewept to the grave did go With true-love showers. 12 From MEASURE FOR MEASURE Take, O, take those lips away. That so sweetly were forsworn ; And those eyes, the break of day. Lights that do mislead the morn : 4 But my kisses bring again. Bring again ; Seals of love, but sealed in vain, Sealed in vain ! 8 From CYMBELINE Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phcebus^ 'gins arise. His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies ; 4 And winking ]\Iary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes : With every thing that pretty is, ]My lady sweet, arise I 8 Arise, arise ! From CYMBELINE Fear no more the heat o' th' sun. Nor the furious winter's rages ; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages : Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 6 Fear no more the frown o' th' great ; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; Care no more to clothe and eat ; To thee the reed is as the oak : The Sceptre, Learning, Physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. 12 Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone ; ^ Fear not slander, censure rash ; Thou hast finished joy and moan : All lovers young, all lovers must Consign " to thee, and come to dust. 18 No exorciser harm thee ! Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! Nothing ill come near thee ! Quiet consummation have ; And renowned be thy grave ! 24 From THE TEMPEST A SEA DIRGE Full fathom five thy father lies : Of his bones are coral made ; Those are pearls that were his eyes ; Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea change 5 Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : Ding-dong ! Hark ! now I hear them, — Ding-dong, bell ! From THE TEMPEST Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; In a cowslip's bell I lie ; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. 5 Merrily, merrily, shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. GEORGE CHAPMAN (i559?-i634) From THE TWELFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS This said, the golden-throned Aurora rose, She ^ her way went, and I did mine dispose 2 20 Up to my ship, weigh'd anchor, and away. When reverend Circe help'd us to convey ^ covered - the sun ^thunder-bolt -surrender ^ Circe 146 GEORGE CHAPMAN Our vessel safe, by making well inclined A seaman's true companion, a forewind,* With which she lill'd our sails ; when, fitting all Our arms close by us, I did sadly fall To grave relation what concern 'd in fate My friends to know, and told them that the state Of our affairs' success, which Circe had Presaged to me alone, must yet be made 230 To one nor only two known, but to all ; That, since their lives and deaths were left to fall In their elections, they might hfe elect. And give what would preserve it fit effect. I first inform'd them, that we were to fly The heavenly-singing Sirens' harmony, And flower-adorned meadow ; and that I Had charge to hear their song, but fetter'd fast In bands, unfavour'd, to th' erected mast ; From whence, if I should pray, or use com- mand, To be enlarged, they should with much more band Contain my strugglings. This I simply told To each particular, nor would withhold 243 What most enjoin'd mine own affection's stay. That theirs the rather might be taught t' obey. In meantime flew our ships, and straight we fetch'd The Sirens' isle ; a spleenless ^ wind so stretch'd Her wings to waft us, and so urged our keel. But having reach'd this isle, we could not feel The least gasp of it, it was stricken dead, 250 And all the sea in prostrate slumber spread : The Sirens' devil charm'd all. Up then flew My friends to work, strook sail, together drew, And under hatches stow'd them, sat, and plied Their polish'd oars, and did in curls divide The white-head waters. My part then came on : A mighty waxen cake I set upon, Chopp'd it in fragments with my sword, and wrought With strong hand every piece, till all were soft. The great power of the sun, in such a beam 260 As then flew burning from his diadem. To liquefaction help'd us. Orderly I stopp'd their ears : and they as fair did ply My feet and hands with cords, and to the mast With other halsers^ made me soundly fast. Then took they seat, and forth our passage strook, The foamy sea beneath their labour shook. ^ favorable wind ' gentle ^ hawsers Row'd on, in reach of an erected^ voice. The Sirens soon took note, without our noise ; Tuned those sweet accents that made charms so strong, 270 And these learn 'd nvimbers made the Sirens' song: "Come here, thou worthy of a world of praise, That dost so high the Grecian glory raise; Ulysses! stay thy ship, and that song hear That none pass d ever but it bent his ear, But left him ravish' d and instructed more By us, than any ever heard before. For we know all things whatsoever were Ln wide Troy labotir'd; whatsoever there The Grecians and the Trojans both sustained 280 By those high issues that the Gods ordain'd. And whatsoever all the earth can show T' inform a knowledge of desert, we know." This they gave accent in the sweetest strain That ever open'd an enamour 'd vein." When my const rain'd heart needs would have mine ear Yet more delighted, force way forth, and hear. To which end I commanded with all sign Stern looks could make (for not a joint of mine Had power to stir) my friends to rise, and give My hmbs free way. They freely strived to ■^ drive Their ship stiU on. When, far from will to. loose, Eurylochus and Perimedes rose 293 To wrap me surer, and oppress'd me more With many a halser than had use before. When, rowing on without ^ the reach of sound, My friends unstopp'd their ears, and me un- bound. And that isle quite we quitted. SAMUEL DANIEL (1562-1619) SONNETS TO DELIA XIX Restore thy tresses to the golden ore ; Yield Cytherea's son ^ those arcs of love : Bequeath the heavens the stars that I adore ; And to the orient do thy pearls remove. Yield thy hands' pride unto the ivory white; To Arabian odours give thy breathing sweet ; ' lifted, i.e. loud ^ burst from an enamored heart ^ beyond •• Venus' son, Cupid SAMUEL DANIEL 147 Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright ; To Thetis give the honour of thy feet. Let Venus have thy graces her resigned ; And thy sweet voice give back unto the spheres : But yet restore thy fierce and cruel mind To Hyrcan tigers and to ruthless bears. 1 2 Yield to the marble thy hard heart again ; So shalt thou cease to plague and I to pain. LIV Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born : Relieve my languish, and restore the light ; With dark forgetting of my care, return ! And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth : Let waking eyes suftice to wail their scorn. Without the torment of the night's un- truth. Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, To model forth the passions of the morrow ; Never let rising sun approve ^ you liars, 1 1 To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain ; And never wake to feel the day's disdain. LV Let others sing of knights and paladins In aged accents and untimely words ; Paint shadows in imaginary lines Which well the reach of their high wits records : But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes Authentic- shaU my verse in time to come ; When yet th' unborn shall say, "Lo v.-here she lies Whose beauty made him speak that else was dumb." These are the arcs, the trophies I erect. That fortify thy name against old age; 10 And these thy sacred virtues must protect Against the dark, and Time's consuming rage. Though the error of my youth in them ap- pear, Sui£ce they shew I lived and loved thee dear. EPISTLE TO THE LADY MARGARET, COUNTESS OF CUMBERLAND He that of such a height hath built his mind, And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong. As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame Of his resolved pow'rs ; nor all the wind Of vanity or malice pierce, to wrong His settled peace, or to disturb the same : WTiat a fair seat hath he, from whence he may The botmdless wastes and v'ilds of man sur- vey ! And with how free an eye doth he look down L'pon these lower regions of turmoil ! 10 Where all the storms of passions mainly beat On flesh and blood : where honour, pow'r, renown Are only gay afflictions, golden toil ; Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet As frailty doth ; and only great doth seem To little minds, who do it so esteem. He looks upon the mightiest monarchs* wars But only as on stately robberies ; Where evermore the fortune that prevails IVIust be the right : the ill-succeeding mars The fairest and the best-fac'd enterprise. 21 Great Pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails : Justice, he sees (as if seduced), still Conspires with pow'r, whose cause must not be ill. He sees the face of Right t' appear as manifold As are the passions of uncertain man ; Who puts it in all colours, all attires. To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. He sees, that let deceit work what it can. Plot and contrive base ways to high desires. That the all -guiding Providence doth yet 31 AU disappoint, and mocks this smoke of wit. Nor is he mov'd with all the thunder- cracks Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow Of Pow'r, that proudly sits ^ on others' crimes ; Charg'd with more crying sins than those he checks. The storms of sad confusion, that may grow- Up in the present for the coming times, prove ^ authenticate ■ as judge 148 MICHAEL DRAYTON Appal not him ; that hath no side at all, But himself, and knows the worst can fall. 40 Altho' his heart, so near allied to earth, Cannot but pity the perplexed state Of troublous and distress'd mortality. That thus make way unto the ugly birth Of their own sorrows, and do still beget Affliction upon imbecility : Yet seeing thus the course of things must run. He looks thereon not strange, but as foredone. And whilst distraught ambition compasses, And is encompass'd ; whilst as craft deceives. And is deceiv'd; whilst man doth ransack man, 51 And builds on blood, and rises by distress ; And th' inheritance of desolation leaves To great-expecting hopes : he looks thereon, As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye. And bears no venture in impiety. MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-163 1) IDEA IV Bright Star of Beauty ! on whose eyelids sit A thousand nymph-like and enamoured Graces, The Goddesses of Memory and Wit, Which there in order take their several places. In whose dear bosom, sweet delicious Love Lays down his quiver, which he once did bear. Since he that blessed paradise did prove ; And leaves his mother's lap, to sport him there. Let others strive to entertain with words ! My soul is of a braver mettle made: 10 I hold that vile, which vulgar wit affords. In me's that faith which Time cannot invade ! Let what I praise be still made good by you ! Be you most worthy, whilst I am most true ! XX An evil Spirit (your Beauty) haunts me still. Wherewith, alas, I have been long possest ; Which ceaseth not to attempt ^ me to each ill. Nor give me once, but one poor minute's rest. ^ tempt In me it speaks, whether I sleep or wake ; And when by means to drive it out I try, With greater torments then it me doth take, And tortures me in most extremity. Before my face, it lays down my despairs, And hastes me on unto a sudden death ; 10 Now tempting me, to drown myself in tears, And then in sighing to give up my breath. Thus am I still ^ provoked to every evil. By this good-wicked Spirit, sweet Angel- Devil. XXXVII Dear ! why should you command me to my rest. When now the night doth summon all to sleep ? Methinks this time becometh lovers best ! Night was ordained together friends to keep. How happy are all other living things, Which, through the day, disjoined by several flight,.. The quiet evening yet together brings, And each returns unto his Love at night ! O thou that art so courteous else to all. Why shouldst thou. Night, abuse me only thus? 10 That every creature to his kirid dost call. And yet 'tis thou dost only sever us ! Well could I wish it would be ever day ; If, when night comes, you bid me go away ! LXI Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part ! Nay, I have done ; you get no more of me ! And I am glad, yea, glad, with all my heart. That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever ! Cancel all our vows ! And when we meet at any time again. Be it not seen in either of our brows, That we one jot of former love retain ! Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath. When, his pulse failing. Passion speechless lies; 10 When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, — Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover ! * constantly ODE XII 149 ODE XII TO THE CAMBRO-BRITANS AND THEIR HARP, HIS BALLAD OF AGINCOURT Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance ; Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry ; But putting to the main. At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train Landed King Harry. And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, 10 Marcheth towards Agincourt In happy hour ; Skirmishing, day by day. With those that stopped his way, Where the French general lay With all his power. Which, in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide, To the King sending ; 20 Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile, Yet, with an angry smile, Their fall portending. And turning to his men. Quoth our brave Henry then "Though they to one be ten Be not amazed ! Yet have we well begun : Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By Fame been raised ! 30 "And for myself," cjuoth he, "This my full rest shall be: England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me ! Victor I will remain. Or on this earth lie slain ; Never shall She sustain Loss to redeem me ! "Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell. No less our skill is, Than when our Grandsire great, 40 Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies." The Duke of York so dread The eager vanward led ; 50 With the main, Henry sped Amongst his henchmen : Exeter had the rear, A braver man not there ! O Lord, how hot they were On the false Frenchmen ! They now to fight are gone ; Armour on armour shone ; Drum now to drum did groan : To hear, was wonder ; 60 That, with the cries they make. The very earth did shake ; Trumpet to trumpet spake ; Thunder to thunder. Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham, Which didst the signal aim To our hid forces ! When, from a meadow by. Like a storm suddenly, 70 The English archery Stuck the French horses. With Spanish yew so strong ; Arrows a cloth-yard long. That like to serpents stung. Piercing the weather. None from his fellow starts ; But, playing manly parts, And like true English hearts. Stuck close together. 80 When down their bows they threw. And forth their bilboes ^ drew. And on the French they flew : Not one was tardy. Arms were from shoulders sent,^ Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went : Our men were hardy. This while our noble King, His broad sword brandishing, 90 Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it. ^ swords -torn t5C> FRANCIS BACON And many a deep wound lent ; His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet. Gloucester, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood With his brave brother. Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another ! Warwick in blood did wade ; Oxford, the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up. Suffolk his axe did ply ; Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily; Ferrers, and Fanhope. Upon Saint Crispin's Day Fought was this noble fray; Which Fame did not delay To England to carry. O when shall English men With such acts fill a pen ? ^ Or England breed again Such a King Harry ? From NYMPHIDIA THE COURT OF FAIRY Her chariot ready straight is made Each thing therein is fitting laid. That she by nothing might be stayed. For nought must her be letting ; Four nimble gnats the horses were, • Their harnesses of gossamer. Fly Cranion her charioteer Upon the coach-box getting. Her chariot of a snail's fine shell, Which for the colours did excel, The fair Queen Mab becoming well, So lively was the limning ; The seat the soft wool of the bee. The cover, gallantly to see, The wing of a pied butterflce ; I trow 'twas simple trimming. ^ give a subject for praise The wheels composed of crickets' bones, And daintily made for the nonce ; For fear of rattling on the stones With thistle-down they shod it ; For all her maidens much did fear If Oberon had chanc'd to hear 150 That Mab his Queen should have been there, He would not have abode it. She mounts her chariot with a trice, Nor would she stay, for no advice. Until her maids that were so nice To wait on her were fitted ; But ran herself away alone. Which when they heard, there was not one But hasted after to be gone, As she had been diswitted. 160 Hop and Mop and Drop so clear Pip and Trip and Skip that were To Mab, their sovereign, ever dear. Her special maids of honour ; Fib and Tib and Pink and Pin, Tick and Quick and Jill and Jin, Tit and Nit and Wap and Win, The train that wait upon her. Upon a grasshopper they got And, what with amble and with trot, 170 For hedge nor ditch they spared not. But after her they hie them ; A cobweb over them they throw, To shield the wind if it shovdd blow ; Themselves they wisely could bestow Lest any should espy them. 130 FRANCIS BACON (1561-1626) ESSAYS I. OF TRUTH What is Truth ? said jesting Pilate ; ^ and would not stay for an answer. Certainly there be that ^ delight in giddiness, and count it a bondage to fix a belief ; aft"ecting free-will in thinking, as well as in acting. And though 140 the sects of philosophers of that kind be gone, yet there remain certain discoursing wits which are of the same veins,^ though there be not so much blood in them as was in those of ^ Cf. John, xviii : 38 ^ there are those who ^ the same ways of thinking ESSAYS 151 the ancients. But it is not only the difficulty and labour which men take in finding out of truth ; nor again that when it is found it im- poseth upon men's thoughts ; that doth bring lies in favour ; but a natural though corrupt love of the lie itself. One of the later school of the Grecians examineth the matter, and is at a stand to think what should be in it, that men should love lies, where neither they make for pleasure, as with poets, nor for advantage, as with the merchant ; but for the lie's sake. But I cannot tell : this same truth is a naked and open day-light, that doth not show the masks and mummeries and triumphs of the world, half so stately and daintily as candle- lights. Truth may perhaps come to the price of a pearl , that showeth best by day ; but it wiU not rise to the price of a diamond or car- buncle, that showeth best in varied lights. A mixture of a lie doth ever add pleasure. Doth any man doubt, that if there were taken out of men's minds vain opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations, imaginations as one would, and the like, but it would leave the minds of a number of men poor shrunken things, full of melancholy and indisposition, and unpleasing to themselves ? One of the Fathers, in great severity, called poesy vinum dcemonum} because it filleth the imagination; and yet it is but with the shadow of a lie. But it is not the lie that passeth through the mind, but the lie that sinketh in and settleth in it, that doth the hurt ; such as we spake of before. But howsoever these things are thus in men's depraved judgments and affections, yet truth, which only doth judge itself, teacheth that the inquiry of truth, which is the love-making or wooing of it, the knowl- edge of truth, which is the presence of it, and the belief of truth, which is the enjoying of it, is the sovereign good of human nature. The first Creature of God, in the works of the days, was the light of the sense ; the last was the light of reason ; and his Sabbath work ever since, is the illumination of his Spirit. First he breathed light upon the face of the matter or chaos ; then he breathed light into the face of man ; and still he breatheth and inspireth light into the face of his chosen. The poet ^ that beautified the sect ^ that was otherwise inferior to the rest, saith yet excellently well : It is a pleasure to stand upon the share, and to see ships tossed upon the sea; a pleasure to sta-nd in the window of a castle, and to see a battle and the adventures thereof below; but no pleasure is comparable to the sta}uiing upon tiw vantage ground of Truth, (a hill not to be com- manded,! and where the air is always clear and serene,) and to see the errors, and wanderings, and mists, and tempests, in the vale below; so always that this prospect be with pity, and not with swelling or pride. Certainly, it is heaven upon earth, to have a man's mind move in charity, rest in providence, and turn upon the poles of truth. To pass from theological and philosophical truth, to the truth of civil business ; it will be acknowledged even by those that practise it not, that clear and round dealing is the honour of man's nature ; and that mixture of false- hood is like allay ^ in coin of gold and silver, which may make the metal work the better, but it embaseth it. For these winding and crooked courses are the goings of the serpent ; which goeth basely upon the belly, and not upon the feet. There is no vice that doth so cover a man with shame as to be found false and perfidious. And therefore Montaigne saith prettily, when he inquired the reason, why the word of the lie shoidd be such a dis- grace, and such an odious charge? Saith he, // it be well weighed, to say that a man lieth, is as much to say, as that he is brave towards God and a coward towards men. For a lie faces God, and shrinks from man. Surely the wickedness of falsehood and breach of faith cannot possibly be so highly expressed, as in that it shall be the last peal to call the judg- ments of God upon the generations of men ; it being foretold, that when Christ cometh, he shall not find faith upon the earth. VIII. OF JMARRIAGE AND SINGLE LIFE He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune ; for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or mis- chief. Certainly the best works, and of great- est merit for the public, have proceeded from the unmarried or childless men ; which both in affection and means have m.arried and en- dowed the pi;blic. Yet it were great reason that those that have children should have greatest care of future times ; unto which they ^ devils' wine - Lucretius ^ Epicureans ^ looked down on from a higher - alloy 152 FRANCIS BACON know they must transmit their dearest pledges. Some there are, who though they lead a single life, yet their thoughts do end with themselves, and account future times impertinences.^ Nay, there are some other that account wife and children but as bills of charges. Nay more, there are some foolish rich covetous men, that take a pride in having no children, because they may be thought so much the richer. For perhaps they have heard some talk. Such a one is a great rich man, and an- other except to it. Yea, but he hath a great charge of children; as if it were an abatement to his riches. But the most ordinary cause of a single life is liberty, especially in certain self-pleasing and humorous ^ minds, which are so sensible of every restraint, as they will go near to think their girdles and garters to be bonds and shackles. Unmarried men are best friends, best masters, best servants ; but not always best subjects ; for they are light to run away ; and almost all fugitives are of that condition. A single life doth well with churchmen ; for charity will hardly water the ground where it must first fill a pool. It is indifferent for judges and magistrates ; for if they be facile and corrupt, you shall have a servant five times worse than a wife. For soldiers, I find the generals commonly in their hortatives^ put men in mind of their wives and children ; and I think the despis- ing of marriage amongst the Turks maketh the vulgar soldier more base. Certainly wife and children are a kind of discipline of hu- manity ; and single men, though they may be many times more charitable, because their means are less exhaust, yet, on the other side, they are more cruel and hardhearted (good to make severe inquisitors), because their tenderness is not so oft called upon. Grave natures, led by custom, and therefore constant, are commonly loving husbands ; as was said of Ulysses, vetulam suam prcctidit immortalitati^ Chaste women are often proud and froward, as presuming upon the merit of their chastity. It is one of the best bonds both of chastity and obedience in the wife, if she think her husband wise ; which she will never do if she find him jealous. Wives are young men's mistresses; compan- ions for middle age ; and old /nen's nurses. ^ things which do not concern them ^ notionate ^ exhortations ■* He preferred his old wife to im- mortality. So as a man may have a quarrel ^ to marry when he will. But yet he was reputed one of the wise men, that made answer to the question, when a man should marry? A young man not yet, an elder man not at all. It is often seen that bad husbands have very good wives ; whether it be that it raiseth the price of their husband's kindness when it comes ; or that the wives take a pride in their patience. But this never fails, if the bad husbands were of their own choosing, against their friends' consent ; for then they will be sure to make good their own folly. XI. OF GREAT PLACE Men in great place are thrice servants: servants of the sovereign or state ; servants of fame ; and servants of business. So as they have no freedom ; neither in their persons, nor in their actions, nor in their times. It is a strange desire, to seek power and to lose liberty : or to seek power over others and to lose power over a man's self. The rising unto place is laborious ; and by pains men come to greater pains ; and it is sometimes base ; and by indignities men come to dignities. The standing is slippery, and the regress is either a downfall, or at least an eclipse, which is a melancholy thing. Cum non sis qui fueris, non esse cur velis vivere.^ Nay, retire men cannot when they would, neither will they when it were reason; but are impatient of privateness, even in age and sickness, which require the shadow ; like old townsmen, that will be still ^ sitting at their street door, though thereby they offer age to scorn. Certainly great persons had need to borrow other men's opinions, to think themselves happy ; for if they judge by their own feeling, they cannot find it : but if they think with themselves what other men think of them, and that other men would fain be as they are, then they are happy as it were by report ; when perhaps they find the contrary within. For they are the first that find their own griefs, though they be the last that find their own faults. Certainly men in great fortunes are strangers to themselves, and while they are in the puzzle of business they have no time to tend their health either of body or mind. Illi mors ^ reason ^ When you are no longer what you were, there is no reason why you should wish to live, ^ always ESSAYS 153 gravis incubat, qui notus nimis omnibus, ignotus maritur sibi} In place there is li- cense to do good and evil ; whereof the latter is a curse : for in evil the best condition is not to will ; the second not to can. But power to do good is the true and lawful end of aspiring. For good thoughts (though God accept them) yet towards men are little better than good dreams, except they be put in act ; and that cannot be without power and place, as the vantage and commanding ground. Merit and good works is the end of man's motion ; and conscience of the same is the accomplishment of man's rest. For if a man can be partaker of God's theatre, he shall likewise be partaker of God's rest. Et conversiis Deus, ut asplccret opera qucB fecerunt manus suce, vidit quod omnia essent bona nimis; ^ and then the Sabbath. In the dis- charge of thy place set before thee the best examples ; for imitation is a globe* of precepts. And after a time set before thee thine own example ; and examine thyself strictly whether thou didst not best at first. Neglect not also the examples of those that have carried themselves ill in the same place ; not to set off thyself by taxing their memory, but to direct thyself what to avoid. Reform therefore, without bravery or scandal of former times and persons ; but yet set it down to thyself as well to create good prece- dents as to follow them. Reduce things to the first institution, and observe wherein and how they have degenerate ; ^ but yet ask counsel of both times ; of the ancient time, what is best ; and of the latter time, what is fittest. Seek to make thy course regular, that men may know beforehand what they may expect ; but be not too positive and peremptory ; and express thyself well when thou digressest from thy rule. Preserve the right of thy place ; but stir not questions of jurisdiction : and rather assume thy right in silence and de J ado, than voice it with claims and challenges. Preserve likewise the rights 9i inferior places ; and think it more honour to direct in chief than to be busy in all. Em- brace and invite helps and advices touching the execution of thy place ; and do not drive ^ It is a sad fate for a man to die too well known to everybody else, and still unknown to himself. ^ And God turned to look upon the works which his hands had made, and saw that all were very good. * world * degenerated away such as bring thee information, as meddlers; but accept of them in good part. The vices of authority are chiefly four; de- lays, corruption, roughness, and facility. For delays; give easy access; keep times appointed ; go through with that which is in hand, and interlace not business but of neces- sity. For corruption ; do not only bind thine own hands or thy servants' hands from tak- ing, but bind the hands of suitors also from offering. For integrity used doth the one; but integrity professed, and with a manifest detestation of bribery, doth the other. And avoid not only the fault, but the suspicion. Whosoever is found variable, and changeth manifestly without manifest cause, giveth suspicion of corruption. Therefore always when thou changest thine opinion or course, profess it plainly, and declare it, together with the reasons that move thee to change ; and do not think to steal it. A servant or a favourite, if he be inward,^ and no other apparent cause of esteem, is commonly thought but a by-way to close corruption. For roughness ; it is a needless cause of dis- content : severity breedeth fear, but rough- ness breedeth hate. Even reproofs from authority ought to be grave, and not taunting. As for facility ; it is worse than bribery. For bribes come but now and then ; but if importunity or idle respects lead a man, he shall never be without. As Salomon saith. To respect persons is not good ; for such a man will transgress for a piece of bread. It is most true that " was anciently spoken, A place showeth the man. And it showeth some to the better, and some to the worse. Omnium consensu capax imperii, nisi imperasset,'^ saith Tacitus of Galba; but of Vespasian he saith. Solus imperantium, Vespasianus mutatus in melius : * though the one was meant of suffi- ciency, the other of manners and affection. It is an assured sign of a worthy and generous spirit, whom honour amends. For honour is, or should be, the place of virtue ; and as in nature things move violently to their place and calmly in their place, so virtue in ambi- tion is violent, in authority settled and calm. All rising to great place is by a winding stair ; and if there be factions, it is good to side a ^ intimate ^ A man whom everybody would have thought fit for empire if he had not been emperor. * He was the only emperor whom the possession of power changed for the better. I.^^ FRANCIS BACON man's self whilst he is in the rising, and to balance himself when he is placed. Use the memory of thy predecessor fairly and ten- derly ; for if thou dost not, it is a debt will sure be paid when thou art gone. If thou have colleagues, respect them, and rather call them when they look not for it, than exclude them when they have reason to look to be called. Be not too sensible or too remember- ing of thy place in conversation and private answers to suitors ; but let it rather be said, When he sits in place he is another man. XVI. OF ATHEISM I had rather believe all the fables in the Legend, and the Talmud, and the Alcoran, than that this universal frame is without a mind. And therefore God never wrought miracle to convince atheism, because his ordi- nary works convince it. It is true, that a little philosophy inclineth man's mind to atheism ; but depth in philosophy bringeth men's minds about to religion. For while the mind of man looketh upon second causes scattered, it may sometimes rest in them, and go no further; but when it beholdeth the chain of them, con- federate and linked together, it must needs fly to Providence and Deity. Nay, even that school which is most accused of atheism doth most demonstrate religion ; that is," the school of Leucippus and Democritus and Epicurus. For it is a thousand times more credible, that four mutable elements, and one immutable fifth essence, duly and eternally placed,^ need no God, than that an army of infinite small portions or seeds unplaced,^ should have pro- duced this order and beauty without a divine marshal. The Scripture saith, The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God ; it is not said. The fool hath thought in his heart; so as he rather saith it by rote to himself, as that^ he would have, than that he can throughly be- lieve it, or be persuaded of it. For none deny there is a God, but those for whom it maketh ■* that there were no God. It ap- peareth in nothing more, that atheism is rather in the lip than in the heart of man, than by this ; that atheists will ever be talk- ing of that their opinion, as if they fainted in it within themselves, and would be glad to be ^ the current theory in Bacon's time ^ the theory ascribed to the philosophers just mentioned "* what ^ would be advantageous strengthened by the consent of others. Nay more, you shall have atheists strive to get disciples, as it fareth with other sects. And, which is most of all, you shall have of them that wiU suffer for atheism, and not recant ; whereas if they did truly think that there were no such thing as God, why should they trouble themselves? Epicurus is charged that he did but dissemble for his credit's sake, when he affirmed there were blessed natures, but such as enjoyed themselves without having respect to the government of the world. Wherein they say he did tempo- rise; though in secret he thought there was no God. But certainly he is traduced ; for his words are noble and divine : Non Deos vidgi negate profanum ; scd vulgi opiniones Diis appUcare profanum} Plato could have said no more. And although he had the con- fidence to deny the administration, he had not the power to deny the nature. The Indians of the west have names for their particular gods, though they have no name for God : as if the heathens should have had the names Jupiter, Apollo, JNIars, etc., but not the word Deus ; which shows that even those barbar- ous people have the notion, though they have not the latitude and extent of it. So that against atheists the very savages take part with the very subtlest philosophers. The contemplative atheist is rare: a Diagoras, a Bion, a Lucian perhaps, and some others ; and yet they seem to be more than they are ; for that all that impugn a received religion or superstition are by the adverse part branded with the name of atheists. But the great atheists indeed are hypocrites ; which are ever handling holy things, but without feeling ; so as they must needs be cauterised - in the end. The causes of atheism are: divisions in religion, if they be many; for any one main division addeth zeal to both sides ; but many divisions introduce atheism. Another is, scandal of priests ; when it is come to that which St. Bernard saith, Non est jam dicere, lit popidus sic sacerdos ; quia nee sfc popidus nt sacerdos.^ A third is, custom of profajue scoffing in holy matters ; which doth ^ There is no profanity in refusing to believe in the Gods of the vulgar ; the profanity is in believ- ing of the Gods what the vulgar believe of them. ^ made callous ^ One cannot now say, the priest is as the people, for the truth is that the people are not so bad as the priest. ESSAYS 155 by little and little deface the reverence of religion. And lastly, learned times, specially with peace and prosperity ; for troubles and adversities do more bow men's minds to reli- gion. They that deny a God destroy man's nobility ; for certainly man is of kin to the beasts by his body ; and, if he be not of kin to God by his spirit, he is a base and ignoble creature. It destroys likewise magnanimity, and the raising of hvunan nature ; for take an example of a dog, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on when he finds himself maintained by a man ; who to him is instead of a God, or melior nature ; ^ which courage is manifestly such as that creature, without that confidence of a better nature than his own, could never attain. So man, when he resteth and assureth himself upon divine protection and favour, gathereth a force and faith which human nature in itself could not obtain. Therefore, as atheism is in all respects hateful, so in this, that it de- priveth human nature of the means to exalt itself above human frailty. As it is in par- ticular persons, so it is in nations. Never was there such a state for magnanimity as Rome. Of this state hear what Cicero saith : Qiiam volumus licet, patres conscripti, nos omemiis, tamen nee nuniero Hispanos, nee robare Gallos, nee calliditate Pcenos, nee artibus Grcecos, nee denique hoc ipso hujus gentis et terras domestico nativoque sensu Italos ipsos ei Latinos ; sed pietate, ac religione, atque hac una sapientia, quod Deoruni immortalium numine omnia regi gubernarique perspeximus, omnes gentes nationesque superavimus? XXIII. OF WISDOIM FOR A MIAN'S SELF An ant is a wise creature for itself, but it is a shrewd ^ thing in an orchard or garden. And certainly men that are great lovers of ^ a higher being ^ Pride ourselves as we may upon our country, yet are we not in number su- perior to the Spaniards, nor Ln strength to the Gauls, nor in cunning to the Carthaginians, nor to the Greeks in arts, nor to the Italians and Latins themselves in the homely and native sense which belongs to this nation and land ; it is in piety only and religion, and the wisdom of regarding the providence of the Immortal Gods as that which rules and governs all things, that we have sur- passed all nations and peoples. ^ bad themselves waste the public. Divide with reason between self-love and society ; and be so true to thyself, as . thou be not false to others; specially to thy king and country. It is a poor centre of a man's actions, himself. It is right ^ earth. For that ' only stands fast upon his own centre ; whereas all things that have affinity with the heavens, move upon the center of another, which they benefit. The referring of all to a man's self is more tolerable in a sovereign prince ; because them- selves are not only themselves, but their good and evil is at the peril of the public fortune. But it is a desperate evil in a servant to a prince, or a citizen in a republic. For what- soever affairs pass such a man's hands, he crooketh them to his own ends ; which must needs be often eccentric to ^ the ends of his master or state. Therefore let princes, or states, choose such servants as have not this mark ; except they mean their servdce should be made but the accessary. That which maketh the efi'ect more pernicious is that all proportion is lost. It were disproportion enough for the servant's good to be preferred before the master's; but yet it is a greater extreme, when a little good of the servant shall carry things against a great good of the master's. And yet that is the case of bad officers, treasurers, ambassadors, generals, and other false and corrupt servants ; which set a bias ^ upon their bowl, of their own petty ends and envies, to the overthrow of their master's great and important aft'airs. And for the most part, the good such servants receive is after the model ^ of their own fortune ; but the hurt they sell for that good is after the model of their master's fortune. And certainly it is the nature of extreme self-lovers, as they will set an house on fire, and it were but to roast their eggs; and yet these men many times hold credit with their masters, because their study is but to please them and profit themselves; and for either respect they will abandon the good of their affairs. Wisdom for a man's self is, in many branches thereof, a depraved thing. It is the wisdom of rats, that will be sure to leave a house somewhat before it fall. It is the wisdom of the fox, that thrusts out the badger, ^ very ^ the earth, according to the Ptolemaic theory ^ not having the same centre as * a weight placed in a bowl (ball for bowling) to make it take a curved course ^ size 156 FRANCIS BACON who digged and made room for him. It is the wisdom of crocodiles, that shed tears when they would devour. But that which is specially to he noted is, that those which (as Cicero says of Pompey) are sui amantcs, sine rivali,^ are many times unfortunate. And whereas they have all their time sacri- ficed to themselves, they become in the end themselves sacrifices to the inconstancy of fortune ; whose wings they thought by their self-wisdom to have pinioned. XXVII. OF FRIENDSHIP It had been hard for him that spake it to have put more truth and untruth together in few words, than in that speech. Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god. For it is most true that a natural and secret hatred and aversation towards society in any man, hath somewhat of the savage beast ; but it is most untrue that it should have any character at all of the divine nature ; except it proceed, not out of a pleasure in solitude, but out of a love and desire to se- quester a man's self for a higher conversa- tion : such as is found to have been falsely and feignedly in some of the heathen ; as Epimenides the Candian, Numa the Roman, Empedocles the Sicilian, and ApoUonius of Tyana ; and truly and really in divers of the ancient hermits and holy fathers of the church. But little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company ; and faces are but a gallery of pictures ; and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love. The Latin adage meeteth with it a little: Magna civitas, magna solitudo,'^ because in a great town friends are scattered ; so that there is not that fellowship, for the most part, which is in less neighbourhoods. But we may go further, and affirm most truly that it is a mere and miserable solitude to want true friends ; without which the world is but a wilderness ; and even in this sense also of solitude, who- soever in the frame of his nature and affec- tions is unfit for friendship, he taketh it of the beast, and not from humanity. A principal fruit of friendship is the ease and discharge of the fulness and swellings of the heart, which passions of all kinds do cause ^ lovers of thenj.selves, without rival ^ A great town is a great solitude. and induce. We know diseases of stoppings and suffocations are the most dangerous in the body ; and it is not much otherwise in the mind ; you may take sarza to open the liver, steel to open the spleen, flowers of sulphur for the lungs, castoreum for the brain ; but no receipt ^ openeth the heart, but a true friend ; to whom you may impart griefs, joys, fears, hopes, suspicions, counsels, and whatsoever lieth upon the heart to oppress it, in a kind of civil 2 shrift or confession. It is a strange thing to observe how high a rate great kings and monarchs do set upon this fruit of friendship whereof we speak : so great, as they purchase it many times at the hazard of their own safety and greatness. For princes, in regard of the distance of their fortune from that of their subjects and ser- vants, cannot gather this fruit, except (to make themselves capable thereof) they raise some persons to be as it were companions and almost equals to themselves, which many times sorteth to ^ inconvenience. The mod- ern languages give unto such persons the name of favourites, or privadocs ; * as if it were matter of grace, or conversation. But the Roman name attaineth the true use and cause thereof, naming them participes cura- rmn;^ for it is that which tieth the knot. And we see plainly that this hath been done, not by weak and passionate princes only, but by the wisest and most politic that ever reigned ; who have oftentimes joined to themselves some of their servants ; whom both themselves have called friends, and al- lowed others likewise to call them in the same manner ; using the word which is received between private men. L. Sylla, when he commanded Rome, raised Pompey (after surnamed the Great) to that height, that Pompey vaunted himself for Sylla's over-match. For when he had carried the consulship for a friend of his, against the pursuit *» of Sylla, and that Sylla did a little resent thereat, and began to speak great, Pompey turned upon him again, and in effect bade him be quiet ; for that more men adored the sun rising than the sun setting. With Julius Caesar, Decimus Brutus had obtained that interest, as he set him down in his testa- ment for heir in remainder after his nephew. And this was the man that had power with ' recipe ^ non-religious ' results in * intimates * sharers of cares '' candidacy ESSAYS 157 him to draw him forth to his death. For when Caesar would have discharged the senate, in regard of some ill presages, and specially a dream of Calpurnia ; this man lifted him gently by the arm out of his chair, telling him he hoped he would not dismiss the senate till his wife had dreamt a better dream. And it seemeth his favour was so great, as Antonius, in a letter which is recited verbatim in one of Cicero's Philippics, calleth him venefica, witch ; as if he had enchanted Caesar. Augustus raised Agrippa (though of mean birth) to that height, as when he consulted with Maecenas about the marriage of his daughter Julia, Maecenas took the liberty to tell him, that he must either marry his daughter to Agrippa, or take away his life: there was no third way, he had made him so great. With Tiberius Caesar, Sejanus had ascended to that height, as they two were termed and reckoned as a pair of friends. Tiberius in a letter to him saith, ho'c pro amicitia nostra non occul- iavi ; ^ and the whole senate dedicated an altar to Friendship, as to a goddess, in re- spect of the great dearness of friendship be- tween them two. The like or more was be- tween Septimius Severus and Plautianus. For he forced his eldest son to marry the daughter of Plautianus ; and would often maintain Plautianus in doing affronts to his son ; and did write also in a letter to the senate, by these words : / love the man so well, as I wish he may over-live me. Now if these princes had been as a Trajan or a Marcus Aurelius, a man might have thought that this had proceeded of an abundant goodness of nature ; but being men so wise, of such strength and severity of mind, and so ex- treme lovers of themselves, as all these were, it proveth most plainly that they found their own felicity (though as great as ever hap- pened to mortal men) but as an half piece, except they mought ^ have a friend to make it entire ; and yet, which is more, they were princes that had wives, sons, nephews ; and yet all these could not supply the comfort of friendship. It is not to be forgotten what Commineus ' observeth of his first master, Duke Charles the Hardy ; namely, that he would communi- cate his secrets with none ; and least of all, ^ These things, because of our friendship, I have not concealed from you. ^ might ^ Philippe de Commines, a French statesman those secrets which troubled him most. Whereupon he goeth on and saith that towards his latter time that closeness did impair and a little perish his understanding. Surely Com- mineus mought have made the same judg- ment also, if it had pleased him, of his second master, Lewis the Eleventh, whose closeness was indeed his tormentor. The parable of Pythagoras^ is dark, but true; Cor ne edito: Eat not the heart. Certainly, if a man would give it a hard phrase, those that want friends to open themselves unto are cannibals of their own hearts. But one thing is most admirable (wherewith I will conclude this first fruit of friendship), which is, that this communicating of a man's self to his friend works two contrary effects ; for it redoubleth joys, and cutteth griefs in halfs. For there is no man that imparteth his joys to his friend, but he joyeth the more : and no man that imparteth his griefs to his friend, but he grieveth the less. So that it is in truth of operation upon a man's mind,, of like virtue as the alchemists use to attribute to their stone for man's body ; that it worketh all contrary effects, but still to the good and benefit of nature. But yet without praying in aid - of alchemists, there is a manifest image of this in the ordinary course of nature. For in bodies, union strengtheneth and cherisheth any natural action ; and on the other side weakeneth and dulleth any violent impres- sion : and even so is it of minds. The second fruit of friendship is healthful and sovereign for the understanding, as the first is for the affections. For friendship maketh indeed a fair day in the affections, from storm and tempests ; but it maketh day- light in the understanding, out of darkness and confusion of thoughts. Neither is this to be understood only of faithful counsel, which a man receiveth from his friend; but before you come to that, certain it is that who- soever hath his mind fraught with many thoughts, his wits and understanding do clar- ify and break up, in the communicating and discoursing with another; he tosseth his thoughts more easily; he marshalleth them more orderly ; he seeth how they look when they are turned into words : finally, he waxeth wiser than himself ; and that more by_ an hour's discourse than by a day's meditation. It was well said by Themistocles to the king ^ a Greek philosopher - calling in as advocates 158 FRANCIS BACON of Persia, That speech was like cloth of Arras, opened and put abroad; whereby the imagery doth appear in figure; whereas in thoughts they lie but as in packs. Neither is this sec- ond fruit of friendship, in opening the under- standing, restrained only to such friends as are able to give a man counsel ; (they indeed are best) ; but even without that, a man learneth of himself, and bringeth his own thoughts to light, and whetteth his wits as against a stone, which itself cuts not. In a word, a man were better relate himself to a statua * or picture, than to suffer his thoughts to pass in smother. Add now, to make this second fruit of friend- ship complete, that other point which lieth more open and falleth within vulgar ^ observa- tion ; which is faithful counsel from a friend. Heraclitus saith well in one of his enigmas, Dry light is ever the best. And certain it is, that the light that a man receiveth by counsel from another, is drier and purer than that which Cometh, from his own understanding and judgment ; which is ever infused and drenched in his affections and customs. So as there is as much difference between the coun- sel that a friend giveth, and that a man giveth himself, as there is between the coun- sel of a friend and of a flatterer. For there is no such flatterer as is a man's self ; and there is no such remedy against flattery of a man's self, as the liberty of a friend. Counsel is of two sorts : the one concerning manners, the other concerning business. For the first, the best preservative to keep the mind in health is the faithful admonition of a friend. The calling of a man's self to a strict account is a medicine, sometime, too piercing and corrosive. Reading good books of morality is a little flat and dead. Observing our faults in others is sometimes unproper for our case. But the best receipt^ (best, I say, to work, and best to take) is the admonition of a friend. It is a strange thing to behold what gross errors and extreme absurdities many (espe- cially of (he greater sort) do commit, for want of a friend to tell them of them ; to the great damage both of their fame and fortune: for, as St. James saith, they arc as men that look sometimes into a glass, and presently forget their own shape and favour. As for business, a rnan may think, if he will, that two eyes see no more than one; or that a gamester statue common ^ prescription seeth always more than a looker-on ; or that a man in anger is as wise as he that hath said over the four and twenty letters ; or that a musket may be shot off as well upon the arm as upon a rest ; and such other fond and high imaginations, to think himself all in all. But when all is done, the help of good counsel is that which setteth business straight. And if any man think that he will take counsel, but it shall be by pieces ; asking counsel in one busi- ness of one man, and in another business of another man ; it is well, (that is to say, better perhaps than if he asked none at all ;) but he runneth two dangers : one, that he shall not be faithfully counselled ; for it is a rare thing, except it be from a perfect and entire friend, to have counsel given, but such as shall be bowed and crooked to some ends which he hath that giveth it. The other, that he shall have counsel given, hurtful and unsafe, (though with good meaning,) and mixed partly of mischief and partly of remedy ; even as if you would call a physician that is thought good for the cure of the disease you complain of, but is unacquainted with your body ; and therefore may put you in way for a present cure, but overthroweth your health in some other kind ; and so cure the disease and kill the patient. But a friend that is wholly ac- quainted with a man's estate will beware, by furthering any present business, how h^ dash- eth upon other inconvenience. And there- fore rest not upon scattered counsels; they will rather distract and mislead, than settle and direct. After these two noble fruits of friendship (peace in the affections, and support of the judgment) followeth the last fruit ; which is like the pomegranate, full of many kernels ; I mean aid and bearing a part in all actions and occasions. Here the best way to repre- sent to life the manifold use of friendship, is to cast and see how many things there are which a man cannot do himself ; and then it will appear that it was a sparing speech of the ancients, to say, that a friend is another him- self ; for that a friend is far more than himself. Men have their time, and die many times in desire of some things which they principally take to heart ; the bestowing of a child, the finishing of a work, or the like. If a man have a true friend, he may rest almost secure ihat the care of those things will continue after him. So that a man hath, as it were, two lives in his desires. A man hath a body, and ESSAYS 159 that body is conjGmed to a place ; but where friendship is, all olfices of Hfe are as it were granted to him and his deputy. For he may exercise them by his friend. How many things are there which a man cannot, with any face or comeliness, say or do himself? A man can scarce allege his own merits with modesty, much less extol them ; a man cannot sometimes brook to supplicate or beg ; and a number of the like. But all these things are graceful in a friend's mouth, which are blushing in a man's own. So again, a man's person hath many proper relations which he cannot put off. A man cannot speak to his son but as a father ; to his wife but as a hus- band ; to his enemy but upon terms : whereas a friend may speak as the case requires, and not as it sorteth ^ with the person. But to enumerate these things were endless ; I have given the rule, where a man cannot fitly play his own part ; if he have not a friend, he may quit the stage. XLII. OF YOUTH AND AGE A man that is young in years may be old in hours, if he have lost no time. But that hap- peneth rarely. Generally, youth is like the fir.st cogitations, not so wise as the second. For there is a youth in thoughts, as well as in ages. And yet the invention of young men is more lively than that of old ; and imagina- tions stream into their minds better, and as it were more divinely. Natures that have much heat and great and violent desires and pertur- bations, are not ripe for action till they have passed the meridian of their years ; as it was with Julius Cisar, and Septimius Severus. Of the latter of whom it is said J uvcnhitem egit erroribus, imo furoribus, plenam? And yet he was the ablest emperor, almost, of all the list. But reposed natures may do well in youth. As it is seen in Augustus Cajsar, Cosmus Duke of Florence, Gaston de Fois, and others. On the other side, heat and vivacity in age is an excellent composition for business. Young men are fitter to invent than to judge ; fitter for execution than for counsel ; and fitter for new projects than for settled business. For the experience of age, in things that fall within the compass of it, directeth them ; but in new things, abuseth ' agrees ^ He passed a youth full of errors ; yea, of madnesses. them. The errors of young men are the ruin of business ; but the errors of aged men amount but to this, that more might have been done, or sooner. Young men, in the conduct and manage of actions, embrace more than they can hold ; slir more than they can quiet ; fly to the end, without considera- tion of the means and degrees ; pursue some few principles which they have chanced upon absurdly ; care ^ not to innovate, which draws unknown inconveniences ; use extreme remedies at first ; and, that which doubleth all errors, will not acknowledge or retract them ; like an unready horse, that will neither stop nor turn. Men of age object too much, consult too long, adventure too little, repent too soon, and seldom drive business home to the full period, but content themselves with a mediocrity of success. Certainly it is good to compound employ^nents of both ; for that will be good for the present, becavise the vir- tues of either age may correct the defects of both ; and good for succession, that 3^oung men may be learners, while men in age are actors ; and, lastly, good for extern accidents, because authority followeth old men, and favour and popularity youth. But for the moral part, perhaps youth will have the pre- eminence, as age hath for the politic. A cer- tain rabbin, upon the text, Your young men shall see visions, aiid your old men shall dream dreams, inf erreth that young men are admitted nearer to God than old, because vision is a clearer revelation than a dream. And cer- tainly, the more a man drinketh of the world, the more it intoxicateth : and age doth profit rather in the powers of understanding, than in the virtues of the will and affections. There be some have an over-early ripeness in their years, which fadeth betimes. These are, first, such as have brittle wits, the edge where- of is soon turned ; such as was Hermogenes the rhetorician, whose books are exceeding subtle ; who afterwards waxed stupid. A second sort is of those that have some natural dispositions which have better grace in youth than in age ; such as is a fluent and luxuriant speech ; which becomes youth well, but not age : so Tully saith of Hortensius, Idem matiebat, neque idem dccebat.- The third is of such as take too high a strain at the first, and are magnanimous more than» tract of years can uphold. As ^ hesitate. ^ He continued the same, when the same was not becoming. i6o MINOR POETRY was Scipio Africanus, of whom Livy saith in effect, Ultima primis cedebant} MINOR POETRY MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS My mind to me a kingdom is, Such present joys therein I find That it excels all other bliss That earth affords or grows by kind : Though much I want which most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 6 No princely pomp, no wealthy store, No force to win the victory. No wily wit to salve a sore, No shape to feed a loving eye ; lo To none of these I yield as thrall : For why ? My mind doth serve for all. I see how plenty [surfeits] oft. And hasty climbers soon do fall ; I see that those which are aloft 15 Mishap doth threaten most of all ; They get with toil, they keep with fear: Such cares my mind could never bear. Content to live, this is my stay ; I seek no more than may suffice ; 20 I press to bear no haughty sway ; Look, what I lack my mind supplies : Lo, thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring. Some have too much, yet still do crave ; 25 I little have, and seek no more. They are but poor, though much they have. And I am rich with little store : They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; They lack, I leave ; they pine, I live. 30 I laugh not at another's loss ; I grudge not at another's pain ; No worldly waves my mind can toss ; My state at one doth still remain : I fear no foe, I fawn no friend ; 35 I loathe not life, nor dread my end. Some weigh their pleasure by their lust, Their wisdom by their rage of wjll ; Their treasure is their only trust ; A cloaked craft their store of skill : 40 ^ His last actions were not equal to his first. But all the pleasure that I find Is to maintain a quiet mind. My wealth is health and perfect ease ; My conscience clear my chief defence ; I neither seek by bribes to please, 45 Nor by deceit to breed offence : Thus do I live ; thus will I die ; Would all did so as well as I ! — Sir Edward Dyer (i55o?-i6o7) THE SILENT LOVER Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams : The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb. So, when affection yields discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words, in words discover That they are poor in that which makes a lover. 6 II Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart. The merit of true passion. With thinking that he feels no smart, That sues for no compassion. Silence in love bewrays more woe 5 Than words, though ne'er so witty : A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity. Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My true, though secret passion ; 10 He smarteth most that hides his smart. And sues for no compassion. — Sir Walter Raleigh (1552 ?-i6i8) THE CONCLUSION Even such is time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have. And pays us but with earth and dust ; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wander'd all our ways, 5 Shuts up the story of our days : But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust. — Sir Walter Raleigh (i552?-i6i8) MINOR POETRY i6i SONG OF PARIS AND CENONE CEnone. Fair and fair, and twice so fair, As fair as any may be ; The fairest shepherd on our green, A love for any lady. Paris. Fair and fair, and twice so fair, 5 x\s fair as any may be ; Thy love is fair for thee alone, And for no other lady. CEn. My love is fair, my love is gay. As fresh as bin the flowers in May, And of my love my roundelay, 1 1 ]VIy merrv', merrs^ roundelay. Concludes with Cupid's curse, — "They that do change old love for new. Pray gods they change for worse !" 15 Ambo Simul. They that do change, etc. (En. Fair and fair, etc. Par. Fair and fair, etc. Thy love is fair, etc. CEn. My love can pipe, my love can sing, 20 My love can many a pretty thing, And of his lovely praises ring My merry, merry roundelays. Amen to Cupid's curse, — "They that do change," etc. 25 Par. They that do change, etc. Ambo. Fair and fair, etc. — George Peele (1558?-! 597?) HARVESTISIEN A-SINGING All ye that lovely lovers be, Pray you for me : Lo, here we come a-sowing, a-sowing. And sow sweet fruits of love ; In your sweet hearts well may it prove ! 5 Lo, here we come a-reaping, a-reaping, To reap our harvest-fruit ! And thus we pass the year so long, And never be we mute. — George Peele (i558?-i597?) FAREWELL TO ARMS His golden locks time hath to silver turned ; time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing ! His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned, But spurned in vain ; youth waneth by increasing : Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fad- ing seen ; 5 Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. His helmet now shall make a hive for bees. And, lovers' sonnets turned to holy psalms, A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are age his'- alms : But though from court to cottage he depart, His saint is sure of his unspotted heart. 12 And when he saddest sits in homely cell. He'll teach his swains this carol for a song. — "Blessed be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, I s Cursed be the souls that think her any wrong." Goddess, allow this aged man his right. To be your beadsman now that was your knight. — George Peele (1558?-! 597?) THE BURNING BABE 4 As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow. Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow ; And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near, A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear, WTio scorched -wdth exceeding heat such floods of tears did shed, 5 As though His floods should quench His flames with what ^ His tears were fed ; "Alas !" quoth He, "but newly born, in fiery heats I fry. Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I ! My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns ; Love is the fire and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns ; 10 The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals ; The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiled souls ; For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to their good. So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in my blood:" ' age's ^ that with which l62 ENGLAND'S HELICON With this He vanish'd out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away, 15 And straight I called into mind that it was Christmas-day. — Robert Southwell (i56i?-i595) CHERRY-RIPE There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow ; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow : There cherries grow which none may buy 5 Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, 9 They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow ; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still ; ^ Her brows like bended bows do stand Threat 'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand 16 Those sacred cherries to come nigh Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. — Thomas Campion (d. i6iq) ENGLAND'S HELICON (1600) PHYLLIDA AND CORYDON In the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day. Forth I walk'd by the wood-side, When as May was in his pride : There I spied all alone, 5 Phyllida and Cory don. IVluch ado there was, God wot ! He would love and she would not. She said, never man was true ; He said, none was false to you. 10 He said, he had loved her long ; She said, love should have no wrong. Corydon would kiss her then ; She said, maids must kiss no men. Till they did for good and all ; 15 Then she made the shepherd call ^ constantly All the heavens to witness truth : Never loved a truer youth. Thus with many a pretty oath. Yea and nay, and faith and troth, 20 Such as silly ^ shepherds use When they will not love abuse. Love which had been long deluded, Was with kisses sweet concluded ; And Phyllida, with garlands gay, 25 Was made the Lady of the May. — N. Breton (i545?-i626?) AS IT FELL UPON A DAY As it fell upon a day, In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade, Which a group of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, 5 Trees did grow and plants did spring, Everything did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone ; She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast against a thorn, 10 And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity. "Fie, fie, fie !" now would she cry; "Teru, teru !" ^ by-and-by. That to hear her so complain 15 Scarce I could from tears refrain ; For her griefs so lively showTi Made me think upon mine own. Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain. None takes pity on thy pain. 20 Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee; King Pandion ^ he is dead. All thy friends are lapp'd in lead; All thy fellow birds do sing, 25 Careless of thy sorrowing ; Even so, poor bird, like thee. None alive will pity me. — Ignoto PHYLLIDA'S LOVE-CALL TO HER CORYDON, AND HIS REPLYING Phyl. Corydon, arise my Corydon ! Titan shineth clear. Cor. Who is it that calleth Corydon ? Who is it that I hear? ^ simple and good ^ Cf. note on Sidney's The Nightingale ^ the father of Philomela and Progne ENGLAND'S HELICON 163 Phyl. Phyllida, thy true love, calleth thee, 5 .\rise then, arise then ; Arise and keep thy flock with me ! Cor. PhyUida, my true love, is it she? I come then, I come then, 9 I come and keep my flock with thee. Phyl. Here are cherries ripe for my Corydon ; Eat them for my sake. Cor. Here's my oaten pipe, my lovely one, Sport for thee to make. Phyl. Here are threads, my true love, fine as silk, 15 To knit thee, to knit thee, A pair of stockings white as milk. Cor. Here are reeds, my true love, fine and neat, To make thee, to make thee, A bonnet to withstand the heat. Phyl. I will gather flowers, my Corydon, 21 To set in thy cap. Cor. I will gather pears, my lovely one, To put in thy lap. Phyl. I will buy my true love garters gay, For Sundays, for Sundays, 26 To wear about his legs so tall. Cor. I will buy my true love yellow say,^ For Sundays, for Sundays, To wear about her middle small. Phyl. When my Cor>-don sits on a hill, 31 IMaking melody — Cor. When my lovely one goes to her wheel. Singing cheerily — Phyl. Sure methinks my true love doth excel For sweetness, for sweetness. Our Pan, that old Arcadian knight. Cor. And methinks my true love bears the bell For clearness, for clearness, 39 Beyond the nymphs that be so bright. Phyl. Had my Corydon, my Corydon, Been, alack ! her swain — Cor. Had my lovely one, my lovely one, Been in Ida plain — Phyl. Cynthia Endymion had refused, 45 Preferring, preferring. My Cor>-don to play withal. 35 Cor. The queen of love had been excused Bequeathing, bequeathing. My Phyllida the golden ball. 50 Phyl. Yonder comes my mother, Corydon, Whither shaU I fly ? Cor. Under yonder beech, my lovely one, While she passeth by. Phyl. Say to her thy true love was not here ; Remember, remember, 56 To-morrow is another day. Cor. Doubt me not, my true love, do not fear ; Farewell then, farewell then, Heaven keep our loves alway. 60 — Ignoto THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LO\E Melibceus. Shepherd, what's love, I pray thee tell ? Faustus. It is that fountain and that well WTiere pleasure and repentance dwell ; It is perhaps that sauncing bell ^ That tolls all in to heaven or heU : And this is Love, as I hear tell. 6 Meli. Yet what is Love, I prithee say? Faust. It is a work on holiday, It is December match 'd with May, When lusty bloods in fresh array Hear ten months after of the play : And this is Love, as I hear say. 1 2 Meli. Yet what is Love, good shepherd, sain - ? Faust. It is a sunshine mix'd with rain, It is a tooth-ache, or like ' pain, It is a game, where none doth gain ; The lass saith no, and would full fain: And this is Love, as I hear sain. 18 Meli. Yet, shepherd, what is Love, I pray ? Faust. It is a yea, it is a nay, A pretty kind of sporting fray, It is a thing will soon away, Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may : And this is Love, as I hear say. 24 !Meli. Yet what is Love, good shepherd, show ? ^ silk for a girdle or sash Sanctus bell say ' similar 164 ENGLAND'S HELICON Faust. A thing that creeps, it cannot go, A prize that passeth to and fro, A thing for one, a thing for moe,^ And he that proves shall find it so : And, shepherd, this is Love, I trow. 30 — Ignoto DAMELUS' SONG TO HIS DIAPHENIA Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly, White as the sun, fair as the lily, Heigho, how I do love thee ! I do love thee as my lambs Are beloved of their dams : How blest were I if thou wouldst prove me ! Diaphenia, like the spreading roses, 7 That in thy sweets all sweets encloses, Fair sweet, how I do love thee ! I do love thee as each flower Loves the sun's life-giving power ; For dead, thy breath to life might move me. Diaphenia, like to all things blessed, 13 When all thy praises are expressed, Dear joy, how I do love thee ! As the birds do love the Spring, Or the bees their careful king : Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me ! 18 — H. C. A NYMPH'S DISDAIN OF LOVE "Hey, down, a down !"^ did Dian sing, Amongst her virgins sitting ; "Than love there is no vainer thing. For maidens most unfitting." And so think I, with a down, down, derry.'^ 5 When women knew no woe. But lived themselves to please. Men's feigning guiles they did not know, The ground of their disease. Unborn was false suspect,^ 10 No thought of jealousy ; From wanton toys'* and fond affect,^ The virgin's life was free. "Hey, down, a down !" did Dian sing, etc. ' more ^ A meaningless refrain ^ suspicion •^ frivolous trifling ■'' foolish affection At length men used charms, 1 5 To which what ^ maids gave ear, Embracing gladly endless harms, Anon enthralled were. Thus women welcomed woe, Disguised in name of love, 20 A jealous hell, a painted show : So shall they find that prove. "Hey, down, a down !" did Dian sing, Amongst her virgins sitting ; "Than love there is no vainer thing, 25 For maidens most unfitting." And so think I, with a down, down, derry. — Ignoto ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL Love in my bosom like a bee, Doth suck his sweet ; Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest. His bed amidst my tender breast ; My kisses are his daily feast. And yet he robs me of my rest. Ah, wanton,^ will ye? 9 And if I sleep, then percheth he, With pretty slight. And makes his pillow of my knee, The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string ; He music plays if I but sing ; He lends me every lovely thing ; Yet cruel he my heart doth sting. Whist, wanton, still ye ! 18 Else I with roses every day Will ship ye hence. And bind ye, when ye long to play, For your offence. I'll shut my eyes to keep ye in, I'll make you fast it for yovir sin, I'll count your power not worth a pin. Alas ! what hereby shall I win If he gainsay me? 27 What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod ? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, ^vhichevcr ^ rascal {used playfully) ENGLAND'S HELICON 165 And let thy bower my bosom be ; Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee. O Cupid ! so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee. 36 — Thom. Lodge (i558?-i625) THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE Come live with me and be my love, And we will aU the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, hills, and iields, Woods, or steepy mountains yields. 4 And we will sit upon the rocks. Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks. By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sings madrigals. 8 And I will make thee beds of roses. And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle : 12 A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold ; 16 A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs ; And if these pleasures may thee move. Come live with me and be my love. 20 The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delights each May morning ; If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love. 24 — Chr. Marlow (1564-1593) THE NYjMPH'S reply TO THE SHEPHERD If aU the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue. These pretty pleasures might me move, To live with thee and be thy love. 4 Time drives the flocks from field to fold. When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; And Philomel becometh dumb ; The rest complains of cares to come. 8 The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields ; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 12 Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten. In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 16 Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds. Thy coral clasps and amber studs. All these in me no means can move. To come to thee and be thy love. 20 But could youth last, and love stfll breed. Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move, . To live with thee and be thy love. 24 — Ignoto THE END OF THE RENAISSANCE THOMAS DEKKER (i57o?-i64i) From THE SHOEMAKER'S HOLIDAY THE SECOND THREE MEN'S SONG Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, Saint Hvigh be our good speed ! Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, Nor helps good hearts in need. 4 Trowl the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl, And here, kind mate, to thee : Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul. And down it merrily. 8 Down a down ! hey down a down ! Hey derry derry, down a down ! Ho, well done ; to me let come ! Ring, compass, gentle joy. 12 Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl. And here, kind mate, to thee : etc. {Repeat as often as there be men to drink ; and at last when all have drunk, this verse:) Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, • Saint Hugh be our good speed ! 16 111 is the weather that bringeth no gain. Nor helps good hearts in need. From OLD FORTUNATUS SONG Virtue smiles : cry holiday. Dimples on her cheeks do dwell. Virtue frowns, cry welladay, Her love is heaven, her hate is hell. Since heaven and hell oljey her power, 5 Tremble when her eyes do lower. Since heaven and hell her power obey. Where she smiles, cry holiday. Holiday with joy we cry, And bend, and bend, and merrily 10 Sing hymns to Virtue's deity : Sing hymns to Virtue's deity. From PATIENT GRISSILL CONTENT Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? sweet content ! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?^ O punishment ! 4 Dost laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers golden numbers ? ^ O sweet content, O sweet, O sweet content ! Work apace ! apace ! apace ! apace ! Honest labour bears a lovely face. Then hey noney, noney ; hey noney, noney ! Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? O sweet content ! 1 2 Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O punishment ! Then he that patiently want's burden bears 15 No burden bears, but is a king, a king. O sweet content, O sweet, O sweet content ! Work apace, apace, etc. THE GULL'S HORNBOOK CHAPTER VI How a Gallant should behave himself in A Play-House The theatre is your poets' royal exchange, upon which their muses (that are now turned to merchants) meeting, barter away that light commodity of words for a lighter ware than words, plaudities,- and the breath of the great beast ; ^ which (like the threatenings of two cowards) vanish all into air. Players and their factors,'' who put away the stuff, and make the best of it they possibly can (as in- deed 'tis their parts so to do), your gallant, your courtier, and your captain, had wont to ^ trouble themselves to heap vp gold ^ applause the public ^ adherents 166 THE GULL'S HORNBOOK 167 be the soundest paymasters ; and I think are still the surest chapmen ; ^ and these, by means that their heads are well stocked, deal upon this comical freight by the gross : when your groundling," and gallery-commoner^ buys his sport by the penny, and, like a haggler,^ is glad to utter * it again by retailing. Since then the place is so free in entertain- ment, allowing a stool as well to the farmer's son as to your templer : '" that your stinkard has the selfsame liberty to be there in his to- bacco fumes, which your sweet courtier hath : and that your carman and tinker claim as strong a voice in their suffrage, and sit to give judgment on the play's hfe and death, as well as the proudest momus ^ among the tribes of critic : it is lit that he, v/hom the most tailors' bills do make room for, when he comes, should not be basely (like a viol) cased up in a corner. Whether therefore the gatherers ^ of the public or private playhouse stand to receive the afternoon's rent, let our gallant (having paid it) presently advance himself up to the throne of the stage. I mean not into the lord's room (which is now but the stage's suburbs) : no, those boxes, by the iniquity of custom, conspiracy of waiting women and gentlemen ushers, that there sweat together, and the covetousness of sharers,* are con- temptibly thrust into the rear, and much new satin is there damned, by being smothered to death in darkness. But on the very rushes where the comedy is to dance, yea, and under the state ^ of Cambises himself must our feathered estridge,^" like a piece of ordnance, be planted, valiantly (because impudently) beating down the mews and hisses of the opposed rascality. For do but cast up a reckoning, what large comings-in are pursed up by sitting on the stage. First a conspicuous eminence is got ; by which means, the best and most essential parts of a gallant (good clothes, a proportion- able leg, white hand, the Persian lock, and a tolerable beard) are perfectly revealed. By sitting on the stage, you have a signed patent to engross the whole commodity of cen- sure ; may lawfully presume to be a girder ; and stand at the helm to steer the passage of scenes ; yet no man shall once offer to hinder ^ buyers ^ occupants of cheap places ^ huckster * sell ^ a resident of one of the inns of court ^ a carping critic '' doorkeepers * shareholders in the theatre ' canopy ^^ ostrich you from obtaining the title of an insolent, overweening coxcomb. .By sitting on the stage, you may (without travelling for it) at the very next door ask whose play it is: and, by that quest of in- quiry, the law warrants you to avoid much mistaking : if you know not the author, you may rail against him : and peradventure so behave yourself, that you may enforce the author to know you. By sitting on the stage, if you be a knight, you may happily ^ get you a mistress : if a mere Fleet-street gentleman, a wife : but assure yourself, by continual residence, you are the lirst and principal man in election to begin the number of We Three.^ By spreading your body on the stage, and by being a justice in examining of plays, you shall put yourself into such true scenical au- thority, that some poet shall not dare to present his muse rudely upon your eyes, without having first unmasked her, rifled her, and discovered all her bare and most mystical parts before you at a tavern, when you most knightly shall, for his pains, pay for both their suppers. By sitting on the stage, you may (with small cost) purchase the dear acquaintance of the boys : have a good stool for sixpence : ^ at any time know what particular part any of the in- fants ^ present : get your match lighted, ex- amine the play-suits' lace,^ and perhaps win wagers upon laying 'tis copper, etc. And to conclude, whether you be a fool or a justice of peace, a cuckold, or a captain, a lord- mayor's son, or a dawcock,^ a knave, or an under-sheriff ; of what stamp soever you be, current, or counterfeit, the stage, like time, will bring you to most perfect light and lay 3^ou open : neither are 3'ou to be hunted from thence, though the scarecrows in the yard'^ hoot at you, hiss at you, spit at you, yea, throw dirt even in your teeth : 'tis most gentlemanlike patience to endure all this, and to laugh at the siUy animals: but if the rabble, with a full throat, cry, "Away with the fool," you were worse than a mad- man to tarry by it : for the gentleman and the fool should never sit on the stage together. ^ haply, by chance ^ A jest that still survives, — a picture of two fools or asses, with this in- scription. ^ the usual price ■* boy players ^ braid, usually of gold or silver ^ simpleton ^ the pit of the theatre, where there were no seats [68 THOMAS DEKKER Marry, let this observation go hand in hand with the rest : or rather, like a country serv- ing-man, some five yards before them. Pre- sent not yourself on the stage (especially at a new play) until the quaking prologue hath (by rubbing) got colour into his cheeks, and is ready to give the trumpets^ their cue, that he's upon point to enter: for then it is time, as though you were one of the properties, or that you dropped out of the hangings, to creep from behind the arras,'^ with your tripos or three- footed stool in one hand, and a teston * mounted between a forefinger and a thumb in the other : for if you should bestow your person upon the vulgar, when the belly of the house is but half full, your apparel is quite eaten up, the fashion lost, and the proportion of your body in more danger to be devoured than if it were served up in the counter ^ amongst the poultry : avoid that as you would the bastome.* It shall crown you with rich commendation to laugh aloud in the midst of the most serious and saddest scene of the terriblest tragedy : and to let that clapper (your tongue) be tossed so high, that aU the house may ring of it : your lords use it ; your knights are apes to the lords, and do so too : your in-a-court-man * is zany '^ to the knights, and (marry very scurvily) comes likewise limping after it : be thou a beagle to them all, and never lin * snuffing, till you have scented them : for by talking and laughing (like a ploughman in a morris^) you heap Pelion upon Ossa, glory upon glory : as first, all the eyes in the galleries will leave walking after the players, and only follow you : the simplest dolt in the house snatches up your name, and when he meets you in the streets, or that you fall into his hands in the middle of a watch, his word shall be taken for you : he'll cry " He's such a gal- lant," and you pass. Secondly, you publish your temperance to the world, in that you seem not to resort thither to taste vain pleas- ures with a hungry appetite: but only as a gentleman to spend a foolish hour or two, because you can do nothing else : thirdly, you mightily disreHsh the audience, and disgrace the author : marry, you take up (though it be at the worst hand) a strong opinion of your own judgment, and enforce the poet ^ trumpeters (who announced the beginning of the play) ^ cloth hung against the wall of the stage ^ sixpence ■* a prison for debtors '•" cudgel ^ lawyer '' ape * cease ' a morris dance to take pity of your weakness, and, by some dedicated sonnet, to bring you into a better paradise, only to stop your mouth. If you can (either for love or money) , pro- vide yourself a lodging by the water side : for, above the convenience it brings to shun shoulder-clapping,^ and to ship away your cockatrice ^ betimes in the morning, it adds a kind of state unto you, to be carried from thence to the stairs of your play-house : hate a sculler (remember that) worse than to be acquainted with one o' th' scullery. No, your oars are your only sea-crabs, board them, and take heed you never go twice together with one pair : often shifting is a great credit to gentlemen ; and that dividing of your fare will make the poor watersnakes be ready to pull you in pieces to enjoy your custom : no matter whether upon landing, you have money or no : you may swim in twenty of their boats over the river upon ticket : ^ marry, when silver comes in, remem- ber to pay treble their fare, and it will make your flounder-catchers to send more thanks after you, when you do not draw, than when you do ; for they know, it will be their own another day. Before the play begins, fall to cards: you may win or lose (as fencers do in a prize) and beat one another by confederacy, yet share the money when you meet at supper: not- withstanding, to gull the ragamuifins that stand aloof gaping at you, throw the cards (having first torn four or five of them) round about the stage, just upon the third sound,'' as though you had lost : it skills not ^ if the four knaves lie on their backs, and outface the audience ; there's none such fools as dare take exceptions at them, because, ere the play go ofT, better knaves than they will fall into the company. Now, sir, if the writer be a fellow that hath either epigrammed you, or hath had a flirt at your mistress, or hath brought either your feather, or your red beard, or your little legs, etc., on the stage, you shaU disgrace him worse than by tossing him in a blanket, or giving him the bastinado in a tavern, if, in the middle of his play (be it pastoral or comedy, moral or tragedy), you rise with a screwed and dis- contented face from your stool to be gone; no matter whether the scenes be good or no : ^ by a constable ^ prostitute ' " on tick" * i.e. for the play to begin ^ it doesn't matter BEN JONSON 169 the better they are the worse do you distaste them : and, being on your feet, sneak not away Uke a coward, but salute all your gentle acquaintance, that are spread either on the rushes, or on stools about you, and draw what troop you can from the stage after you : the mimics^ are beholden to you, for allowing them elbow room: their poet cries, perhaps, "a pox go with you," but care not for that, there's no music without frets. IVIarry, if either the company, or indisposi- tion of the weather bind you to sit it out, my counsel is then that you turn plain ape, take up a rush, and tickle the earnest ears of your fellow gallants, to make other fools fall a-laughing : mew at passionate speeches, blare at merry, find fault with the music, whew at the children's action, whistle at the songs: and above all, curse the sharers, that whereas the same day you had bestowed forty shilUngs on an embroidered felt and feather (Scotch- fashion) for your mistress in the court, or your punk^ in the city, within two hours after, you encounter with the ver>' same block ^ on the stage, when the haberdasher swore to you the impression was extant but that morning. To conclude, hoard up the finest play-scraps you can get, upon which your lean wit may most savourly feed, for want of other stuff, when the Arcadian and Euphmsed gentle- women have their tongues sharpened to set upon you : that quality (next to your shuttle- cock) is the only furniture to a courtier that's but a new beginner, and is but in his A B C of compliment. The next places that are filled, after the playhouses be emptied, are (or ought to be) taverns : into a tavern then let us next march, where the brains of one hogshead must be beaten out to make up another. BEN JONSON (i573?-i637) SONG TO CELIA Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine ; Or Ipave a kiss but in the cup. And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from tKe soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine ; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. ^ players ^ prostitute ^ style of hat I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee 10 As giving it a hope, that there It could not wither'd be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me ; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. THE TRIUIMPH OF CHARIS See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my Lady rideth ! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty ; And enamour'd, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side. Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. 10 Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth ! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth ! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her ; And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face As alone there triumphs to the life AU the gain, aU the good, of the elements' strife. 20 Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it ? Have you marked but the fall of the snow, Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of the beaver? Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar? Or the nard in the fire ? Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? Oh so white ! Oh so soft ! Oh so sweet is she ! 30 TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man, nor muse, can praise too much. lyo BEN JONSON 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage.^ But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; For siUiest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right ; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ; lo Or crafty malice might pretend this praise. And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise. These are, as ^ some infamous bawd or whore Should praise a matron. W^hat could hurt her more? But thou art proof against them, and, indeed. Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. I therefore will begin. Soul of the age ! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage ! My Shakespeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 20 A little further, to make thee a room : Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still ^ while thy book doth live And we have wits to read and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, I rhean with great, but disproportioned Muses ; ■* For if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers. And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine. Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line. 30 And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honour thee, I would not seek For names ; but call forth thundering /Eschy- lus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us ; Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,^ To life again, to hear thy buskin ^ tread. And shake a stage ; or, when thy socks "^ were on, Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 42 He was not of an age, but for all time ! And all the Muses still were in their prime, * vote, opinion ^ as if ' forever ^ i.e. poets not equal to thee ^Pacuvius, Accius, and Seneca, the most famous Latin tragedians ^ the liigh shoe of tragedy ^ the low shoe of comedy When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm ! Nature herself was proud of his designs And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines ! Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. 50 The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ; But antiquated and deserted he. As ^ they were not of Nature's family. Yet must I not give Nature all ; thy art. My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. For though the poet's m.atter nature be, His art doth give the fashion ; and, that he Who casts ^ to write a living line, must sweat, (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same 61 (And himself with it) that he thinks to frame, Or, for ^ the laurel, he may gain a scorn ; For a good poet's made, as well as born. And such wert thou ! Look how the father's face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well turned, and true filed lines ; In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. 70 Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were To see thee in our waters yet appear. And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, That so did take Eliza, and our James ! But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there ! Shine forth, thou Star of poets, and with rage Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage, Which, since thy flight' from hence, hath mourned like night, 79 And despairs day, but for thy volume's light. From A PINDARIC ODE To the immortal memory and friendship of thai noble pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison. Ill The Strophe, or Turn It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make men better be ; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year. To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear: ^ as if ^ attempts ^ instead of JOHN DONNE A lily of a day, Is fairer far, in May ; 70 Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see ; And in short measures life may perfect be. AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY^ Weep with me, all you that read This little story : And know, for whom a tear you shed Death's self is sorry. 'Twas a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As heaven and nature seem'd to strive Which owned the creature. Years he numbered scarce thirteen When fates turned cruel, 10 Yet three filled zodiacs ^ had he been The stage's jewel ; And did act, what now we moan, Old men so duly, As, sooth, the Parcas ^ thought him one, He played so truly. So, by error, to his fate They all consented ; But viewing him since, alas, too late ! They have repented ; 20 And have sought, to give new birth, In baths to steep him ; But being so much too good for earth, Heaven vows to keep him. EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH, L. H." Would'st thou hear what man can say In a httle ? Reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die : Which in hfe did harbour give To more virtue than doth live. If at all she had a fault. Leave it buried in this vault. One name was Elizabeth, The other, let it sleep with death ! 10 Fitter, where it died, to tell. Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! * the most famous child actor of his time ■ years ^ the Fates * Lady Herbert JOHN DONNE (1573-1631) THE INDIFFERENT I can love both fair and brown ; Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays ; Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays ; Her whom the country form'd, and whom the town ; Her who believes, and her who tries ; Her who still weeps with spongy eyes. And her who is dry cork and never cries. I can love her, and her, and you, and you ; I can love any, so she be not true. 9 Will no other vice content you ? Will it not serve your turn to do as did your mothers ? Or have you all old vices spent and now would find out others? Or doth a fear that men are true torment you ? O we are not, be not you so ; Let me — and do you — twenty know ; Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go. Must I, who came to travel thorough you, 17 Grow your fix'd subject, because you are true ? V^enus heard me sigh this song ; And by love's sweetest part, variety, she swore. She heard not this till now ; it should be so no more. She went, examined, and return'd ere long. And said, "Alas ! some two or three Poor heretics in love there be, Which think to stablish dangerous constancy. But I have told them, ' Since you will be true, You shall be true to them who're false to you. 27 LOVE'S DEITY I long to talk with some old lover's ghost Who died before the god of love was born. I cannot think that he who then loved most Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn. But since this god produced a destiny. And that vice-nature,^ custom, lets it be, I must love her that loves not me. 7 1 Nature's substitute 172 JOHN DONNE Sure, they which made him^ god, meant not so much, Nor he in his young godhead practiced it. But when an even flame two hearts did touch, His office was indulgently to fit Actives to passives. Correspondency Only his subject was ; it cannot be Love till I love her who loves me. 14 But every modern god will not extend His vast prerogative as far as Jove. To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend. All is the purUeu of the god of love. O ! were we waken'd by this tyranny To ungod this child ^ again, it could not be I should love her who loves not me. 21 Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I, As though I felt the worst that love could do? Love may make me leave loving, or might try A deeper plague, to make her love me too ; Which, since she loves before, I'm loth to see. Falsehood is worse than hate ; and that must be. If she whom I love, should love me. 28 Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry If into other hands these reliques came. As 'twas humility T'afford to it all that a soul can do, So 'tis some bravery That, since you^ would have none of me, I bury some of you. 24 FORGET If poisonous minerals, and if that tree Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damn'd, alas ! why should I be? Why should intent or reason, born in me. Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous? And, mercy being easy and glorious To God, in His stern wrath why threatens He? But who am I, that dare dispute with Thee? God, O ! of Thine only worthy blood 10 And my tears make a heavenly Lethean flood. And drown in it my sin's black memory. That Thou remember them, some claim as debt ; 1 think it mercy if Thou wilt forget. THE FUNERAL Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm ; The mystery, the sign you must not touch. For 'tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that which, unto heav'n being gone. Will leave this to control And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dis- solution. 8 For if the sinewy thread ^ my brain lets fall Through every part Can tie those parts, and make me one of all ; Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art Have from a better brain. Can better do't : except she meant that I By this should know my pain. As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd to die. 16 Whate'er she meant by't, bury it with me. For since I am ^ the god of love ^ the spinal cord and nerves DEATH Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ; For those whom thou think'st thou dost over- throw Die not, poor Death ; nor yet canst thou kill me. From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be. Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow ; And soonest our best men with thee do go — Rest of their bones and souls' delivery ! 8 Thou'rt slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell ; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more : Death, thou shalt die ! ^ the she of II. 14, 17 JOHN FLETCHER 173 JOHN FLETCHER (1579-1625) SWEETEST MELANCHOLY Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly ! There's nought in this life sweet, If man were wise to see't, 5 But only melancholy ; O sweetest melancholy ! Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fastened to the ground, 10 A tongue chained up without a sound I Fountain heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves ! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! 1 5 A midnight bell, a parting groan, These are the sounds we feed upon. Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melan- choly. INVOCATION TO SLEEP Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose On this afflicted prince ; fall like a cloud In gentle showers ; give nothing that is loud Or painful to his slumbers ; — easy, sweet, 5 And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, Pass by his troubled senses ; sing his pain Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain ; Into this prince gently, oh, gently shde. And kiss him into slumbers like a bride ! 10 BEAUTY CLEAR AND FAIR Beauty clear and fair, WTiere the air Rather like a perfume dwells ; Where the violet and the rose Their blue veins and blush disclose, And come to honour nothing else. Where to live near. And planted there. Is to live, and still live new ; Where to gain a favour is INIore than light, perpetual bliss, — Make me live by serving you. Dear, again back recall To this light A stranger to himself and all ; Both the wonder and the story Shall be yours, and eke the glory : I am your servant, and your thrall. WEEP NO MORE Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that's gone ; Violets plucked the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again ; Trim thy locks, look cheerfully ; Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see ; Joys as winged dreams fly fast. Why should sadness longer last ? Grief is but a wound to woe ; Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo.^ 18 SONG TO BACCHUS God Lyaeus,^ ever young. Ever honoured, ever sung ; Stained with blood of lusty grapes, In a thousand lusty shapes. Dance upon the mazer's brim. In the crimson liquor swim ; From thy plenteous hand divine Let a river run with wine ; God of youth, let this day here Enter neither care nor fear ! DIRGE Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew ; Maidens, willow branches bear ; Say, I died true. My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth ! ^ the god of relaxation 174 BEAUMONT AND DRUMMOND FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1584-1616) MASTER FRANCIS BEAUMONT'S LETTER TO BEN JONSON The sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring To absent friends, because the selfsame thing They know they see, however absent) is Here our best haymaker ! Forgive me this ; It is our country's style ! In this warm shine I lie and dream of your full Mermaid Wine ! 6 Only strong Destiny, which all controls, 70 I hope hath left a better fate in store For me, thy friend, than to live ever poor, Banished unto this home ! Fate, once again. Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth and plain The way of knowledge for me ; and then I, Who have no good but in thy company, Protest it will my greatest comfort be To acknowledge all I have to flow from thee '. Ben, when these scenes are perfect, we'll taste wine ! I'll drink thy Muse's health ! thou shalt quafif mine ! 8c Methinks the little wit I had is lost 40 Since I saw you ! For wit is like a rest ^ Held 2 up at tennis, which men do the best With the best gamesters. What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have been So nimble and so full of subtle flame. As if that every one from whence they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life ! Then, when there hath been thrown Wit able enough to justify the town 50 For three days past ! Wit, that might war- rant be For the whole city to talk foolishly Till that were cancelled ! And, when we were gone, We left an air behind us, which alone Was able to make the two next companies Right witty ! though but downright fools, more wise ! When I remember this, and see that now The country gentlemen begin to allow My wit for dry bobs ; ^ then I needs must cry, "I see my days of ballading grow nigh ! " 60 I can already riddle ; and can sing Catches, sell bargains ; and I fear shall bring Myself to speak the hardest words I find Over as oft as any, with one wind, That takes no medicines ! But one thought of thee Makes me remember all these things to be The wit of our young men, fellows that show No part of good, yet utter all they know ! Who, like trees of the guard, have growing souls. ^ rally ^kcpt * smart quips or hits WILLIAM DRUMMOND (i 585-1649) SONNET A passing glance, a lightning 'long the skies. That, ush'ring thunder, dies straight to our sight ; A spark, of contraries which doth arise. Then drowns in the huge depths of day and night : Is this small Small call'd life, held in such price Of bhnded wights, who nothing judge aright. Of Parthian shaft so swift is not the flight As life, that wastes itself, and living dies. O ! what is humian greatness, valour, wit? What fading beauty, riches, honour, praise ? i o To what doth serve in golden thrones to sit, Thrall earth's vast round, triumphal arches raise ? All is a dream, learn in this prince's fall, In whom, save death, nought mortal was at all. MADRIGAL I This life, which seems so fair. Is like a bubble blown up in the air By sporting children's breath, Who chase it everywhere, And strive who can most motion it beqvieath ; And though it sometime seem of its own might. Like to an eye of gold, to be fix'd there, 7 And firm to hover in that empty height. That only is because it is so light. But in that pomp it doth not long appear; 10 For even when most admir'd, it in a thought. As swell'd from nothing, doth dissolve in nought. FORD AND WITHER ly^ JOHN FORD (fl. 1639) GEORGE WITHER (1588-1667) IS SONG From THE BROKEN HEART Can you paint a thought ? or number Every fancy in a slumber ? Can you count soft minutes roving From a dial's point by moving? Can you grasp a sigh ? or, lastly, Rob a virgin's honour chastely? No, O, no ! yet you may Sooner do both that and this. This and that, and never miss, Than by any praise-display Beauty's beauty ; such a glory. As beyond all fate, all story. All arms, all arts. All loves, all hearts, Greater than those or they. Do, shall, and must obey. DIRGE From THE BROKEN HEART Chor. Glories, pleasures, pomps, de- lights, and ease, Can but please The outward senses, when the mind Is or untroubled or by peace refined. 1ST Voice. Crowais may flourish and decay , s Beauties shine, but fade away. 2KD Voice. Youth may revel, yet it must Lie down in a bed of dust. 3RD Voice. Earthly honours flow and waste, Time alone doth change and last. 10 Chor. Sorrows mingled with contents prepare Rest for care ; Love only reigns in death ; though art Can find no comfort for a broken heart. From FAIR VIRTUE, THE MISTRESS OF PHILARETE i SONNET rV' Shall I, wasting in despair. Die, because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care, 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in I\Iay ! If she be not so to me. What care I how fair she be ? 8 Should my heart be grieved or pined, 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder than Turtle dove, or pelican ! If she be not so to me. What care I how kind she be? 16 Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love ? Or her well deserving known. Make me quite forget mine own ? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her, name of best ! If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be ? 24 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool, and die ? Those that bear a noble mind, ^\^lere they want of riches find. Think "What, with them, they would do That, without them, dare to woo ! " And unless that mind I see. What care I though great she be? 32 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair ! If she love me (this believe !) I will die, ere she shall grieve ! If she slight me, when I woo, I can scorn, and let her go ! For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be ? 40 ^ Philarete means lover of virtue 176 HEYWOOD AND BROWNE THOMAS HEYWOOD (d. 1650?) GO, PRETTY BIRDS! Ye little birds, that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phillis sweetly walks Within her garden alleys, Go, pretty birds, about her bower ! Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower ! Ah me ! methinks, I see her frown ! Ye pretty wantons, warble ! 8 Go, tell her, through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love ; Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so ! See that your notes strain not too low ! For still, methinks, I see her frown ! Ye pretty wantons, warble ! 16 Go, tune your voices' harmony, And sing, I am her lover ! Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her ! And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her, I will not change my choice ! Yet still, methinks, I see her frown ! Ye pretty wantons, warble ! 24 O, fly ! Make haste ! See, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber ! Sing round about her rosy bed. That, waking, she may wonder ! Say to her, 'Tis her lover true. That sendeth love to you ! to you ! And when you hear her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings 32 WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS From BOOK IT, SONG V Now was the Lord and Lady of the May Meeting the May-pole at the break of day, And Ca^lia, as the fairest on the green. Not without some maids' envy chosen queen. Now was the time com'n, when our gentle swain Must in ^ his harvest or lose all again. 146 Now must he pluck the rose lest other hands, Or tempests, blemish what so fairly stands : And therefore, as they had before decreed, Our shepherd gets a boat, and with all speed, In night, that doth on lovers' actions smile, Arrived safe on Mona's fruitful isle.^' 152 Between two rocks (immortal, without mother,) That stand as if out-facing one another. There ran a creek up, intricate and blind, 155 As if the waters hid them from the wind ; Which never wash'd but at a higher tide The frizzled coats which do the mountains hide ; Where never gale was longer known to stay 1 59 Than from the smooth wave it had swept away The new divorced leaves, that from each side Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide. At further end the creek a stately wood Gave a kind shadow to the brackish flood Made up of trees, not less kenn'd by each skiff Than that sky-scaling Peak of Teneriffe, 166 Upon whose tops the hernshaw ^ bred her young, And hoary moss upon their branches hung ; Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to show, Without their height, what time they 'gan to grow ; And if dry eld by wrinkled skin appears, 171 None could allot them less than Nestor's years. As under their command the thronged creek Ran lessen 'd up. Here did the shepherd seek Where he his little boat might safely hide, 175 Till it was fraught with what the world beside Could not outvalue ; nor give equal weight Though in the time when Greece was at her height. EPITAPH May, be thou never graced with birds that sing. Nor Flora's pride ! In thee all flowers and roses spring. Mine only died. ^ bring in ^ the isle of Anglesey ^ heron ROBERT HERRICK 177 ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE Underneath this sable herse Lies the subject of all verse : Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother : Death, ere thou hast slain another Fair and learn'd and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee. ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674) CHERRY-RIPE Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones ; come and buy ; If so be you ask me where They do grow? I answer, there, Where my Julia's lips do smile ; S There's the land, or cherry-isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.^ See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air : Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the east Above an hour since : yet you not dress'd ; Nay ! not so much as out of bed ? When all the birds have matins said 10 And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, Whereas a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green. And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair : Fear not ; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you : 20 Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept ; Come and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night : * golden-haired Apollo, i.e. the sun. And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying : Few beads ^ are best when once we go a-Maying. Come, my Corinna, come ; and, coming, mark 29 How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green and trimm'd with trees ; see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch : each porch, each door ere this An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove ; As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields and we not see't? Come, we'll abroad ; and let's obey The proclamation made for May : 40 And sin no more, as we have done, by staying ; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. There's not a budding boy or girl this day But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cakes and cream Before that we have left ^ to dream : And some have v.^ept, and woo'd, and plighted troth. And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth : 50 Many a green-gown has been given ; Many a kiss, both odd and even : Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament ; Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not a-Maying. Come, let us go while we are in our prime ; And take the harmless folly of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. 60 Our life is short, and our da3'S run As fast away as does the sun ; And, as a vapour or a drop of rain. Once lost, can ne'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, ^ prayers ' ceased lyS GEORGE HERBERT All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decay- ing, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. 70 TO THE VIRGINS, TO Mx\KE MUCH OF TIME Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying. 4 The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun. The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. 8 That age is best which is the first. When youth and blood are warmer ; But being spent, the worse and worst Times still succeed the former. 12 Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry ; For, having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry. 16 UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES When-as in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes. 3 Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see That brave vibration, each way free, O, how that glittering taketh me ! 6 TO DAFFODILS Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon ; As yet the early rising sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song ; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a spring ; As quick a growth, to meet decay. As you, or anything. We die 15 As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. 20 TO KEEP A TRUE LENT Is this a fast, to keep The larder lean. And clean, From fat of veals and sheep ? 4 Is it to quit the dish Of flesh, yet still TofiU The platter high with fish? 8 Is it to fast an hour. Or ragg'd to go. Or show A downcast look, and sour? 12 No ; 'tis a fast, to dole Thy sheaf of wheat And meat Unto the hungry soul. 16 It is to fast from strife, From old debate, And hate ; To circumcise thy life. 20 To show a heart grief-rent ; To starve thy sin, Not bin ; ^ And that's to keep thy Lent. 24 GEORGE HERBERT (i 593-1633) VIRTUE Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky ! The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. A ^ larder for food IZAAK W.\LTON 179 Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. 8 Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, ]My music shows ye have your closes. And all must die. 12 Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives ; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. 16 THE COLLAR I struck the board, and cried, "No more ; I will abroad ! What ! shall I ever sigh and pine ? ;My lines and life are free ; free as the road. Loose as the wind, as large as store. ^ Shall I be still in suit ? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me blood, and not restore What I have lost with cordial fruit? Sure there was wme 10 Before my sighs did dry it ; there was corn Before my tears did drown it ; Is the year only lost to me ? Have I no bays to crowTi it, No flowers, no garlands gay ? all blasted, AH wasted ? Not so, my heart ; but there is fruit. And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures ; leave thy cold dispute Of what is fit and not ; forsake thy cage, 21 Thy rope of sands Which petty thoughts have made ; and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw, And be thy law, While thou didst wink ^ and wouldst not see. Away ! take heed ; I wiE abroad. Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thj' fears : He that forbears 30 To suit and serve his need Deserves his load." But as I raved, and grew more fierce and wild At every word, Methought I heard one calling, "Child" ; And I rephed, "My Lord." ^ plenty ' close the eyes LOVE Love bade me welcome ; yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But qmck-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in. Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lacked anything. 6 " A guest," I answered, " worthy to be here: " Love said, " You shall be he." " I, the tmkind, ungrateful ? Ah, my dear, I cannot look on Thee ! " Love took my hand and smiling did reply, " Who made the eyes but I ? " 12 "Truth, Lord; but I have marred them : let my shame Go where it doth deserve." " And know you not," says Love, " who bore the blame?" " My dear, then I will serve." ^ " You must sit down," says Love, " and taste my meat." So I did sit and eat. 18 IZAAK WALTON (1593-1683) THE COMPLETE ANGLER From THE FIRST DAY A Conference betwixt an Angler, a Fal- coner, AND A Hunter, each commend- ing HIS Recreation CHAPTER I. PiscATOR.s Venator, ^ Auceps * Piscator. You are well overtaken, Gentle- men ! A good morning to you both ! I have stretched my legs up Tottenham Hill to over- take you, hoping your business may occasion you towards Ware, whither I am going this fine fresh INIay morning. Venator. Sir, I, for my part, shall almost answer your hopes ; for my purpose is to drink my morning's draught at the Thatched House in Hoddesden ; and I think not to rest till I come thither, where I have appointed a friend or two to meet me : but for this gentle- man that you see with me, I know not how far he intends his journey ; he came so lately into ^ act as servant "^ angler ^ hunter ■* falconer l8o IZAAK WALTON my company, that I have scarce had time to ask him the question. Auceps. Sir, I shall by your favour bear you company as far as Theobalds, and there leave you ; for then I turn up to a friend's house, who mews^ a Hawk for me, which I now long to see. Piscator. Sir, we are all so happy as to have a fine, fresh, cool morning ; and I hope we shall each be the happier in the others' com- pany. And, Gentlemen, that I may not lose yours, I shall either abate or amend my pace to enjoy it, knowing that, as the Italians say, " Good company in a journey makes the way to seem the shorter." Auceps. It may do, Sir, with the help of a good discourse, which, methinks, we may promise from you, that both look and speak so cheerfully : and for my part, I promise you, as an invitation to it, that I will be as free and open hearted as discretion will allow me to be with strangers. Venator. And, Sir, I promise the like. Piscator. I am right glad to hear your an- swers ; and, in confidence ^ you speak the truth, I shall put on a boldness to ask you. Sir, whether business or pleasure caused you to be so early up, and walk so fast? for this other gentleman hath declared he is going to see a hawk, that a friend mews for him. Venator. Sir, mine is a mixture of both, a little business and more pleasure ; for I in- tend this day to do all my business, and then bestow another day or two in hunting the Otter, which a friend, that I go to meet, tells me is much pleasanter than any other chase whatsoever : howsoever, I mean to try it ; for to-morrow morning we shall meet a pack of Otter-dogs of noble Mr. Sadler's, upon Amwell Hill,, who will be there so early, that they intend to prevent ' the sunrising. Piscator. Sir, my fortune has answered my desires, and my purpose is to bestow a day or two in helping to destroy some of those villain- ous vermin : for I hate them perfectly, be- cause they love fish so well, or rather, because they destroy so much ; indeed so much, that, in my judgment all men that keep Otter- dogs ought to have pensions from the King, to encourage them to destroy the very breed of those base Otters, they do so much mischief. Venator. But what say you to the Foxes of the Nation? would not you as willingly have them destroyed? for doubtless they do as much mischief as Otters do. Piscator. Oh, Sir, if they do, it is not so much to me and my fraternity, as those base vermin the Otters do. Auceps. Why, Sir, I pray, of what fra- ternity are you, that you are so angry with the poor Otters? Piscator. I am, Sir, a Brother of the Angle, and therefore an enemy to the Otter : for you are to note, that we Anglers all love one another, and therefore do I hate the Otter both for my own, and their sakes who are of my brotherhood. Venator. And I am a lover of Hounds : I have followed many a pack of dogs many a mile, and heard many merry Huntsmen make sport and scoff at Anglers. Auceps. And I profess myself a Falconer, and have heard many grave, serious men pity them, it is such a heavy, contemptible, dull recreation. Piscator. You know. Gentlemen, it is an easy thing to scoff at any art or recreation ; a little wit mixed with ill-nature, confidence, and malice will do it ; but though they often venture boldly, yet they are often caught, even in their own trap, according to that of Lucian,^ the father of the family of Scoffers : — Lucian, well skill'd in scoffing, this hath writ. Friend, that's your folly, which you think your wit : , This you vent oft, void both of wit and fear, Meaning another, when yourself you jeer. If to this you add what Solomon says of Scoffers, that they are an abomination to man- kind, let him that thinks fit scoff on, and be a Scoffer still ; but I account them enemies to me and all that love Virtue and Angling. And for you that have heard many grave, serious men pity Anglers ; let me tell you, Sir, there be many men that are by others taken to be serious and grave men, whom we con- temn and pity. Men that are taken to be grave, because nature hath made them of a sour complexion ; money-getting men, men that spend all their time, first in getting, and next, in anxious care to keep it ; men that are condemned to be rich, and then always busy or discontented : for these poor rich men, we Anglers pity them perfectly, and stand in no need to borrow their thoughts to ^ keeps in a cage ^ Supply that. ' anticipate ^ a famous Greek satirist CAREW AND BROWNE i8i think ourselves so happy. No, no, Sir, we enjoy a conlentedness above the reach of such dispositions, and as the learned and ingenuous Montaigne says, like himself, freely, "WTien my Cat and I entertain each other with mutual apish tricks, as playing with a garter, who knows but that I make my Cat more sport than she makes me? Shall I conclude her to be simple, that has her time to begin or refuse, to play as freely as I myself have? Nay, who knows but that it is a defect of my not understanding her language, for doubtless Cats talk and reason with one another, that we agree no better : and who knows but that she pities me for being no wiser than to play with her, and laughs and censures my folly, for making sport for her, when we two play together?" Thus freely speaks Montaigne concerning Cats ; and I hope I may take as great a hberty to blame any man, and laugh at him too, let him be never so grave, that hath not heard what Anglers can say in the justi- fication of their Art and Recreation ; which I may again tell you, is so full of pleasure, that we need not borrow their thoughts, to think ourselves happy. THOMAS CAREW (i598?-i639?) SONG Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose. For in your beauty's orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 4 Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day, For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. 8 Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past, For in your sweet dividing ^ throat She winters and keeps warm her note. 12 Ask me no more where those stars light That downwards fall in dead of night, For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become as in their sphere. 16 ^ dividing means singing in florid style. Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest. For unto you at last she flics, And in your fragrant bosom dies. 20 SONG Would you know what's soft? I dare Not bring you to the down, or air. Nor to stars to show what's bright, Nor to snow to teach you white ; 4 Nor, if you would music hear. Call the orbs to take your ear ; Nor, to please your sense, bring forth Bruised nard, or what's more worth; 8 Or on food were your thoughts placed, Bring you nectar for a taste ; Would you have all these in one. Name my mistress, and 'tis done ! 12 SIR THOMAS BROWNE (1605-1682) HYDRIOTAPHIA : URN-BURIAL CHAPTER V Now, since these dead bones have already outlasted the living ones of ^Methuselah, and, in a yard under ground, and thin walls of clay, outworn all the strong and specious ^ buildings above it, and quietly rested under the drums and tramplings of three conquests ; ^ what prince can promise such diuturnity unto his rehcs, or might not gladly say, "Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim." ^ Time, which antiquates antiquities, and hath an art to make dust of all things, hath yet spared these minor monuments. In vain we hope to be known by open and visible con- servatories,-* when to be unknown was the means of their continuation, and obscurity their protection. If they died by violent hands, and were thrust into their urns, these bones become considerable, and some old philosophers would 1 beautiful - the Saxon, the Danish, and the Norman ^ Would that I were turned into bones I * repositories Ib2 SIR THOMAS BROWNE honour them, whose souls they conceived most pure, which were thus snatched from their bodies, and to retain a stronger propension^ unto them ; whereas, they weariedly left a languishing corpse, and with faint desires of reunion. If they fell by long and aged decay, yet wrapped up in the bundle of time, they fall into indistinction, and make but one blot with infants. If we begin to die when we live, and long hfe be but a prolongation of death, our life is a sad composition ; we live with death, and die not in a moment. How many pulses made up the life of Methuselah, were work for Archimedes. Common counters ^ sum up the life of Moses's man.^ Our days become considerable, like petty sums by minute ac- cumulations, where numerous fractions make up but small round numbers, and our days of a span long make not one little finger.'* If the nearness of our last necessity brought a nearer comformity unto it, there were a hap- piness in hoary hairs, and no calamity in half senses. But the long habit of living indispos- eth us for dying ; when avarice m.akes us the sport of death ; when even David grew politi- cally^ cruel ; and Solomon could hardly be said to be the wisest of men. But many are too early old, and before the date of age. Adversity stretcheth our days, misery makes Alcmena's nights,^ and time hath no wings unto it. But the most tedious being is that which can unwish itself, content to be noth- ing, or never to have been ; which was beyond the malecontent of Job, who cursed not the day of his life, but his nati\'ity, content to have so far been as to have a title to future being, although he had lived here but in a hidden state of life, and as it were an abortion. What song the Sirens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, though puzzling questions,^ are not be- yond all conjecture. What time the persons of these ossuaries * entered the famous nations of the dead, and slept with princes and coun- sellors, might admit a wide'-* solution. But who were the proprietaries of these bones, or what bodies these ashes made up, were a ques- ^ tendency to return ^ disks for counting ^Psalms xc, lo * According to the ancient arith- metic of the hand, wherein the little finger of the right hand, contracted, signified a hundred. '^ with crafty purpose •' of double length ^ Put by the emperor Tiberius to the grammarians. * receptacles for bones ^ vague, general tion above antiquarianism ; not to be resolved by man, nor easily perhaps by spirits, except we consult the provincial guardians or tutelary observators. Had they made as good provi- sion for their names as they have done for their relics, they had not so grossly erred in the art of perpetuation. But to subsist in bones, and be but pyramidally^ extant, is a fallacy in du- ration. Vain ashes, which in the oblivion of names, persons, times, and sexes, have found unto themselves a fruitless continuation, and only arise unto late posterity, as emblems of mortal vanities, antidotes against pride, vain- glory, and madding vices. Pagan vainglories, which thought the world might last forever, had encouragement for ambition ; and finding no Atropos^ unto the immortality of their names, were never damped with the necessity of oblivion. Even old ambitions had the advantage of ours, in the attempts of their vainglories, who, acting early, and before the probable meridian ^ of time, have by this time found great accomplishment of their designs, whereby the ancient heroes have already out- lasted their monuments and mechanical pres- ervations. But in this latter scene of time we cannot expect such mummies unto our memories, when ambition may fear the proph- ecy of Elias,^ and Charles the Fifth can never expect to live within two Methuselahs of Hector.^ And therefore restless inquietude for the diuturnity of our memories unto present con- siderations, seems a vanity almost out of date, and superannuated piece of folly. We cannot hope to live so long in our names as some have done in their persons. One face of J anus ^ holds no proportion unto the other. 'Tis too late to be ambitious. The great mutations of the world are acted, or time may be too short for our designs. To extend our memories by monuments, whose death we daily pray for, and whose duration we cannot hope, without injury to our expectations, in the advent of the last day, were a contradiction to our beliefs. Wc, whose generations are ordained in this setting part of time, are providentially taken off from such imaginations ; and being neces- ^ in a pyramid or other monument ^ the Fate who cuts the thread of life ^ noon, middle * That the world may last only six thousand years. * Hector's fame having lasted more than twice the life of Methuselah before the birth of Charles (1500 a.d.). ^ The two faces of Janus look in opposite directions. HYDRIOTAPHIA : URN-BURIAL 183 sitated to eye the remaining particle of fu- turity, are naturally constituted unto thoughts of the next world, and cannot excusably de- • cline the consideration of that duration, which maketh pyramids pillars of snow, and all that's past a moment. Circles and right lines limit and close all bodies, and the mortal right-lined circle^ must conclude and shut up all. There is no anti- dote against the opium of time, which tempo- rarily considereth all things. Our fathers find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors- Gravestones tell truth scarce forty years.^ Generations pass while some trees stand, and old families last not three oaks. To be read by bare inscriptions, like many in Gruter ; ^ to hope for eternity by enigmatical epithets, or first letters of our names ; to be studied by antiquaries, who we were, and have new names given us, like many of the mummies, are cold consolations unto the students of perpetuity, even by everlasting languages. To be content that times to come should only know there was such a man, not caring whether they knew more of him, was a frigid ambition in Cardan,'* disparaging his horo- scopal inclination and judgment of himself. Who cares to subsist like Hippocrates's pa- tients, or AchUles's horses in Homer, under naked nominations,^ without deserts and noble acts, which are the balsam of our memories, the " entelechia " ^ and soul of our subsis- tences? Yet to be nameless in worthy deeds exceeds an infamous history. The Canaan- itish Woman lives more happily without a name, than Herodias with one. And who had not rather have been the good thief than Pilate? But the iniquity ' of oblivion blindly scat- tereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of per- petuity. \Vho can but pity the founder of the pyramids? Erostratus^ lives that burnt the Temple of Diana ; he is almost lost that built ^ ©, the character of death ^ In old graveyards the old graves were used for new burials. ^ Gruter's Ancient Inscriptions ^ A famous Italian scholar of the sixteenth century, who said: "I should like it to be known that I lived, I do not care that it should be known what sort of man I was." ^ mere names ® realizations ^ injustice * Tlie nig!ii that Alexander the Great was born, Heroslratus burnt the temple of Diana, at Ephesus, to secure immortal fame. it. Time hath spared the epitaph of Adrian's ^ horse, confounded that of himself. In vain we compute our felicities by the advantage of our good names, since bad have equal dura- tions ; and Thersites ^ is hke to live as long as Agamemnon.^ Who knows whether the best of men be known, or whether there be not more remarkable persons forgot than any that stand remembered in the known account of time ? Without the favour of the everlasting register, the first man had been as unknown as the last, and Methuselah's long hfe had been his only chronicle. Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater part must be content to be as though they had not been, to be found in the register of God, not in the record of man. Twent}'-seven names make up the first story,'' and the re- corded names ever since contain not one living century. The number of the dead long ex- ceedeth all that shall live. The night of time far surpasseth the day ; and who knows when was the equinox? Every hour adds imto that current arithmetic, which scarce stands one moment. And since death must be the Lucina^ of life, and even Pagans could doubt whether thus to live v/ere to die ; since our longest sun sets at right declensions, and makes but winter arches, and therefore it cannot be long before we lie down in darkness, and have our light in ashes ; since the brother of death daily haunts us with dying memen- tos, and time, that grows old itself, bids us hope no long duration, diuturnity is a dream and folly of expectation. Darkness and light divide the course of time, and obli\'ion shares with memory a great part even of our li\'ing beings. We slightly remem- ber our felicities, and the smartest strokes of affliction leave but short smart upon us. Sense endureth no extremities, and sorrows destroy us or themselves. To weep into stones are fables. Afilictions induce callosi- ties ; miseries are slipper\% or fall like snow upon us, which, notwithstanding, is no un- happy stupidity. To be ignorant of evils to come, and forgetful of evils past, is a merciful provision in nature, whereby we digest the mixture of our few and evil days, and our ^ the emperor Hadrian - an impudent coward in the Greek army against Troy, see the Iliad or Troilus and Cressida ^ leader of the Greeks against Troy '**.e., before the flood, see Gen., iv and v * goddess of birth 1 84 EDMUND WALLER delivered senses not relapsing into cutting remembrances, our sorrows are not kept raw by the edge of repetitions. A great part of antiquity contented their hopes of subsistency with a transmigration of their souls ; a good way to continue their memories, while, having the advantage of plural successions, they could not but act something remarkable in such variety of beings, and enjoying the fame of their passed selves, make accumulation of glory unto their last durations. Others, rather than be lost in the uncomfortable night of nothing, were content to recede into the common being, and make one particle of the public soul of all things, which was no more than to return into their unknown and divine original again. Egyptian ingenuity was more unsatisfied, contriving their bodies in sweet consistencies'^ to attend the return of their souls. But all was vanity, feeding the wind and folly. The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth.^ Mummy is become mer- chandise, Mizraim ^ cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams. In vain do individuals hope for immortality, or any patent from oblivion, in preservations below the moon. Men have been deceived even in their flatteries above the sun,'' and studied conceits to perpetuate their names in heaven. The various cosmography of that part hath already varied the names of con- trived constellations. Nimrod ^ is lost in Orion, and Osiris '' in the Dog-star. Wlailc we look for incorruption in the heavens, we find they are but like the earth, durable in their main bodies, alterable in their parts ; whereof, be- side comets and new stars, perspectives begin to tell tales, and the spots that wander about the sun, with Phaethon's favor, would make clear conviction. There is nothing strictly im.mortal but im- mortality. Whatever hath no beginning, may be confident of no end ; which is the peculiar of that necessary essence that cannot destroy itself, and the highest strain of omnipotency to be so powerfully constituted, as not to suffer even from the power of itself. All others have ' Mummies were made by the use of preservative syrups "^ Mummies were sold for use as medicines ^ the ancestor of the Egyptians, according to Hebrew tradition, i Chron., i : 8. * in the sky ^ the Chaldaic name for the constellation Orion ^the Egyptian name for Sirius a dependent being, and within the reach of destruction. But the sufficiency of Christian immortality frustrates all earthly glory, and the quality of either state after death makes a folly of posthumous memory. God, who can only destroy our souls, and hath assured our resurrection, either of our bodies or names hath directly promised no duration. Wherein there is so much of chance, that the boldest expectants have found unhappy frustration ; and to hold long subsistence seems but a scape in oblivion. But man is a noble animal, splendid in ashes, and pompous in the grave, solemnising nativities and deaths with equal lustre, nor omitting ceremonies of bravery in the infamy of his nature. . . . EDMUND WALLER (1606-1687) THE STORY OF PHCEBUS AND DAPHNE, APPLIED Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train. Fair Sacharissa loved, but loved in vain. Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy ; Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy! With numbers^ he the flying nymph pursues, 5 With numbers such as Phcebus' self might use! Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads, O'er craggy mountains, and through flowery meads ; Invoked to testify the lover's care. Or form some image of his cruel fair. 10 Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer. O'er these he fled ; and now approaching -near. Had reached the nymph with his harmonious lay, 2 Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. Yet what he sung in his immortal strain, 15 Though unsticcessful, was not sung in vain ; All, but the nymph that should redress his wrong. Attend his passion, and approve his song. Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise, He catched at love, and filled his arm with bays. 20 ON A GIRDLE That which her slender waist confined. Shall now my joyful temples bind ; No monarch but would give his crown. His arms might do what this has done. ' verses * song THOMAS FULLER i8s It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 5 The pale which held that lovely deer. My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. Did all within this circle move! A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair ; 10 Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round. GO, LO\'ELY ROSE! Go, lovely Rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee. How sweet and fair she seems to be. 5 Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied. That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide. Thou must have uncommended died. 10 Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired ; Bid her come forth. Suffer herself to be desired. And not blush so to be admired. 15 Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee ; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair! 20 THOMAS FULLER (1608-1661) THE HOLY STATE BOOK n. CEL\PTER XXII The Life of Sir Francis Drake Francis Drake was born nigh South Tavis- tock in Devonshire, and brought up in Kent ; God dividing the honour betwixt two coun- ties, that the one might have his birth, and the other his education. His father, being a min- ister, fled into Kent, for fear of the Six Articles, wherein the sting of Popery still remained in England, though the teeth thereof were knocked out, and the Pope's supremacy abolished. Coming into Kent, he bound his son Francis apprentice to the master of a small bark, which traded into France and Zealand,^ where he underwent a hard service ; and pains with patience in his youth, did knit the joints of his soul, and made them more solid and compacted. His master, dying unmarried, in reward of his industry, bequeathed his bark unto him for a legacy. For some time he continued his master's profession ; but the narrow seas were a prison for so large a spirit, born for greater under- takings. He soon grew weary of his bark; which would scarce go alone, but as it crept along by the shore: wherefore, selling it, he unfortunately ventured most of his estate with Captain John Hawkins into the West Indies, in 1567 ; whose goods were taken by the Span- iards at St. John de Ulva, and he himself scarce escaped with life : the king of Spain being so tender in those parts, that the least touch doth wound him ; and so jealous of the West Indies, his wife, that wilhngly he would have none look upon her : he therefore used them with the greater severity. Drake was persuaded by the minister of his ship, that he might lawfully recover in value of the king of Spain, and repair his losses upon him anywhere else. The case was clear in sea-divinity ; and few are such infidels, as not to believe doctrines which make for their own profit. Whereupon Drake, though a poor private man, hereafter undertook to revenge himself on so mighty a monarch ; who, as not contented that the sun riseth and setteth in his dominions, may seem to desire to make all his own where he shineth. And now let us see how a dwarf, standing on the mount of God's providence, may prove an overmatch for a giant. After two or three several voyages to gain intelUgence in the West Indies, and some prizes taken, at last he effectuall}' set forward from Plymouth with two ships, the one of seventy, the other twenty-five, tons, and seventy-three men and boys in both. He made with all speed and secrecy to Nombre de Dios, as loath to put the town to too much charge (which he knew they would wilhngly bestow) in providing beforehand for his en- tertainment ; which city was then the granar;/ of the West Indies, wherein the golden harvest brought from Panama was hoarded up till it could be conveyed into Spain. They came ^ Zeeland (in the Netherlands) 1 86 THOMAS FULLER hard aboard the shore, and lay quiet all night, intending to attempt the town in the dawning of the day. But he was forced to alter his resolution, and assault it sooner ; for he heard his men mut- tering amongst themselves of the strength and greatness of the town : and when men's heads are once fly-blown with buzzes of sus- picion, the vermin multiply instantly, and one jealousy ^ begets another. Wherefore, he raised them from their nest before they had hatched their fears ; and, to put away those conceits, ^ he persuaded them it was day-dawning when the moon rose, and instantly set on the town, and won it, being unwalled. In the market- place the Spaniards saluted them with a volley of shot ; Drake returned their greeting with a flight of arrows, the best and ancient English compliment, which drave their enemies away. Here Drake received a dangerous wound, though he valiantly concealed it a long time ; knowing if his heart stooped, his men's would fall, and loath to leave off the action, wherein if so bright an opportunity once setteth, it seldom riseth again. But at length his men forced him to return to his ship, that his wound might be dressed ; and this unhappy accident defeated the whole design. Thus victory sometimes slips through tlieir fingers who have caught it in their hands. But his valour would not let him give over the project as long as there was either life or warmth in it ; and therefore, having received intelligence from the Negroes called Symerons,^ of many mules'-lading of gold and silver, which was to be brought from Panama, he, leaving competent numbers to man his ships, went on land with the rest, and bestowed himself in the woods by the way as they were to pass, and so intercepted and carried away an infinite mass of gold. As for the silver, which was not portable over the mountains, they digged holes in the ground and hid it therein. There want not those who love to beat down the price of every honourable action, though they themselves never mean to be chapmen. These cry up Drake's fortune herein to cry down his valour; as if this his performance were nothing, wherein a golden opportunity ran his head, with his long forelock, into Drake's hands beyond expectation. But, cer- ^ fear ^ ideas ^ Cimarrones, a band of fugitive negroes who gathered on the Istlamus of Panama in the sixteenth century tainly, his resolution and unconquerable pa- tience deserved much praise, to adventure on such a design, which had in it just no more probability than what was enough to keep it from being impossible. Yet 1 admire ^ not so much at all the treasure he took, as at the rich and deep mine of God's providence. Having now full freighted himself with wealth, and burnt at the House of Crosses^ above two hundred thousand pounds' worth of Spanish merchandise, he returned wdth honour and safety into England, and, some years after (December 13th, 1577), undertook that his famous voyage about the world, most accurately described by our English authors : and yet a word or two thereof will not be amiss. Setting forward from Plymouth, he bore up for Cabo-verd,^ where, near to the island of St. Jago,^he took prisoner Nuno de Silva, an experienced Spanish pilot, whose direction he used in the coasts of Brazil and Magellan Straits, and afterwards safely landed him at , Guatulco in New Spain. ^ Hence they took their course to the Island of Brava ; and here- abouts they met with those tempestuous winds whose only praise is, that they continue not an hour, in which time they change all the points of the compass. Here they had great plenty of rain, poured (not, as in other places, as it were out of sieves, but) as out of spouts, so that a butt of water falls down in a place ; which, notwithstanding, is but a courteous injury in that hot climate far from land, and where otherwise fresh water cannot be pro- vided. Then cutting the Line,^ they saw the face of that heaven which earth hideth from us, but therein only three stars of the first greatness, the rest few and small compared to our hemisphere ; as if God, on purpose, had set up the best and biggest candles in that room wherein his civilest guests are entertained. Sailing the south of Brazil, he afterwards passed the Magellan Straits (August 20th, 1578), and then entered Mare Pacificum, came to the southernmost land at the height of 55^ latitudes; thence directing his course northward, he pillaged many Spanish towns, and took rich prizes of high value in the king- doms of Chili, Peru, and New Spain. Then, ^ wonder ^ a Spanish town in Panama ^ Cape Verde ^ Santiago of the Cape Verde Islands ^ Mexico ^ the equator THE HOLY STATE 187 bending eastwards, he coasted China, and the Mokiccas, where, by the king of Terrenate, a true gentleman Pagan, he was most honour- ably entertained. The king told them, they and he were all of one religion in this respect, — that they believed not in gods made of stocks and stones, as did the Portugals. He furnished them also with all necessaries that they wanted. On January gth following (1579), his ship, having a large wind and a smooth sea, ran aground on a dangerous shoal, and struck twice on it ; knocking twice at the door of death, which, no doubt, had^ opened the third time. Here they stuck, from eight o'clock at night till four the next afternoon, having ground too much, and yet too little to land on ; and water too m.uch, and yet too little to sail in. Had God (who, as the wise man saith, "holdeth the winds in his fist," Prov. XXX. 4) but opened his little finger, and let out the smallest blast, they had undoubtedly been cast away ; but there blew not any wind all the while. Then they, conceiving aright that the best way to lighten the ship was, first, to ease it of the burden of their sins by true repentance, humbled themselves, by fasting, under the hand of God. Afterwards they received the communion, dining on Christ in the sacrament, expecting no other than to sup with him in heaven. Then they cast out of their ship six great pieces of ordnance, threw overboard as much wealth as would break the heart of a miser to think on it, with much sugar, and packs of spices, making a caudle of the sea round about. Then they betook themselves to their prayers, the best lever at such a dead lift indeed ; and it pleased God, that the wind, formerly their mortal enemy, became their friend ; which, changing from the starboard to the larboard of the ship, and rising by degrees, cleared them off to the sea again, — for which they returned unfeigned thanks to .\lmighty God. By the Cape of Good Hope and west of Africa, he returned safe into England, and (November 3rd, 1580) landed at Plymouth, (being almost the first of those that made a thorough light through the world) having, in his whole voyage, though a curious searcher after the time, lost one day through the variation of several chmates. He feasted the ^ would have queen in his ship at Dartford,i vvho knighted him for his service. Yet it grieved him not a little, that some prime courtiers refused the gold he offered them, as gotten by piracy. Some of them would have been loath to have been told, that they had aurum Tholosanum^ in their own purses. Some think, that they did it to show that their envious pride was above their covetousness, who of set purpose did blur the fair copy of his performance, because they would not take pains to write after it. I pass by his next West-Indian voyage (1585), wherein he took the cities of St. Jago, St. Domingo, Carthagena, and St. Augustine in Florida ; as also his service performed in 1588, wherein he, with many others, helped to the waning of that half- moon,^ which sought to govern all the motion *of our sea. I haste to his last voyage. Queen Elizabeth, in 1595, perceiving that the only way to make the Spaniard a cripple forever, was to cut his sinews of war in the West Indies, furnished Sir Francis Drake, and Sir John Hawkins, with six of her own ships, besides twenty-one ships and barks of their own providing, containing in all two thousand five hundred men and boys, for some service on America. But, alas ! this voyage was marred before begun. For, so great preparations being too big for a cover, the king of Spain knew of it, and sent a caraval of adviso ■* to the West Indies ; so that they had intelligence three weeks before the fleet set forth of England, either to fortify or remove their treasure ; whereas, in other of Drake's voyages, not two of his own men knew whither he went; and managing such a design is like carrying a mine in war, — if it hath any vent, all is spoiled. Besides, Drake and Hawkins, being in joint commis- sion, hindered each other. The latter took himself to be inferior rather in success than skill ; and the action was unUke to prosper when neither would follow, and both could not handsomelj^ go abreast. It vexed old Hawkins, that his counsel was not followed, in present sailing to America, but that they spent time in vain in assaulting the Canaries ; and the grief that his advice was slighted, say some, was the cause of his death. Others ^ Deptford ^ Spanish gold, as bribes ^ The Armada was drawn up in crescent form. * ship of notification THOMAS FULLER impute it to the sorrow he took for the taking of his bark called "the Francis," which five Spanish frigates had intercepted. But when the same heart hath two mortal wounds given it together, it is hard to say which of them killeth. Drake continued his course for Porto Rico ; and, riding within the road, a shot from the Castle entered the steerage of the ship, took away the stool from under him as he sate at supper, wounded Sir Nicholas Clifford, and Brute Brown to death. "Ah, dear Brute!" said Drake, "I could grieve for thee, but now is no time for me to let down my spirits." And, indeed, a soldier's most proper bemoan- ing a friend's death in war, is in revenging it. And, sure, as if grief had made the English furious, they soon after fired five Spanish ships of two hundred tons apiece, in despite of the Castle. America is not unfitly resembled to an hour- glass, which hath a narrow neck of land (sup- pose it the hole where the sand passeth) be- twixt the parts thereof, — Mexicana and Peruana. Now the English had a design to march by land over this Isthmus, from Porto Rico to Panama, where the Spanish treasure was laid up. Sir Thomas Baskervile, general of the land-forces, undertook the service with seven hundred and fifty armed men. They marched through deep ways, the Spaniards much annoying them with shot out of the woods. One fort in the passage they as- saulted in vain, and heard two others were built to stop them, besides Panama itself. They had so much of this breakfast they thought they should surfeit of a dinner and supper of the same. No hope of conquest, except with cloying the jaws of death, and thrusting men on the mouth of the cannon. Wherefore, fearing to find the proverb true, that "gold may be bought too dear," they returned to their ships. Drake afterwards fired Nombre de Dios, and many other petty towns (whose treasure the Spaniards had conveyed away), burning the empty casks, when their precious liquor was run out before, and then prepared for their returning home. Great was the difference betwixt the Indian cities now, from what they were when Drake first haunted these coasts. At first, the Span- iards here were safe and secure, counting their treasure sufficient to defend itself, the remote- ness thereof being the greatest (almost only) resistance, and the fetching of it more than the fighting for it. Whilst the king of Spain guarded the head and heart of his dominions in Europe, he left his long legs in America open to blows ; till, finding them to smart, being beaten black and blue by the English, he learned to arm them at last, fortifying the most important of them to make them im- pregnable. Now began Sir Francis's discontent to feed upon him. He conceived, that expectation, a merciless usurer, computing each day since his departure, exacted an interest and return of honour and profit proportionable to his great preparations, and transcending his for- mer achievements. He saw that all the good which he had done in this voyage, consisted in the evil he had done to the Spaniards afar off, whereof he could present but small visible fruits in England. These apprehensions, ac- companying, if not causing, the disease of the flux, wrought his sudden death, January 2Sth, 1595. And sickness did not so much untie his clothes, as sorrow did rend at once the robe of his mortality asunder. He lived by the sea, died on it, and was bxiried in it. Thus an extempore performance (scarce heard to be begun, before we hear it is ended !) comes off with better applause, or miscarries with less disgrace, than a long-studied and openly-premeditated action. Besides, we see how great spirits, having mounted to the highest pitch of performance, afterwards strain and break their credits in striving to go beyond it. Lastty, God oftentimes leaves the brightest men in an eclipse, to show that they do but borrow their lustre from his reflexion. We will not justify all the actions of any man, though of a tamer profession than a sea-captain, in whom civility is often counted preciseness. For the main, we say that this our captain was a religious man towards God and his houses (generally sparing churches where he came), chaste in his life, just in his deahngs, true of his word, and mer- cifid to those that were under him, hating nothing so much as idleness: and therefore, lest his soul should rest in peace, at spare hours he brought fresh water to Plymouth.^ Careful he was for posterity (though men of his profession have as well an ebb of riot, as a float of fortune) and providently raised a ^ He was a member of the parliamentary com- mission for establishing a system of water-works there. JOHN MILTON 189 worshipful family of his kindred. In a word : should those that speak against him fast till they fetch their bread where he did his, they would have a good stomach' to eat it. JOHN MILTON (1608-1674) ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY ( Composed i62g ) This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring ; For so the holy sages once did sing, 5 That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. That glorious form, that light unsufferable. And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council- table 10 To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside ; and here with us to be. Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 1 5 Afford a present to the Infant God ? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome him to this his new abode. Now while the heaven, b}^ the sun's team un- trod. Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright ? 21 See how from far upon the eastern road The star-led wizards ^ haste with odours sv/eet ! O run, prevent ^ them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet ; 25 Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet. And join thy voice unto the angel quire. From out his secret altar touched with hal- lowed fire. • ^ appetite ^ wise men ' precede THE HYMN It was the winter wild. While the heaven-born child 30 All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies ; Nature, in awe to him, Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize : It was no season then for her 35 To wanton^ with the sun, her lusty paramour. ^ Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, And on her naked shame, 40 Pollute^ with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ; Confounded, that her JVIaker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities. But he, her fears to cease, 45 Sent down the meek-eyed Peace : She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle^ wing the amorous clouds dividing ; 50 And waving wide her myrtle wand. She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. No war, or battle's sound. Was heard the world around ; The idle spear and shield were high up- hung ; _ 55 The hooked^ chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood ; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; And kings sat still with awful eye. As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 60 But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began : The winds, Avith wonder whist ,^ Smoothly the waters kissed, 65 Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave. While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. ' sport - lover ^ polluted * turtle dove ^ pro- vided with scythes at the hubs ® silenced I go JOHN MILTON The stars with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, 70 Bending one way their precious influence, And will not take their flight, For all the morning light. Or Lucifer that often warned them thence ; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, 75 Until their Lord himself bespake and bid them go. And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed. And hid his head for shame, 80 As^ his inferior flame The new-enlightened world no more should need : He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear. The shepherds on the lawn, 85 Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; Full Httle thought they than,'^ That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below : 90 Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet As never was by mortal finger strook, 95 Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise. As all their souls in blissful rapture took : The air, such pleasure loath to lose. With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. ^ 100 Nature, that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's'* seat the airy region thrilling. Now was almost won To think her part was done, 105 And that her reign had here its last fulfill- ing: She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. ^ as if '■* then ^ conclusion of a musical strain ^ the moon At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, no That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed ; The helmed cherubim And sworded seraphim Are seen in glittering ranks with wings dis- played. Harping in loud and solemn quire, 115 With un expressive^ notes, to Heaven's new- born heir. Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made. But when of old the sons of morning sung,^ While the Creator great 120 His constellations set. And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep. And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. Ring out, ye crystal spheres ! 125 Once bless our human ears (If ye have power to touch our senses so), And let your silver chime Move in melodious time ; And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow ; And with your ninefold harmony 131 Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. For if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long. Time will run back and fetch the age of gold ; And speckled Vanity 136 Will sicken soon and die. And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould ; And Hell itself will pass away. And leave her dolorous mansions to the peer- ing day. 140 Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men. Orbed in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between. Throned in celestial sheen, 145 With radiant feet the tissued' clouds down steering ; • * inexpressible ^ cf. Joh xxxviii : 7 ^ rich, as if woven with threads of silver and gold HYMN ON THE NATIVITY 191 -\iicl Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high Palace Hall. With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. Bui wisest Fate says no, This must not yet be so ; 1 50 The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss, So both himself and us to glorify : Yet first, .to those ychained in sleep, 155 The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake : The aged earth, aghast 160 With terror of that blast. Shall from the surface to the centre shake, W^hen at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. And then at last our bliss 165 Full and perfect is. But now begins ; for from this happy day The old Dragon 1 tmder ground. In straiter limits bound. Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; 170 And wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. The oracles are dumb ; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words de- ceiving. 17s Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine. With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos^ leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell. Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the pro- phetic cell. 180 The lonely moimtains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; From haunted spring, and dale Edged with poplar pale, 185 The parting Genius is with sighing sent ; ^ Satan ^ Delphi, where Apollo had a temple, is perhaps confused with Deles, where he also had one. In consecrated earth. And on the holy hearth, igo The Lars and Lemures * moan with midnight plaint ; In urns and altars round, A drear and dying sound Aiifrights the flamens at their service quaint ; And the chill marble seems to sweat, 195 While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baalim ^ Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered god of Pales- tine ; * And mooned Ashtaroth,* 200 Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ; The Libyc Hammon^ shrinks his horn ; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. ^ And sullen Moloch, fled,^ 205 Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue ; In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king. In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; 210 The brutish gods of Nile as fast , Isis^ and Orus* and the dog Anubis, haste. Nor is Osiris ' seen In Memphian grove or green. Trampling the unshowered ^^ grass with low- ings loud ; 215 Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest ; ^^ Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud ; In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark. The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. 220 ^ ghosts ^ cf. Par. Lost, I, 392-482 * See i Sam. V : 3 and 4 ^ cf . Par. Lost, I, 438 ff. ^ an Egjrptian deity represented with large curving horns * cf. Par. Lost, I, 446 ff. '' wife of Osiris ^ son of Isis ^ Osiris in the form of Apis, was the bull god of Memphis. ^° // does not rain in Egypt. ^^ Isis gathered the scattered limbs of Osiris, who was cut to pieces by his brother. 10. JOHN MILTON He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand ; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, 225 Not Typhon ^ huge, ending in snaky twine : Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. So when the sun in bed, Curtained with cloudy red, 230 Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to- the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave. And the yellow-skirted fays 235 Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. But see ! the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious song should here have ending : Heaven's youngest-teemed- star 240 Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending ; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed ^ angels sit in order service- able. L'ALLEGRO Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes and shrieks and sights unholy ! Find out some uncouth cell, 5 Where brooding darkness spreads his jeal- ous wings, And the night-raven sings ; There under ebon shades and low-browed rocks, As ragged as thy locks. In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 10 But come, thou Goddess fair and free. In heaven yclept "^ Euphrosyne, And by men heart-easing Mirth ; Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, ^ a monster of Greek mythology ^ newest born, the star of Bethlehem ^ in bright armor ^ called With two sister Graces more, 15 To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring. Zephyr, with Aurora playing. As he met her once a-Maying, 20 There on beds of violets blue And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, Filled her with thee, a daughter fair. So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 25 Jest, and youthful Jollity, Quips and cranks and wanton wiles. Nods and becks and wreathed smiles. Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. And love to live in dimple sleek ; 30 Sport that wrinkled Care derides. And Laughter, holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as you go, On the light fantastic toe ; And in thy right hand lead with thee 35 The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; And if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew. To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free : 40 To hear the lark begin his ilight. And singing, startle the dull night. From his watch-tower in the skies. Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come in spite of sorrow, 45 And at my window bid good-morrow. Through the sweet-briar or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine ; While the cock, with lively din. Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 50 And to the stack, or the barn-door. Stoutly struts his dames before : Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn. From the side of some hoar hill, 55 Through the high wood echoing shrill : Sometime walking, not unseen. By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate Where the great sun begins his state, 60 Robed in flames and amber light. The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; While the ploughman, near at hand. Whistles o'er the furrowed land. And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 65 And the mower whets his scythe. And every shepherd tells his tale ^ ^ counts his flock IL PENSEROSO 193 Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landskip^ round it measures: 70 Russet lawns and fallows grey, Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest ; jMeadows trim with daisies pied, 75 Shallow brooks and rivers wide ; Towers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure ^ of neighbouring eyes. 80 Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks. Where Corydon and Thyrsis met Are at their savoury dinner set Of herbs and other country messes, 85 Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tanned haycock in the mead. 90 Sometimes, with secure^ delight, The upland hamlets will invite. When the merry bells ring round. And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid 95 Dancing in the chequered shade ; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday, Till the livelong daylight fail : Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 With stories told of many a feat. How faery Mab the Junkets eat. She^ was pinched and pulled, she said ; And he,^ by friar's lantern led, Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 105 To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn. His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn That ten day-labourers could not end ; Then lies him down, the lubber fiend, no And, stretched out all the chimney's length. Basks at the fire his hairy strength. And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 115 By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. Towered cities please us then. And the busy hum of men, ^ landscape ^ Phccnician sailors steered by the constellation of the Little Bear, Cynosura. ^ carefree * one speaker ^ another Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In weeds 1 of peace high triumphs hold, uo With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence,^ and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom aU commend. There let Hymen ^ oft appear 125 In saffron robe, with taper clear. And pomp and feast and revelry, With mask and antique pageantry ; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. 130 Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock •* be on. Or sweetest Shakespear, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever, against eating cares, 135 Lap me in soft Lydian airs. Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce. In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 140 With wanton heed and giddy cunning. The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony ; That Orpheus' self may heave his head 145 From golden slumber on a bed Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto to have quite set free His half -regained Eurydice. 150 These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. IL PENSEROSO Hence, vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without father bred ! How little you bested,^ Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys? Dwell in some idle brain, 5 And fancies fond ^ with gaudy shapes possess. As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sun-beams, Or likest hovering dreams, The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 10 But hail, thou Goddess sage and holy. Hail, divinest jMelancholy ! ' garments ^ Originally influence meant the poicer of the stars over human affairs. ^ of. Epithalamion, 11. 25 ff. ^ cf. Jonson's lines on Shakespeare, li. 36-7 ^ aid ® foolish 194 JOHN MILTON Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view 15 O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; Black, but such as in esteem , Prince INIemnon's sister ^ might beseem, Or that starred Ethiop queen ^ that strove To set her beauty's praise above 20 The sea nymphs, and their powers offended. Yet thou art higher far descended : Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore To solitary Saturn bore ; His daughter she (in Saturn's reign 25 Such mixture was not held a stain) . Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain,* Flowing with majestic train. And sable stole of cypress lawn * 35 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy Avonted state, With even step, and musing gait. And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 40 There, held in holy passion still. Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast. And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 45 Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing ; And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 50 But first, and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon^ soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation ; And the mute Silence hist along, 55 'Less Philomel® will deign a song, In her sweetest, saddest plight. Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke'' Gently o'er the accustomed oak: 60 Sweet bird,*^ that shunn'st the noise of folly, ^ Heraera, presumably very beautiful though black ^ Cassiopea, who offended the Nereids; and after her death was placed among the stars ' dye * crape ' 3'onder •* the nip^htingale ^ The chariot of the moon, Cynthia, was drawn by dragons. Most musical, most melancholy ! Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among, I woo to hear thy even-song ; And missing thee, I walk unseen 65 On the dry smooth-shaven green. To behold the wandering moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 70 And oft, as if her head she bowed, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound. Over some wide-watered shore, 75 Swinging slow with sullen roar ; Or if the air wdll not permit. Some still removed place wall fit, Where glowdng embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, 80 Far from all resort of mirth. Save the cricket on the hearth. Or the bellman's drowsy charm To bless the doors from nightly harm. Or let my lamp at midnight hour 85 Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, With thrice-great Hermes ; or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold 90 The immortal mind that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook ; And of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or underground, Whose power hath a true consent 95 With planet or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by. Presenting Thebes', or Pelops' line. Or the tale of Troy divine, 100 Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskined^ stage. But, O sad Virgin ! that thy power Might raise Musecus from his bower; Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 105 Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made Hell grant what love did seek ; Or call up him that left half-told The story of Cambuscan bold, no Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife, That owned the virtuous- ring and glass. And of the wondrous horse of brass tragic ^ powerful LYCIDAS 195 On which the Tartar king did ride; 115 And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of turneys, and of trophies hung, Of forests, and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120 Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited^ Morn appear, Not tricked and frounced as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt. But kerchieft in a comely cloud, 125 While rocking winds are piping loud, Or ushered with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill. Ending on the rustling leaves, With minute-drops^ from off the eaves. 130 And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves. And shadows brown, that Sylvan ^ loves. Of pine, or monumental oak, ,135 Where the rude axe with heaved stroke W'as never heard the nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. There in close covert by some brook. Where no profaner eye may look, 140 Hide me from day's garish eye, W^hile the bee with honeyed thigh. That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring. With such consort as they keep, 145 Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep ; And let some strange mj'sterious dream Wave at his wings in airy stream Of lively portraiture displayed, Softly on my eyelids laid ; 150 And as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath. Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail 155 To walk the studious cloister's pale,* And love the high embowed roof. With antique pillars massy proof. And storied^ windows richly dight. Casting a dim religious light. 160 There let the pealing organ blow. To the full-voiced quire below, In service high and anthems clear. As may with sweetness, through mine ear. Dissolve me into ecstasies, 165 And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. ^ soberly attired ^ slow drops ^ god of forests 4 confines, limits ° with pictures in stained glass And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown, and mossy cell, WTiere I may sit and rightly spell ^ 170 Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 175 And I w'ith thee will choose to hve. LYCIDAS In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637; and by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height. Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with i\y never sere,^ I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,^ And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 6 Compels me to disturb your season due ; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 10 Himself* to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind. Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well* 15 That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain and coy excuse ; So may some gentle ]\luse ^ With lucky words favour my destined urn, And as he passes turn, 21 And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the self-same hill. Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill; Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 25 Under the opening eyelids of the morn. We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn. Battening^ our flocks with the fresh dews of night, ^ interpret ^ dry ^ unripe * Muses ® poet ^ feeding Supply how. ^ the 196 JOHN MILTON Oft till the star that rose at evening, bright, Toward heaven's descent had sloped his west- ering wheel. 31 Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute. Tempered to the oaten flute ; Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. 36 But O the heavy change, now thou art gone. Now thou art gone, and never must return ! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'er- grown. And all their echoes, mourn. 41 The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen. Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, 45 Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows ; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorse- less deep 50 Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona^ high. Nor yet where Deva^ spreads her wizard stream. Ay me, I fondly dream ! 56 Had ye been there — for what could that have done? What could the Muse^ herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son. Whom universal nature did lament, 60 When by the rout"* that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hcbrus to the Lesbian shore ? Alas ! what boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade. And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? 66 Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. Or with the tangles of Nea^ra's hair? ^ the isle of Anglesey ^ the river Dee ' Calliope * mob Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) 71 To scorn delights and live laborious days ; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 74 Comes the blind Fury^ with the abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears : "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil Nor in the glistering foil 79 Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies ; But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, • 85 Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood : But now my oat- proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea. That came in Neptune's plea. 90 He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain ? And questioned every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory : They knew not of his story ; 95 And sage Hippotades their answer brings. That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed ; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 100 Buflt in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark. That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge. Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. 106 "Ah! who hath reft," ^ quoth he, "my dearest pledge?" Last came, and last did go. The pilot of the Galilean lake ; * ^ Atropos, the Fate who severs the thread of life ^ shepherd's pipe ^ taken away * St. Peter LYCIDAS 197 Two massy keys he bore of metals twain no (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : "How well could I have spared for thee, young swain. Enough of such as for their bellies' sake. Creep and intrude and climb into the fold! Of other care they little reckoning make 116 Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped ;^ 122 And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel^ pipes of wretched straw ; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed. But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, 126 Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said. But that two-handed engine at the door 130 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." Return, Alpheus ; the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian ]\luse. And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells and flowrets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades and wanton winds and gushing brooks, 137 On v/hose fresh lap the swart '^ star sparely looks. Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, 140 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine. The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, 145 The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine. With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head. And every flower that sad embroidery wears ; ^ They have what they wish ^ thin, slender * dark, injurious Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And dafliodilhes till their cups with tears, 150 To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease. Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise, Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled ; Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 156 Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; ^ Or whether thou, to our moist ^ vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 160 Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold. Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth -,3 And O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more. For Lycidas, your sorrow, ■* is not dead. 166 Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ; So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed. And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high. 172 Through the dear might of him that walked the waves. Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 175 And hears the unexpressive ^ nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above. In solemn troops and sweet societies. That sing, and singing in their glory move, 180 And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. 185 Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills. While the still morn went out with sandals gray; He touched the tender stops of various quills. With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay. 191 At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue : To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. ^ world of monsters ^ tear-wet ' pity object of your sorrow * inexpressible the 198 JOHN MILTON ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career. But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my sembknce might deceive the truth 5 That I to manhood am arrived so near ; And inward ripeness doth much less ap- pear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even 10 To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven ; All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS IN- TENT3ED TO THE CITY Captain, or Colonel,^ or Knight in arms, Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize. If ever deed of honour did thee please. Guard them, and him within protect from harms. He can requite thee ; for he knows the charms That call fame on such gentle acts as these. And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas, 7 Whatever chme the sun's bright circle warms. Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower : The great Emathian conqueror ^ bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower 1 1 Went to the ground ; and the repeated air Of sad Electra's poet^ had the power To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. ^ Pronounced trisyllabic ^ Alexander the Great * Euripides TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL MAY, 1652 On the Proposals of Certain Ministers at the Committee for Propagation of the Gospel Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matcliless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed. And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 5 Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued. While Darwen stream,^ with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field,^ resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's ^ laureate wreath : yet much remains To conquer still ; peace hath her victories No less renowned than war: new foes arise, 1 1 Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.^ ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine moimtains cold ; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not : in thy book record their groans 5 Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow 10 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway ^ near Preston, where Cromwell defeated the royalist Scots in Aup;., 1648 ^ Sept., 1650 ^ Sept., 1651 "^ Cf . Lycidas, 11. 113-131. PARADISE LOST 199 The triple tyrant ; ^ that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.'^ ON HIS BLINDNESS \Vhen I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent ^ which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present 5 INIy true account, lest he returning chide ; " Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ? " I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best 10 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly : thousands at his biddmg speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; They also serve who only stand and wait." TO CYIUACK SKINNER Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, though clear To outward view, of blemish or of spot. Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun or moon or star throughout the year, 5 Or man or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience,^ friend, to have lost them overplied 10 In liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe talks from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask Content, though blind, had I no better guide. ^ the Pope (alluding to his triple crown) ^ The Puritans interpreted the biblical denunciations of Babylon as directed prophetically against the Catholic Church, ^ his ability to write ^ conscious- ness PARADISE LOST BOOK I Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal ^ taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, 5 Sing, Heavenly INIuse, that on the secret top Of Oreb,"'^ or of Sinai ,^ didst inspire That shepherd who first taught the chosen seed In the beginning how the Heavens and Earth Rose out of Chaos: or, if Sion hill 10 DeUght thee more, and Siloa's brook that flowed Fast by'* the oracle of God, I thence Invoke thy aid to m.y adventurous song. That with no middle flight intends to soar Above the Aonian mount,* while it pursues 15 Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer Before all temples the upright heart and pure. Instruct me, for Thou know'st ; Thou from the first Wast present, and, with mighty \\angs out- spread, 20 Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast Abyss, And mad'st it pregnant : what in me is dark Illumine, what is low raise and support ; That to the highth of this great argument ^ I may assert Eternal Providence, 25 And justify the ways of God to men. Say first — for Heaven hides nothing from Thy view. Nor the deep tract of Hell • — say fi-rst what cause ]Moved our grand parents, in that happy state. Favoured of Heaven so highly, to fall off 30 From their Creator, and transgress his will For one restraint, lords of the world besides. Who first seduced them to that foul revolt? The infernal Serpent ; he it was, whose guile, _ .34 Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived The mother of mankind, what time^ his pride Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his host Of rebel Angels, by whose aid, aspiring ^ deadly ^ The Ten Comviandments ivere given on Horeb or Sinai. * close by ^ Mt. Helicon ; here, figuratively, for Greek poetry ^ subject ® at the time when 200 JOHN MILTON To set himself in glory above his peers, He trusted to have equalled the Most High, If he opposed ; and with ambitious aim 41 Against the throne and monarchy of God Raised impious war in Heaven, and battle proud, With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky, _ 45 With hideous ruin and combustion, down To bottomless perdition ; there to dwell In adamantine^ chains and penal fire. Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms. Nine times the space that measures day and night 50 To mortal men, he with his horrid crew Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf. Confounded, though immortal. But his doom Reserved him to more wrath ; for now the thought Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 55 Torments him ; round he throws his baleful eyes, That witnessed 2 huge affliction and dismay. Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate. At once, as far as Angels ken,^ he views The dismal situation waste and wild : 60 A dungeon horrible on all sides round As one great furnace flamed ; yet from those flames No light ; but rather darkness visible Served only to discover sights of woe. Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 65 And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all ; but torture without end Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed. Such place Eternal Justice had prepared 70 For those rebellious ; here their prison or- dained In utter ^ darkness, and their portion set. As far removed from God and light of Heaven As from the centre thrice to the utmost pole.^ Oh how unlike the place from whence they fell! / 75 There the companions of his fall, o'erwhelmed With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous lire, ^ unbreakable * gave evidence of ^ see ^ outer •^ pole of the universe He soon discerns; and, weltering by his side, One next himself in power, and next in crime, Long after known in Palestine, and named 80 Beelzebiib. To whom the Arch-Enemy, And thence in Heaven called Satan, with bold words Breaking the horrid silence, thus began : — "If thou beest he — but Oh how fallen! how changed From him, who in the happy realms of light 85 Clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshine Myriads, though bright ! — if he whom mu- tual league. United thoughts and counsels, equal hope And hazard in the glorious enterprise. Joined with me once, npw misery hath joined In equal ruin — into what pit thou seest 91 From what highth fallen : so much the stronger proved He with his thunder : and till then who knew The force of those dire arms? Yet not for those, Nor what the potent Victor in his rage 95 Can else inflict, do I repent, or change. Though changed in outward lustre, that fixed mind. And high disdain from sense of injured merit. That with the JMightiest raised me to contend, And to the fierce contention brought along Innumerable force of Spirits armed, loi That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring. His utmost power with adverse power opposed In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven, And shook his throne. What though the field be lost? 105 All is not lost : the unconquerable will. And study ^ of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield, And what is else not to be overcome ; 109 That glory never shall his wrath or might Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace With suppliant knee, and deify his power Who, from the terror of this arm, so late Doubted his empire ^ — -that were low indeed; That were an ignominy and shame beneath This downfall ; since by fate the strength of gods 116 And this empyreal ^ substance cannot fail ; Since, through experience of this great event, In arms not worse, in foresight much ad- vanced, ^ continued endeavor ^ authority and power * divine, of. 1. 138 PARADISE LOST 20I We may with more successful hope resolve To wage by force or guile eternal war, 121 Irreconcilable to our grand Foe, Who now triumphs, and in the excess of joy Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heaven." So spake the apostate Angel, though in pain, 125 \'aunting aloud, but racked with deep despair ; And him thus answered soon his bold com- peer : — "O Prince! O Chief of many throned powers, That led the embattled Seraphim to war Under thy conduct, and, in dreadful deeds Fearless, endangered Heaven's perpetual King, 131 And put to proof his high supremacy, Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or fate! Too v/ell I see and rue the dire event That with sad overthrow and foul defeat 135 Hath lost us Heaven, and all this mighty host In horrible destruction laid thus low. As far as gods and Heavenly essences Can perish : for the mind and spirit remains Invincible, and vigor soon returns, 140 Though all our glory extinct, and happy state Here swallowed up in endless misery. But what if he our Conqueror (whom I now Of force,^ believe almighty, since no less Than such could have o'erpowered such force as ours) 145 Have left us this our spirit and strength entire. Strongly to suffer and support our pains. That we may so suffice his vengeful ire ; Or do him mightier service, as his thralls By right of war, whate'er his business be, 150 Here in the heart of HeU to work in fire, Or do his errands in the gloomy Deep ? What can it then avail, though yet we feel Strength undiminished, or eternal being To undergo eternal punishment?" 155 Whereto with speedy words the Arch- Fiend replied : — "Fallen Cherub, to be weak is miserable. Doing or suffering : but of this be sure — To do aught good never will be our task. But ever to do ill our sole delight, 160 As being the contrary to his high will Whom we resist. If then his providence Out of our evil seek to bring forth good, Our labour must be to pervert that end. And out of good still to find means of evil ; 165 ^ necessarily Which ofttimes may succeed so as perhaps Shall grieve him, if I fail not,^ and disturb His inmost counsels from their destined aim. But see ! the angry Victor hath recalled His ministers of vengeance and pursuit 170 Back to the gates of Heaven ; the sulphurous hail, Shot after us in storm, o'erblown hath laid The fiery surge that from the precipice Of Heaven received us falling ; and the thunder. Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage, 175 Perhaps hath spent his ^ shafts, and ceases now To bellow through the vast and boundless Deep. Let us not slip the occasion, whether scorn Or satiate fury yield it from our Foe. Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild, The seat of desolation, void of light, 181 Save what the glimmering of these livid' flames Casts pale and dreadful ? Thither let us tend * From off the tossing of these fiery waves ; There rest, if any rest can harbour there ; 185 And, reassembling our afflicted powers, Consult how we may henceforth most offend* Our Enemy, our own loss how repair, How overcome this dire calamity. What reinforcement we may gain from hope, If not, what resolution from despair." 191 Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate, With head uplift above the wave, and eyes That sparkling blazed ; his other parts besides, Prone on the flood, extended long and large. Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge 196 As whom the fables name of monstrous size, Titanian,^or Earth-born, that warred on Jove, Briareos or Typhon,'^ whom the den By ancient Tarsus held, or that sea-beast 200 Leviathan,* which God of all his works Created hugest that swim the ocean-stream. Him, haply slumbering on the Norway foam, The pilot of some small night-foundered ^ skiff Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell, 205 With fixed anchor in his scaly rind, Moors by his side under the lee, while night Invests ^° the sea, and wished morn delays. So stretched out huge in length the Arch- Fiend lay, ^ if I mistake not ^ its ' blue-black ^ go * injure •" of. 11. 509 ff . ^ gigantic monsters of Greek my- thology * in Job xli : i the crocodile, but here the whale * overtaken by night ^^ covers 202 JOHN MILTON Chained on the burnmg lake ; nor ever thence Had risen or heaved his head, but that the WUI 211 And high permission of all-ruling Heaven Left him at large to his own dark designs, That with reiterated crimes he might Heap on himself damnation, while he sought Evil to others, and enraged might see 216 How all his malice served but to bring forth Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy, shewn On Man by him seduced ; but on himself Treble confusion, wrath, and vengeance poured. 220 Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool His mighty stature ; on each hand the flames Driven backward slope their pointing spires, and, roUed In^ billows, leave in the midst a horrid vale. Then \nth expanded wings he steers his flight Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air, 226 That felt unusual weight ; tfll on dry land He lights — if it were land that ever burned With solid, as the lake with liquid fire. And such appeared in hue, as when the force Of subterranean wind transports a hill 231 Torn from Pelorus,^ or the shattered side Of thundering ^Etna, whose combustible And fuelled entrails thence conceiving^ fire. Sublimed^ with mineral fury, aid the wnds. And leave a singed bottom all involved 236 With stench and smoke : such resting fom:id the sole Of unblest feet. Him followed his next mate. Both glorying to have 'scaped the Stygian flood 239 As gods, and by their own recovered strength, Not by the sufferance of supernal power. "Is this the region, this the soil, the clime," Said then the lost Archangel, "this the seat That we must change for Heaven?* this mournful gloom For that celestial light? Be it so, since he Who now is sovran can dispose and bid 246 What shall be right : farthest from him is best, Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields. Where joy forever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail, 250 Infernal world ! and thou, profoundest Hell, Receive thy new possessor, one who brings ^ the northeast point of Sicily ^ catching ^ gasi- fied ■• A Latinism, the thing exchanged is put last, cf. Jonson's Drink to me only with thine eyes, I. 8. A mind not to be changed by place or time. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven. What matter where, if I be still the same, 256 And what I should be, all but less than he Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least We shall be free ; the Almighty hath not built Here for his envy,^ will not drive us hence : Here we may reign secure, and in my choice To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell : Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven. But wherefore let we then our faithful friends, The associates and co-partners of our loss, 265 Lie thus astonished ^ on the oblivious^ pool, And call them not to share with us their part In this unhappy mansion,'* or once more With rallied arms to try what may be yet Regained in Heaven, or what more lost in HeU?" 270 So Satan spake ; and him Beelzebub Thus answered: — "Leader of those armies bright Which but the Omnipotent none could have foiled, If once they hear that voice, their liveliest pledge Of hope in fears and dangers — heard so oft In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge Of battle when it raged, in all assaults 277 Their surest signal — they will soon resume New courage and revive, though now they lie Grovellmg and prostrate on yon lake of fire. As we ere while, astounded and amazed : 281 No wonder, faUen such a pernicious highth!" He scarce had ceased when the superior Fiend Was moving toward the shore ; his ponderous shield, Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, 2S5 Behind him cast. The broad circumference Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb Through optic glass ^ the Tuscan artist ^ views At evening from the top of Fesole, Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, 290 Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe. His spear — to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast Of some great ammiral,^ were but a wand — He walked with, to support uneasy steps 295 Over the burning marie, not like those steps ^ hate ^ astounded ^ causing oblivion ■• dwelling ^ telescope ** Galileo ^ flag-ship PARADISE LOST 203 On Heaven's azure ; and the torrid clime Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire. Nathless he so endured, till on the beach Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called 300 His legions, angel forms, who lay entranced. Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In \'allombrosa, where the Etrurian shades High over-arched embower ; or scattered sedge Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion ^ armed Hath vexed the Red- Sea coast, whose waves o'erthrew 306 Busiris - and his Memphian chivalry,^ While with perfidious hatred they pursued The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld From the safe shore their floating carcases And broken chariot-wheels: so thick be- strown, 311 Abject and lost, lay 'these, covering the flood, Under amazement of their hideous change. He called so loud that all the hollow deep Of Hell resounded: — "Princes, Potentates, Warriors, the Flower of Heaven — once yours, now lost, 316 If such astonishment as this can seize Eternal Spirits ! Or have ye chosen this place After the toil of battle to repose Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find To slumber here, as in the vales of Heaven ? Or m this abject posture have ye sworn 322 To adore the Conqueror, vv'ho now beholds Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon 325 His swift pursuers from Heaven-gates discern The advantage, and descending tread us down Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf? Awake, arise, or be forever fallen ! " 330 They heard, and were abashed, and up they sprung Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch, On duty sleeping found by whom they dread. Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake. Nor did they not perceive the evil plight 335 In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel ; Yet to their General's voice they soon obeyed Innumerable. As when the potent rod Of Amram's son,"* in Egypt's evil day. Waved round the coast, up called a pitchy cloud 340 Of locusts, warping^ on the eastern wind, ^ a constellation supposed to cause storms ^ Pharaoh ' horsemen * Moses * moving in irregu- lar flight That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh himg Like night, and darkened all the land of Nile : So numberless were those bad angels seen Hovering on wing under the cope of HcU, 345 'Tvpixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires ; Till, as a signal given, the upUfted spear Of their great Sultan waving to direct Their course, in even balance down they hght On the firm brimstone, and fill all the plain : A multitude like which the popxilous North Poured never from her frozen loins, to pass Rhene^ or the Danaw,- when her barbarous SMIS^ Came like a deluge on the South, and spread Beneath* Gibraltar to the Libyan sands. 355 Forthwith, from every squadron and each band. The heads and leaders thither haste where stood Their great Commander ; godlike shapes, and forms Excelling human, princely Dignities, 359 And Powers that erst^ in Heaven sat on thrones ; Though of their names in Heavenly records now 'Be no memorial, blotted out and rased B}^ their rebellion from the Books of Life. Nor had they yet among the sons of Eve Got them new names, till, wandering o'er the earth, 365 Through God's high sufferance for the trial of man, By falsities and lies the greatest part Of mankind they corrupted to forsake God their Creator, and the invisible Glory of him that made them, to transform Oft to the image of a brute, adorned 371 W'ith gay religions'^ fuU of pomp and gold, And devils to adore for deities : Then were they known to men by various names. And various idols through the heathen world. Say, ]\Iuse, their names then known, who first, who last, 376 Roused from the slumber on that fiery couch. At their great Emperor's call, as next in worth. Came singly where he stood on the bare strand. While the promiscuous crowd stood yet aloof. The chief were those who, from the pit of HeU 3S1 ^ Rhine ^ Danube ' \^andals and other barba- rians, who overran the Roman Empire * south of * formerly * religious rites 204 JOHN MILTON Roaming to seek their prey on Earth, durst fix Their seats, long after, next the seat of God, Their altars by his altar, gods adored Among the nations round, and durst abide Jehovah thundering out of Sion, throned 386 Between the Cherubim ; yea, often placed Within his sanctuary itself their shrines. Abominations ; and with cursed things His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned. And with their darkness durst affront his light. 391 First Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with blood Of human sacrifice, and parents' tears. Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels loud. Their children's cries unheard that passed through fire _ 395 To his grim idol. Him the Ammonite Worshipped in Rabba and her watery plain, In Argob and in Basan, to the stream Of utmost Arnon. Nor content with such Audacious neighbourhood, the wisest heart Of Solomon he led by fraud to build 401 His temple right against the temple of God On that opprobrious 1 hill, and made his grove The pleasant valley of Hinnon, Tophet thence And black Gehenna called, the type of Hell. Next Chemos, the obscene dread of Moab's sons, 406 From Aroar to Nebo and the wild Of southmost Abarim ; in Hesebon And Horonaim, Scon's realm, beyond The flowery dale of Sibma clad with vines. And Eleale to the Asphaltic pool.^ 41 1 Peor his other name, when he enticed Israel in Sittim, on their march from Nile, To do him wanton rites, which cost them woe. Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlarged 415 Even to that hill of scandal, by the grove Of Moloch homicide, lust hard by hate. Till good josiah drove them thence to Hell. With these came they who, from the bordering flood Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts 420 Egypt from Syrian ground, had general names Of Baalim and Ashtaroth — those male. These feminine. For Spirits, when they please. Can either sex assume, or both ; so soft And uncompoundcd is their essence pure, 425 Not tied or manacled with joint or limb, Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones, ^ offensive ^ the Dead Sea Like cumbrous flesh ; but, in what shape they choose. Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure. Can execute their aery purposes, 430 And works of love or enmity fulfil. For those the race of Israel oft forsook Their living Strength, and unfrequented left His righteous altar, bowing lowly down 434 To bestial gods; for which their heads as low Bowed down in battle, sunk before the spear Of despicable foes. With these in troop Came Astoreth, whom the Phoenicians called Astarte, Queen of Heaven, with crescent horns ; To whose bright image nightly by the moon Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs ; In Sion also not unsung, where stood 442 Her temple on the offensive mountain, built By that uxorious king^ whose heart, though large. Beguiled by fair idolatresses, fell 445 To idols foul. Thammuz came next behind, Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured The Syrian damsels to lament his fate In amorous ditties all a summer's day, 449 While smooth Adonis from his native rock Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood Of Thammuz yearly wounded : the love-tale Infected Sion's daughters with like heat. Whose wanton passions in the sacred porch Ezekiel saw,- when, by the vision led, 455 His eye surveyed the dark idolatries Of alienated Judah. Next came one Who mourned in earnest, when the captive ark Maimed his brute image, head and hands lopt off In his own temple,'' on the grunsel-edge,'' 460 Where he fell flat, and shamed his worshippers : Dagon his nam.e, sea-monster, upward man And downward fish ; yet had his temple high Reared in Azotus,^ dreaded through the coast Of Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon, 465 And Accaron and Gaza's frontier bounds. Him followed Rimmon, whose delightful seat Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams. He also against the house of God was bold : 470 A leper® once he lost, and gained a king, Ahaz, his sottish conqueror, whom he drew God's altar to disparage and displace For one of Syrian mode, whereon to burn His odious offerings, and adore the gods 475 ^ Solomon ^ Ezek. viii : 14 ^ Cf. Ode on the NaHviiy, 1. 199 ^ threshold ^ Ashdod * Naaman PARADISE LOST 205 Whom he had vanquished. After these ap- peared A crew who. under names of old renown, Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train. With monstrous shapes and sorceries abused Fanatic Egypt and her priests, to seek 480 Their wandering gods disguised in brutish forms Rather than human. Nor did Israel 'scape The infection, when their borrowed gold composed The calf in Oreb ; and the rebel king Doubled that sin in Bethel and in Dan, 485 Likening his Maker to the grazed ox — Jehovah, who, in one night, when he passed From Egypt marching, equalled with one stroke Both her iirst-born and all her bleating gods. Belial came last, than whom a Spirit more lewd Fell not from Heaven, or more gross to love Vice for itself. To him no temple stood 492 Or altar smoked ; yet who more oft than he In temples and at altars, when the priest Turns atheist, as did Eli's sons, who filled With lust and violence the house of God ? 496 In courts and palaces he also reigns. And in luxurious cities, where the noise Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers. And injury and outrage ; and when night 500 Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown ^ with insolence and wine. Witness the streets of Sodom, and that night In Gibeah, when the hospitable door Exposed a matron, to avoid worse rape. 505 These were the prime in order and in might ; The rest were long to tell, though far re- nowned The Ionian gods — of Javan's^ issue held Gods, yet confessed later than Heaven and Earth, Their boasted parents ; — Titan, Heaven's first-born, 510 With his enormous brood, and birthright seized By younger Saturn ; he from mightier Jove, His own and Rhea's son, like measure found ; So Jove usurping reigned. These, first in Crete And Ida known, thence on the snowy top 515 Of cold Olympus ruled the middle air, ^ filled, flushed '■^ son of Japheth and ancestor of the Greeks Their highest Heaven ; or on the Delphian cHff, Or in Dodona, and through all the bounds Of Doric land ; or who with Saturn old Fled over Adria to the Hesperian fields,^ 520 And o'er the Celtic roamed the utmost isles. All these and more came flocking ; but with looks Downcast and damp, yet such wherein ap- peared Obscure some glimpse of joy, to have found their Chief Not in despair, to have found themselves not lost , . . 525 In loss itself ; which on his countenance cast Like doubtful hue. But he, his wonted pride Soon recollecting,- with high words that bore Semblance of worth, not substance, gently^ raised Their fainting courage, and dispelled their fears : 530 Then straight commands that at the warlike sound Of trumpets loud and clarions, be upreared His mighty standard. That proud honour claimed Azazel as his right, a Cherub tall : Who forthwith from the glittering staff un- furled 535 The imperial ensign, which, full high advanced, Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind. With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed,^ Seraphic arms and trophies ; all the while Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds : 540 At which the universal host up-sent A shout that tore Hell's concave, and beyond Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. All in a moment through the gloom w^ere seen Ten thousand banners rise into the air, 545 With orient colours waving ; with them rose A forest huge of spears ; and thronging helms Appeared, and serried shields in thick array Of depth immeasurable. Anon they move In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood^ 550 Of flutes and soft recorders — such as raised To highth of noblest temper heroes old Arming to battle, and instead of rage Deliberate valour breathed, firm and unmoved With dread of death to flight or foul retreat ; Nor wanting power to mitigate and swage,^ With solemn touches, troubled thoughts, and chase 557 ^ Italy ^ resuming ' gallantly * ornamented ^ music of the solemn Dorian mode •" assuage 2o6 JOHN MILTON Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow and pain From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they, Breathing united force with fixed thought, 560 Moved on in silence to soft pipes that charmed Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil ; and now Advanced in view they stand, a horrid front Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise Of warriors old, with ordered spear and shield, Awaiting what command their mighty Chief Had to impose. He through the armed files Darts his experienced eye, and soon traverse^ The whole battalion views — their order due. Their visages and stature as of gods ; 570 Their number last he sums. And now his heart Distends with pride, and hardening in his strength Glories ; for never, since created man, Met such embodied force as, named with these, Could merit more than that small infantry ^57 5 Warred on by cranes : though all the giant brood Of Phlegra ^ with the heroic race were joined That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each side Mixed with auxiliar gods ; and what resounds In fable or romance of Uther's son,^ 580 Begirt with British and Armoric knights ; And all who since, baptized or infidel, Jousted in Aspramont,^ or Montalban, Damasco, or Marocco, or Trebisond ; Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore 585 When Charlemain with all his peerage fell By Fontarabbia. Thus far these beyond Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed Their dread commander. He, above the rest In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 590 Stood like a tower ; his form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appeared Less than Archangel ruined, and the excess Of glory obscured : as when the sun new- risen Looks through the horizontal misty air 595 Shorn of his beams, or from behind the moon, In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shone Above them all the Archangel ; but his face ^ cross-wise ^ the Pygmies ^ where the gods and giants fought ■* King Arthur ^ This and the fol- lowing are places celebrated in the romances of Charlemagne. Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care 601 Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows Of dauntless courage, and considerate^ pride Waiting revenge. Cruel his eye, but cast Signs of remorse'^ and passion, to behold 605 The fellows of his crime, the followers rather (Far other once beheld in bliss), condemned Forever now to have their lot in pain ; Millions of Spirits for his fault amerced' Of Heaven, and from eternal splendors flung For his revolt ; yet faithful how they stood, Their glory withered : as, when Heaven's fire Hath scathed^ the forest oaks or momitain pines. With singed top their stately growth, though bare, Stands on the blasted heath. He now pre- pared 615 To speak ; whereat their doubled ranks they bend From wing to wing, and half enclose him round With all his peers : attention held them mute. Thrice he assayed, and thrice, in spite of scorn, Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth: at last 620 Words interwove with sighs found out their way : — " O myriads of immortal Spirits ! O powers Matchless, but with the Almighty ! — and that strife Was not inglorious, though the event was dire. As this place testifies, and this dire change, 625 Hateful to utter. But what power of mind. Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth Of knowledge past or present, could have feared How such united force of gods, how such As stood like these, could ever know repulse ? For who can yet believe, though after loss, 631 That all these puissant legions, whose exile Hath emptied Fleaven, shall fail to reascend. Self-raised, and repossess their native seat ? For me, be witness all the host of Heaven, 635 If counsels different, or dangers shunned By me, have lost our hopes. But he who reigns Monarch in Heaven, till then as one secure Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute. Consent or custom, and his regal state 640 Put forth at full, but still his strength con- cealed ; ^ calm ^ pity ' deprived ■* injured PARADISE LOST 207 WTiich tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall. Henceforth his might we know, and know our own, So as not either to provoke, or dread New war provoked. Our better part remains To work in close ^ design, by fraud or guile, 646 What force effected not ; that he no less At length from us may find, who overcomes By force hath overcome but half his foe. Space may produce new worlds ; whereof so rife 650 There went a fame in Heaven that he erelong Intended to create, and therein plant A generation whom his choice regard Should favour equal to the Sons of Heaven. Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps 655 Our first eruption : thither or elsewhere ; For this infernal pit shall never hold Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor the Abyss Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts. Full cotmsei must mature. Peace is despaired, For who can think submission? War, then, war 661 Open or understood,^ must be resolved." He spake ; and, to confirm his words, out-flew Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs Of mighty Cherubim ; the sudden blaze 665 Far round illumined Hell. Highly they raged Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war. Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven. There stood a hill not far, whose grisly top 670 Belched fire and rolling smoke ; the rest entire Shone with a glossy scurf, undoubted sign That in his womb^ was hid metallic ore, The work of sulphur. Thither, winged with speed, A numerous brigade hastened : as when bands 675 Of pioneers,* -Rath spade and pickaxe armecl. Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field. Or cast a rampart. Mammon led them on, Mammon, the least erected * Spirit that fell From Heaven, for even in Heaven his looks and thoughts 680 Were always downward bent, admiring more ^ secret ^ its interior * soldiers who clear the way for an army * elevated The riches of Heaven's pavement, trodden gold, Than aught divine or holy else enjoyed In vision beatific. By him first Men also, and by his suggestion taught, 685 Ransacked the Centre, and with impious hands Rifled the bowels of their mother Earth For treasures better hid. Soon had his crew Opened into the hill a spacious wound, And digged out ribs of gold. Let none ad- mire^ 6go That riches grow in Hell ; that soil may best Deserve the precious bane.^ And here let those Who boast in mortal things, and wondering teU Of Babel,* and the works of Memphian '^ kings, Learn how their greatest monuments of fame, And strength, and art, are easily outdone 696 By Spirits reprobate, and in an hour \Vhat in an age they, with incessant toil And hands innumerable, scarce perform. Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared, 700 That underneath had veins of liquid fire Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude With wondrous art founded the massy ore. Severing each kind, and scummed the bullion dross. A third as soon had formed within the ground A various mould, and from the boiling cells 706 By strange conveyance filled each hollow nook : As in an organ, from one blast of wind. To many a row of pipes the sound-board breathes. Anon out of the earth a fabric huge 710 Rose like an exhalation, with the sound Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet — Built like a temple, where pilasters round Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid With golden architrave ; nor did there want Cornice or frieze, with bossy* sculptures graven: 716 The roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon, Nor great Alcairo,^ such magnificence Equalled in all their glories, to enshrine Belus or Serapis'' their gods, or seat 720 Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria strove In wealth and luxury. The ascending pile Stood fixed her stately highth, and straight the doors, ^ wonder ^ destroyer * the temple of Balus in Babylon ■* Egyptian * projecting from the walls ^ Memphis in Egypt " gods of Babylon and Egypt 2o8 JOHN MILTON Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide Within, her ample spaces o'er the smooth 725 And level pavement : from the arched roof, Pendent by subtle magic, many a row Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed With naphtha and asphaltus, yielded light As from a sky. The hasty multitude 730 Admiring entered, and the work some praise. And some the architect. His hand was known In Heaven by many a towered structure high. Where sceptred Angels held their residence. And sat as Princes, whom the supreme King Exalted to such power, and gave to rule, 736 Each in his Plierarchy, the Orders^ bright. Nor was his name unheard or unadored In ancient Greece ; and in Ausonian - land Men called him Mulciber ; and how he fell From Heaven they fabled, thrown by angry Jove 741 Sheer o'er the crystal battlements : from morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, A summer's day ; and with the setting sun Dropt from the zenith, like a falling star, 745 On Lemnos, the ^^gaean isle. Thus they relate, Erring ; for he with this rebellious rout ^ Fell long before ; nor aught availed him now To have built in Heaven high towers ; nor did he 'scape By all his engines,'* but was headlong sent 7 50 With his industrious crew to build in Hell. Meanwhile the winged heralds, by com- m.and Of sovran power, with awful ceremony And trumpet's sound, throughout the host proclaim A solemn council forthwith to be held 755 At Pandemonium, the high capital Of Satan and his peers. Their summons called From every band and squared regiment By place or choice the worthiest ; they anon With hundreds and with thousands trooping came 760 Attended. All access was thronged, the gates And porches wide, but chief the spacious hall (Though like a covered field, where champions bold Wont ride in armed, and at the Soldan's ^ chair Defied the best of Paynym chivalry 765 To mortal combat, or career with lance) Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in the air, ^ There were nine orders, or classes, of angels. ^ Italy ^ company ^ contrivances '•' Sultan's Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings. As bees In spring-time, when the Sun with Taurus rides,^ 769 Pour forth their populous youth about the hive In clusters; they among fresh dews and flowers Fly to and fro, or on the smoothed plank, The suburb of their straw-built citadel, New rubbed with balm, expatiate ^ and confer Their state-affairs. So thick the aery crowd Swarmed and were straitened ;^ till, the signal given, 776 Behold a wonder ! they but now who seemed In bigness to surpass Earth's giant sons. Now less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow room Throng numberless, like that pygmean race Beyond the Indian mount ; * or faery elves, 781 Whose midnight revels, by a forest-side Or fountain, some belated peasant sees. Or dreams he sees, while overhead the Moon Sits arbitress, and nearer to the Earth 785 Wheels her pale course ; they, on their mirth and dance Intent, with jocund music charm his ear ; At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds. Thus incorporeal Spirits to smallest forms Reduced their shapes immense, and were at large, _ 790 Though without number still, amidst the hall Of that infernal court. But far within, And in their own dimensions like themselves, The great Seraphic Lords and Cherubim In close recess^ and secret conclave sat, 795 A thousand demi-gods on golden seats. Frequent ® and full.'' After short silence then. And summons read, the great consult began. OF EDUCATION TO MASTER SA^IUEL HARTLIB [An Extract] (THEIR EXERCISE) The course of study hitherto briefly de- scribed, is what I can guess by reading, likest to those ancient and famous schools of Pythagoras, Plato, Isocrates, Aristotle, and ^ is in the sign of Taurus, of. Chaucer, Prol. of C. T., note on 1. 8 ^ move about ^ gathered close together ■* the Himalaya range ^ secret retirement '' numerous ^ complete in number OF EDUCATION 209 such others, out of which were bred such a number of renowned philosophers, orators, historians, poets, and princes all over Greece, Italy, and Asia, besides the flourishing studies of Cyrene and Alexandria. But herein it shall exceed them, and supply a defect as great as that which Plato noted in the com- monwealth of Sparta ; whereas that city trained up their youth most for war, and these in their academies and Lycaeum all for the gown, this institution of breeding which I here delineate shall be equally good both for peace and war. Therefore about an hour and a half ere they eat at noon should be allowed them for ex- ercise, and due rest afterwards ; but the time for this may be enlarged at pleasure, according as their rising in the morning shall be early. The exercise which I commend first, is the exact use of their weapon, to guard, and to strike safely with edge or point ; this will keep them healthy, nimble, strong, and well in breath, is also the likeliest means to make them grow large and tall, and to inspire them with a gallant and fearless courage, which being tempered with seasonable lec- tures and precepts to them of true fortitude and patience, will turn into a native and heroic valour, and make them hate the cowardice of doing wrong. They must be also practised in all the locks and grips of wrestling, wherein Englishmen were wont to excel, as need may often be in fight to tug, to grapple, and to close. And this perhaps will be enough, wherein to prove and heat their single strength. The interim of unsweating themselves regu- larly, and convenient rest before meat, may both with profit and delight be taken up in recreating and composing their travailed^ spirits with the solemn and divine harmonies of music heard or learned ; either whilst the skilful organist plies his grave and fancied descant ^ in lofty fugues, or the whole sym- phony with artful and unimaginable touches adorn and grace the well-studied chords of some choice composer ; sometimes the lute or soft organ stop waiting on elegant voices, either to religious, martial, or civil ditties ; which, if wise men and prophets be not extremely out, have a great power over dis- positions and manners, to smooth and make them gentle from rustic harshness and dis- tempered passions. The like also would not ^ wearied " solemn and elaborate variations be unexpedient after meat, to assist and cherish nature in her first concoction,^ and send their minds back to study in good tune and satisfaction. Where having followed it close under vigi- lant eyes, till about two hours before supper, they are by a sudden alarum or watchword, to be called out to their military motions, under sky or covert, according to the season, as was the Roman wont ; first on foot, then as their age permits, on horseback, to all the art of cavalry ; that having in sport, but with much exactness and daily muster, served out the rudiments of their soldiership, in all the skill of embattling, 2 marching, encamping, fortify- ing, besieging, and battering with all the helps of ancient and modern stratagems, tactics, and" warlike maxims, they may as it were out of a long war come forth renowned and perfect commanders in the service of their country. They would not then, if they were trusted with fair and hopeful armies, suffer them for want of just and wise discipline to shed away from about them like sick feathers, though they be never so oft supplied ; they would not suft'er their empty and unrecruit- able ^ colonels of twenty men in a company, to quaff out, or convey into secret hoards, the wages of a delusive ■* list, and a miserable rem- nant ; yet in the meanwhile to be overmas- tered with a score or two of drunkards, the only soldiery left about them, or else to com- ply with * all rapines and violences. No, certainly, if they knew aught of that knowl- edge that belongs to good men or good governors, they would not suffer these things. But to return to our own institute ; be- sides these constant exercises at home, there is another opportunity of gaining experience to be won from pleasure itself abroad ; in those vernal seasons of the year when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sidlenness against nature, not to go out and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth. I should not there- fore be a persuader to them of studying much then, after two or three years that they have well laid their grounds, but to ride out in companies with prudent and staid guides to all the quarters of the land ; learning and observing all places of strength, all com- ^ process of digestion ^ drawing up in battle array ^ lacking soldiers and incapable of recruit- ing ^ false ^ allow 2IC JOHN MILTON modities ^ of building and of soil, for towns and tillage, harbours and- ports for trade. Some- times taking sea as far as to our navy, to learn there also what they can in the practi- cal knowledge of sailing and of seafight. These ways would try all their peculiar gifts of nature, and if there were any secret excel- lence among them, woidd fetch it out, and give it fair opportunities to advance itself by, which could not but mightily redound to the good of this nation, and bring into fashion again those old admired virtues and excellen- cies with far more advantage now in this purity of Christian knowledge. From AREOPAGITICA A SPEECH FOR THE LIBERTY OF UN- LICENSED PRINTING To THE Parliament of England I deny not but that it is of greatest concern- ment in the church and commonwealth, to have a vigilant eye how books demean them- selves as well as men ; and thereafter to con- fine, imprison, and do sharpest justice on them as malefactors : for books are not abso- lutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are ; nay, they do pre- serve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them. I know they are as lively, and as vigorously productive, as those fabiilous dragon's teeth ; ^ and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men. And yet on the other hand, unless wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as kill a good book ; who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image ; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God as it were in the eye. Many a man lives a burden to the earth ; but a good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, im- balmed and treasured up on purpose to a fife beyond life. 'Tis true, no age can restore a life, whereof perhaps there is no great loss ; and revolutions of ages do not oft recover the loss of a rejected truth, for the want of which ^ advantages ^ sown by Cadmus, cf . Gayley, pp. 1 1 4-1 1 7 whole nations fare the worse. We should be wary therefore what persecution we raise against the living labours of public men, how we spill ^ the seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books ; since we see a kind of homicide may be thus committed, some- times a martyrdom, and if it extend to the whole impression, a kind of massacre, whereof the execution ends not in the slaying of an elemental life, but strikes at that ethereal and fifth essence, the breath of reason itself, slays an immortality rather than a life. But lest I should be condemned of introducing li- cense, while I oppose licensing, I refuse not the pains to be so much historical as will serve to show what hath been done by ancient and famous commonwealths against this disorder, till the very time that this project of Hcensing crept out of the inquisi- tion, was catched up by our prelates, and hath caught some of our presbyters. Good and evil we know in the field of this world grow up together almost inseparably ; and the knowledge of good is so involved and interwoven with the knowledge of evil and in so many cunning resemblances hardly to be discerned, that those confused seeds, which were imposed on Psyche^ as an incessant labour to cull out and sort asunder, were not more intermixed. It was from out the rind of one apple tasted that the knowledge of good and evil as two twins cleaving together leaped forth into the world. And perhaps this is that doom which Adam fell into of knowmg good and evil, that is to say of knowing good by evil. As therefore the state of man now is, what wisdom can there be to choose, what continence to forbear, without the knowledge of evil? He that can appre- hend and consider vice with all her baits and seeming pleasures, and yet abstain, and yet distinguish, and yet prefer that which is truly better, he 'is the true warfaring Chris- tian. I cannot praise a fugitive and clois- tered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed,^ that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race, where that immortal garland is to be run for not without dust and heat. Assuredly we bring not innocence into the world, we bring impurity much rather: ^ destroy ^ in the temple of Venus, cf. Ga3'ley, p. 156 ' unpractised AREOPAGITICA 211 that which purifies us is trial, and trial is by what is contrary. That virtue therefore which is but a youngHng in the contemplation of evil, and knows not the utmost that vice promises to her followers, and rejects it, is but a blank virtue, not a pure ; her white- ness is but an excremental ^ whiteness ; which was the reason w^hy our sage and serious poet Spenser, whom I dare be known to think a better teacher than Scotus or Aquinas,^ de- scribing true temperance under the person of Guion, brings him in with his palmer through the cave of Mammon and the bower of earthly bliss, ^ that he might see and know, and yet abstain. Since therefore the knowledge and survey of vice is in this world so necessary to the constituting of human virtue, and the scanning of error to the confirmation of truth, how can we more safely and with less danger scout into the regions of sin and falsity than by reading all mianner of tractates, and hear- ing all manner of reason? And this is the benefit which may be had of books promis- cuously read. If we think to regulate printing, thereby to rectify manners, we must regulate all recrea- tions and pastimes, all that is deUghtful to man. No music must be heard, nor song be set or sung, but what is grave and doric. There must be licensing dancers, that no gesture, motion, or deportment be taught our youth but what by their allowance shall be thought honest ; for such Plato was pro- vided of. It will ask more than the work of twenty licensers to examine all the lutes, the violins and the guitars in every house ; they must not be suffered to prattle as they do, but must be licensed what they may say. And who shall silence all the airs and madri- gals that whisper softness in chambers? The windows also, and the balconies must be thought on ; there are shrev^'d * books with dangerous frontispieces set to sale ; who shall prohibit them? shall twenty licensers? The villages also must have their visitors to in- quire what lectures the bagpipe and the rebec reads, even to the ballatry and the gamut of every municipal fiddler, for these are the ^external ^ Duns Scotus (1265 ?-i3o8?) and Thomas Aquinas (1225 ?-i274), founders of the two chief systems of mediaeval philosophy ^ See Faerie Qiieene, II, vii and xii ^ wicked countryman's Arcadias and his Montemayors.^ Next, what more national corruption, for which England hears ill abroad, than house- hold gluttony? who shall be the rectors -of our daily rioting? and what shall be done to inhibit the multitudes that frequent those houses where drunkenness is sold and har- boured? Our garments also should be referred to the licensing of some more sober work-masters to see them cut into a less wan- ton garb. Who shall regulate all the mixed conversation of our youth male and fem.ale together, as is the fashion of this country? who shall stilH appoint Vv'hat shall be dis- coursed, what presumed, and no further? Lastly, who shall forbid and separate all idle resort, all evil company? These things will be, and must be ; but how they shall be least hurtful, how least enticing, herein consists the grave and governing wisdom of a state. To sequester out of the world into Atlantic and Utopian* poHties, which never can be drawn into use, will not mend our condition ; but to ordain wisely as in this world of evil, in the midst whereof God hath placed us un- avoidably. Nor is it Plato's Hcensing of books wdl do this, which necessarily pulls along ^^ith it so many other kinds of licensing, as will make us all both ridiciilous and weary, and yet frustrate ; but those unwritten, or at least unconstraining laws of virtuous edu- cation, religious and civil nurture, which Plato there mentions as the bonds and liga- ments of the commonwealth, the pillars and the sustainers of every written statute ; these they be which will bear chief sway in such matters as these, when all licensing will be easily eluded. Impimity and remissness, for certain, are the bane of a commonwealth ; but here the great art lies to discern in what the lav; is to bid restraint and punishment, and in what things persuasion only is to work. If every ac- tion which is good, or evil in man at ripe years, were to be under pittance^ and prescription and compulsion, what were virtue but a name, what praise could be then due to well-doing, what gramercy ^ to be sober, just or continent ? ^ The Diana Enamorada of Jorge de Monte- mayor, published in 1542, was one of the most famous pastoral romances. ^ controllers ^constantly ^At- lantis and Utopia were imaginary ideal common- wealths described by Plato and Sir Thomas More. ^ allowance ^ thanks 212 JOHN MILTON Lords and Commons of England, consider what nation it is whereof ye are the governors : a nation not slow and dull, but of a quick, ingenious, and piercing spirit, acute to invent, subtle and sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach of any point the highest that human capacity can soar to. Therefore the studies of learning in her deepest sciences have been so ancient and so eminent among us, that writers of good antiquity and ablest judgment have been persuaded that even the school of Pythagoras and the Persian wisdom ^ took be- ginning from the old philosophy of this island. And that wise and civil Roman, Julius Agric- ola, who governed once here for Caesar, pre- ferred- the natural wits of Britain before the laboured studies of the French. Nor is it for nothing that the grave and frugal Transyl- vanian sends out yearly from as far as the mountainous borders of Russia and beyond the Hercynian wilderness,^ not their youth, but their staid men, to learn our language and our theologic arts. Yet that which is above all this, the favour and the love of heaven, we have great argument to think in a peculiar manner propitious and propending towards us. Why else was this nation chosen before any other, that out of her as out of Sion should be proclaimed and sounded forth the first tidings and trumpet of reformation to all Europe? And had it not been the obstinate perverseness of our prelates against the divine and admirable spirit of Wiclif, to suppress him as a schismatic and innovator, perhaps neither the Bohemian Huss and Jerome,^ no, nor the name of Luther or of Calvin had been ever known ; the glory of reforming all our neighbours had been completely ours. But now, as our obdurate clergy have with vio- lence demeaned * the matter, we are become hitherto the latest and the backwardest scholars, of whom God offered to have made us the teachers. Now once again by all concurrence of signs and by the general instinct of holy and devout men, as they daily and solemnly express their thoughts, God is decreeing to begin some new and great period in his church, even to the re- forming of reformation itself. What does he then but reveal himself lo his servants, and as his manner is, first to his Englishmen ; I say ' the religion of Zoroaster ^ the wooded moun- tains of central Germany •'' Jerome of Prague, a religious reformer associated with Huss ^ conducted as his manner is, first to us, though we mark not the method of his counsels and are un- worthy ? Behold now this vast city : ^ a city of refuge, the mansion house of liberty, en- compassed and surrounded with his protec- tion ; the shop of war hath not there more an- vils and hammers waking, to fashion out the plates and instruments of armed justice in defence of beleaguered truth, than there be pens and heads there, sitting by their studious lamps, musing, searching, revolving new no- tions and ideas wherewith to present as with their homage and their fealty the approaching reformation, others as fast reading, trying all things, assenting to the force of reason and convincement. What could a man require more from a nation so pliant and so prone to seek after knowledge? What wants there to such a towardly and pregnant ^ soil but wise and faithful labourers, to make a knowing people, a nation of prophets, of sages, and of worthies ? We reckon more than five months yet to harvest ; there need not be five weeks ; had we but eyes to lift up, the fields are white already.' Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puis- sant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks. Methinks I see her as an eagle muing * her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam, purging and unsealing her long abused sight at the foun- tain itself of heavenly radiance, while the whole noise of timorous and fiocking birds, with those also that love the twilight, flutter about, amazed at what she means, and in their envious gabble would prognosticate a year of sects and schisms. What should ye do then, shoidd ye suppress all this flowery crop of knowledge and new light sprung up and yet springing daily in this city, should ye set an oligarchy of twenty in- grossers ^ over it, to bring a famine upon our minds again, when we shall knov/ nothing but what is measured to us by their bushel? Be- lieve it. Lords and Commons, they who coun- sel ye to such a suppressing do as good as bid ye suppress yourselves ; and I will soon show how. If it be desired to know the immediate ^ London ^ productive ' cf. St. John iv : 35 ■• renewing (by moulting) * merchants who corner necessaries AREOPAGITICA 213 cause of ail this free writing and free speaking, there cannot be assigned a truer than your own mild and free and humane government ; it is the liberty, Lords and Commons, which your own valorous and happy counsels have pur- chased us, liberty which is the nurse of all great wits ; ^ this is that which hath rarefied and enlightened our spirits like the influence of heaven ; this is that which hath enfran- chised, enlarged and lifted up our apprehen- sions degrees above themselves. Ye cannot make us now less capable, less knowing, less eagerly pursuing of the truth, unless ye first make yourselves, that made us so, less the lovers, less the founders of our true liberty. We can grow ignorant again, brutish, formal, and slavish, as ye found us ; but you then must first become that which ye cannot be, oppressive, arbitrary, and tyrannous, as they were from whom ye have freed us. That our hearts are now more capacious, our thoughts more erected to the search and expectation of greatest and exactest things, is the issue of your own virtue propagated in us ; ye cannot suppress that unless ye reinforce an abrogated and merciless law, that fathers may despatch at will their own children. And who shall then stick closest to ye, and excite others? Not he who takes up arms for coat and con- duct and his four nobles of Danegelt.^ Al- though I dispraise not the defence of just immunities, yet love my peace better, if that were all. Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to con- science, above all liberties. What would be best advised, then, if it be found so hurtful and so unequal ^ to suppress opinions for the newness or the unsuitableness to a customary acceptance, will not be my task to say ; I only shall repeat what I have learned from one of your own honourable number, a right noble and pious lord, who had he not sacrificed his life and fortunes to the church and commonwealth, we had not now missed and bewailed a worthy and undoubted patron of this argument. Ye know him I am sure ; yet I for honour's sake (and may it be eternal to him !) shall name him, the Lord Brook. He writing of episcopacy, and by the way treating of sects and schisms, left ye his vote, or rather now the last words of his dy- ing charge, which I know will ever be of dear ^ intelligences ^ A tax levied for defence against the Danes. ^ unjust and honoured regard with ye, so full of meek- ness and breathing charity, that next to His last testament, W'ho bequeathed love and peace to His disciples, I cannot call to mind where I have read or lieard words more mild and peaceful. He there exhorts us to hear with patience and humility those, however they be miscalled, that desire to live purely, in such a use of God's ordinances, as the best guidance of their conscience gives them, and to tolerate them, though in some disconform- ity to ourselves. The book itself will tell us more at large being published to the world and dedicated to the parliament by him who, both for his life and for his death, deserves that what advice he left be not laid by without perusal. And now the time in special is by privilege to write and speak what may help to the further discussing of matters in agitation. The temple of Janus with his two controver- sal ^ faces might now not unsignificantly be set open .2 And though all the winds of doc- trine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple ; who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter? Her confuting is the best and surest suppressing. He who hears what praying there is for light and clearer knowledge to be sent down am.ong us, would think of other matters to be consti- tuted beyond the discipline of Geneva, framed and fabricked already to our hands. Yet when the new light which we beg for shines in upon us, there be who envy and oppose, if it come not first in at their casements. What a collusion is this, whenas we are exhorted by the wiseman to use diligence, to seek for wisdom as for hidden treasures early and late, that another order shall enjoin us to know nothing but by statute ! When a man hath been labouring the hardest labour in the deep mines of knowledge, hath furnished out his findings in all their equipage, drawn forth his reasons as it were a battle ^ ranged, scattered and defeated aU objections in his way, calls out his adversary into the plain, oft'ers him the advantage of wind and sun, if he please, only that he may try the matter by dint of argument, for his opponents then to skvdk, to ^ turned opposite ways ^ His temple at Rome was kept open in time of war. ^ battalion 214 RICHARD CRASHAW lay ambushments, to keep a narrow bridge of licensing where the challenger should pass, though it be valour enough in soldiership, is but weakness and cowardice in the wars of Truth. For who knows not that Truth is strong next to the Almighty? She needs no policies, no stratagems, nor licensings to make her victorious ; those are the shifts and the defences that Error uses against her power. Give her but room, and do not bind her when she sleeps, for then she speaks not true, as the old Proteus did, who spake oracles only when he was caught and bound ; ^ but then rather she turns herself into all shapes except her own, and perhaps tunes her voice accord- ing to the time, as Micaiah did before Ahab,^ until she be adjured into her own likeness. SIR JOHN SUCKLING (1609-1642) THE CONSTANT LOVER Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together ! And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather. 4 Time shall moult away his wings Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover. 8 But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me : Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she. 1 2 Had it any been but she, And that very face. There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place. 16 WHY SO PALE AND WAN? Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale ? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail ? Prithee, why so pale? 5 ^ See the story told by Menelaus in the Odyssey, Bk. iv ^ cf. I Kings xxii : 15-16 Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her. Saying nothing do 't ? Prithee, why so mute? 10 Quit, quit for shame ! This will not move ; This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her : The devil take her ! 1 5 RICHARD CRASHAW (i6i3?-i649) IN THE HOLY NATIVITY OF OUR LORD GOD A HYMN SUNG AS BY THE SHEPHERDS Chorus Come, we shepherds, whose blest sight Hath met Love's noon in Nature's night ; Come, lift we up our loftier song And wake the sun that lies too long. To all our world of well-stol'n joy He slept, and dreamt of no such thing ; While we found out heaven's fairer eye And kissed the cradle of our King. Tell him he rises now, too late To show us aught worth looking at. 10 Tell him we now can show him more Than he e'er showed to mortal sight ; Than he himself e'er saw before ; Which to be seen needs not his light. Tell him, Tityrus, where th' hast been Tell him, Thyrsis, what th' hast seen. Tityrus. Gloomy night embraced the place Where the noble Infant lay. The Babe looked up and showed His face ; In spite of darkness, it was day. 20 It was Thy day. Sweet ! and did rise Not from the east, but from Thine eyes. Chorus. It was Thy day, Sweet . . . Thyrsis. Winter chid aloud ; and sent The angry North to wage his wars. The North forgot his fierce intent ; IN THE HOLY NATIVITY OF OUR LORD GOD 215 And left perfumes instead of scars. By those sweet eyes' persuasive powers, Where he meant frost he scattered flowers. By those sweet eyes . . . 30 We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, Young Dawn of our Eternal Day ! We saw Thine eyes break from their east And chase the trembling shades away. We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light. Poor World, said I, what wilt thou do To entertain this starry Stranger ? Is this the best thou canst bestow ? A cold and not too cleanly, manger ? Contend, the powers of heaven and earth, 41 To fit a bed for this huge birth ! Contend the powers . . . Proud world, said I ; cease your contest And let the mighty Babe alone ; The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest, Love's architecture is his own ; The Babe whose birth embraves^ this morn. Made His own bed e'er He was born. The Babe whose 50 Cho. I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o'er the place's head ; Off'ring their whitest sheets of snow To furnish the fair Infant's bed. Forbear, said I ; be not too bold ; Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold. Forbear, said I . . . ^ makes illustrious Thyr. I saw the obsequious seraphim Their rosy fleece ^ of fire bestow, For well they now can spare their wings 60 Since Heaven itself lies here below. Well done, said I ; but are you sure Your down so warm, will pass for pure? Cho. Well done, said I . . . Tit. No, no, your King's not yet to seek Where to repose His royal head ; See, see how soon His new-bloomed cheek 'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed! Sweet choice, said we ! no way but so Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow. 70 Cho. Sweet choice, said we . . . Both. We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, Bright Dawn of our Eternal Day ! We saw Thine eyes break from their east And chase the trembling shades away. We saw Thee, and we blest the sight. We saw Thee by Thine own sweet Light. Cho. We saw Thee . . . Full Chorus Welcome, all wonders in one night ! Eternity shut in a span, 80 Summer in winter, day in night, Heaven in earth, and God in man. Great Little One ! Whose all-em- bracing birth Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth. Welcome — though nor to gold nor sUk, To more than -Cassar's birthright is ; Two sister-seas of virgin-milk With many a rarely-tempered kiss That breathes at once both maid and mother, 89 Warms in the one, cools in the other. ^ not of wool, but of feathers from their wings 2l6 JEREMY TAYLOR Welcome — though not to those gay flies ^ Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings, Slippery souls in smiling eyes — But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth's their flock, whose wit's to be Well read in their simplicity. Yet, when j^oung April's husband show'rs Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the first-born of her flow'rs To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head. To Thee, dread Lamb ! Whose love must keep loi The Shepherds, more than they the sheep. To Thee, meek Majesty ! soft King Of simple graces and sweet loves ! Each of us his lamb will bring. Each his pair of silver doves ! Till burnt at last in fire of Thy fair eyes. Ourselves become our own best sacri- fice ! JEREMY TAYLOR (1613-1667) THE RULE AND EXERCISES OF HOLY DYING CHAP. L — A GENERAL PREPARATION TOWARDS A HOLY AND BLESSED DEATH, BY WAY OF CONSIDERATION From Section II. — [Or the Vanity and Shortness of Man's Life] : The Con- sideration REDUCED TO PRACTICE It will be very material to our best and noblest purposes, if we represent this scene of change and sorrow, a little more dressed up in circumstances ; for so we shall be more apt to practise those rules the doctrine of which is consequent to this consideration. It is a mighty change, that is made by the death of every person, and it is visible to us, who are alive. Reckon but from the sprightfulness of ^ I.e., courtiers youth, and the fair cheeks and full eyes of childhood, from the vigorousness and strong flexure of the joints of five-and-twenty, to the hollowness and dead paleness, to the loath- someness and horror of a three day's burial, and we shall perceive the distance to be very great and very strange. But so have I seen a rose newly springing from the clefts of its hood, and, at first, it was fair as the morning, and full with the dew of heaven, as a lamb's fleece ; but when a ruder breath had forced open its virgin modesty, and dismantled its too youthful and unripe retirements, it began to put on darkness, and to decline to softness and the symptoms of a sickly age ; it bowed the head, and broke its stalk, and, at night, having lost some of its leaves and all its beauty, it fell into the portion of Aveeds and outworn faces. The same is the portion of every man and every woman ; the heritage of worms and serpents, rottenness and cold dishonour, and our beauty so changed, that our acquaintance quickly knew us not ; and that change mingled with so much horror or else meets so with our fears and weak dis- coursings, that they who, six hours ago, tended upon us, either with charitable or ambitious services, cannot, without some regret, stay in the room alone, where the body lies stripped of its life and honour. I have read of a fair young German gentleman, who, living, often refused to be pictured, but put off the impor- tunity of Ms friends' desire, by giATing way, that, after a few days' burial, they might send a painter to his vault, and, if they saw cause for it, draw the imiage of his death unto the life. They did so, and found his face half eaten, and his midriff and backbone full of serpents ; and so he stands pictured among his armed ancestors. So does the fairest beauty change, and it will be as bad with you and me; and then, what servants shall we have to wait upon us in the grave ? what friends to visit us ? what oflicious people to cleanse away the moist and unwholesome cloud reflected upon our faces from the sides of the weeping vaults, which are the longest weepers for our funeral ? This discourse will be useful, if we consider and practise by the following rules and considerations respectively. I. All the rich and all the covetous men in the world will perceive, and all the world will perceive for them, that it is but an ill recom- pense for all their cares, that, by this time, all THE RULE AND EXERCISES OF HOLY DYING 217 that shall be left, will be this, that the neigh- bours shall say, "He died a rich man;" and yet his wealth will not profit him in the grave, but hugely swell the sad accounts of doomsday. And he that kills the Lord's people ^^■ith unjust or ambitious wars for an unrewarding interest, shall have this char- acter, that he threw away all the days of his life, that one year might be reckoned \nth his name, and computed by his reign or consul- ship ; and many men, by great labours and affronts, many indignities and crimes, labour only for a pompous epitaph, and a loud title upon their marble ; whilst those, into whose possessions their heirs or kindred are entered, are forgotten, and lie unregarded as their ashes, and withovit concernment or relation, as the turf upon the face of their grave. A man may read a sermon, the best and most passionate that ever man preached, if he shall but enter into the sepulchres of kings. In the same Escurial,^ where the Spanish princes Hve in greatness and power, and decree war or peace, they have \\isely placed a cemetery, where their ashes and their glory shall sleep tUl time shall be no more ; and where our kings have been cro-\Mied, their ancestors lie in- terred, and they must walk over their grand- sire's head to take his cro\^-n. There is an acre sown with royal seed, the copy of the greatest change, from rich to naked, from ceiled roofs to arched coffins, from living like gods to che like men. There is enough to cool the flames of lust, to abate the heights of pride, to appease the itch of covetous desires, to sully and dash out the dissembling colours of a lustful, artificial, and imaginary beauty. There the warlike and the peaceful, the fortu- nate and the miserable, the beloved and the despised princes mingle their dust, and pay down their sj^mbol of mortality, and tell all . the world, that, when we die, our ashes shall be equal to kings', and our accounts easier, and our pains or our crowns shall be less. To my apprehension it is a sad record, which is left by Athenaeus ^ concerning Ninus, the great Assyrian monarch, whose life and death are summed up in these words : " Ninus, the Assyr- ian, had an ocean of gold, and other riches more than the sand in the Caspian Sea ; he ^ a famous building near Madrid, consisting of a monastery, a church, a palace, and a mauso- leum of the Kings of Spain ^ a gossipy Greek writer of the second century after Christ never saw the stars, and perhaps he never desired it ; he never sticred up the holy fire among the Magi, nor touched his god with the sacred rod according to the laws ; he never offered sacrifice, nor worshipped the deity, nor administered justice, nor spake to his people, nor numbered them ; but he was most valiant to eat and drink, and, having mingled his wines, he threw the rest upon the stones. This man is dead : behold his sepulchre ; and now hear where Xinus is. Sometimes I was Ninus, and drew the breath of a li\^ng man ; but now am nothing but clay. I have noth- ing, but what I did eat, and what I served to myself in lust, that was and is all my portion. The wealth ■with which I was esteemed blessed, my enemies, meeting together, shall bear away, as the mad Thyades ^ carry a raw goat. I am gone to hell ; and when I went tliither, I neither carried gold, nor horse, nor silver chariot. I that wore a mitre,- am now a little heap of dust." I know not anything, that can better represent the evil condition of a ■v\'icked man, or a changing greatness. From the greatest secular dignity to dust and ashes his nature bears him, and from thence to hell his sins carry him, and there he shall be for- ever imder the dominion of chains and de\'ils, wrath and an intolerable calamity. This is the reward of an vmsanctified condition, and a greatness ill gotten or fll administered. 2. Let no man extend his thoughts, or let his hopes wander towards future and far- distant events and accidental contingencies. This day is mine and yours, but ye know not what shall be on the morrow ; and every morning creeps out of a dark cloud, leaving behind it an ignorance and silence deep as midnight, and undiscerned as are the phan- tasms that make a chrisom-child ^ to smile : so that we cannot discern what comes here- after, unless we had a light from heaven brighter than the \dsion of an angel, even the spirit of prophecy. Without revelation, we cannot tell, whether we shall eat to-morrow, or whether a squinancy ■* shall choke us : and it is written in the unrevealed folds of Divine predestination, that many, who are this day alive, shall to-morrow be laid upon the cola earth, and the women shall weep over their shroud, and dress them for their funeral. ^ worshippers of Bacchus ^ i.e., crown ^ newly christened child * quinsy 2l8 DENHAM AND LOVELACE SIR JOHN DENHAM (i6i 5-1669) RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658). From COOPER'S HILL My eye, descending from the hill, surveys Where Thames amongst the wanton valleys strays ; 60 Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons, By his old sire to his embraces rmis, Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet eternity ; Though with those streams he no resemblance hold. Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold. His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, O'er which he kindly spreads Ms spacious wing. And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring ; 70 Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, Like nlothers which their infants overlay, Nor, with a sudden and impetuous wave, Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave; No unexpected inundations spoil The mower's hopes, nor mock the plough- man's toil. But godlike his unwearied bounty flows. First loves to do, then loves the good he does; Nor are his blessings to his banks confined. But free and common as the sea or wind ; 80 When he to boast or to disperse his stores. Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, Visits the world, and in Ms flying towers,^ Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours, Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants. Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants ; So that to us no thing, no place is strange, While his fair bosom is the world's exchange. O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme ! 90 Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull. Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full. ^ ships TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS Tell me not. Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. 4 True, a new mistress now I chase. The first foe in the field ; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. 8 Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore ; I could not love thee. Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more. 12 From THE GRASSHOPPER O Thou that swing'st upon the waving hair Of some well-filled oaten beard, Drunk every night with a delicious tear Dropt thee from heaven, where thou wert rear'd. 4 The joys of earth and air are thine entire, That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly; And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. 8 Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then, Sport'st in the gilt plaits of Ms beams, And all these merry days mak'st merry, men. Thyself, and melancholy streams. 12 TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON When Love with unconfined wings Hovers v/ithin my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates ; Wlien I lie tangled in her hair And fetter'd to her eye. The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. 8 When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames,^ ^ diluting water COWLEY AND MARVELL 219 Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames ; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, WTien healths and draughts go free — Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. 16 WTien, Hke committed^ Unnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty. And glories of my King ; \\lien I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged \™ids, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. 24 Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage ; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free. Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. 32 ABRAIL\M COWLEY (1618-1667) THE WISH Well then ! I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree. The very honey of all earthly joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy ; And they, methinks, deserve my pity Who for it can endure the stings. The crowd and buzz and murmurings, Of this great hive, the city. 8 Ah, yet. ere I descend to the grave May I a small house and large garden have ; And a few friends, and many books, both true. Both wise, and both delightful too ! And since love ne'er will from me flee, A Mistress moderately fair, And good as guardian angels are, Only beloved and loving me. t6 fountains ! when in you shall I Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy ? O fields ! O woods ! when, when shall I be made ^ ca,ored The happy tenant of your shade ? Here's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood: Here's wealthy Nature's treasury, WTiere all the riches lie that she Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. 24 Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear ; Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And nought but Echo flatter. The gods, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way : And therefore we may boldly say That 'tis the way too thither. 32 How happy here should I And one dear She live, and embracing die ! She who is all the world, and can exclude In deserts sohtude. I should have then this only fear : Lest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me, And so make a city here. 40 ANDREW MARVELL (1621-1678) THE GARDEN How vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labours see Crowned from some single herb or tree Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid. While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of repose ! 8 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear ? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men. Your sacred plants, if here below. Only among the plants will grow ; Society is aU but rude To this delicious solitude. 16 No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. Cut in these trees their mistress' name. Little, alas ! they know or heed, How far these beauties hers exceed ! 220 ANDREW MARVELL Fair trees ! wheres'e'er your barks I wound No name shall but your own be found. 24 When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race ; Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow ; And Pan did after Syrinx speed. Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 32 What wondrous life is this I lead ! Ripe apples drop about my head ; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; The nectarine, and curious ^ peach. Into my hands themselves do reach ; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 40 Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness ; — The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find ; Yet it creates, transcending these. Far other worlds, and other seas. Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. 48 Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside. My soul into the boughs does glide : There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and combs its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight. Waves in its plumes the various light. 56 Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walked without a mate. After a place so pure and sweet. What other help could yet be meet ! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there : Two paradises 'twere in one, To live in paradise alone. 64 How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers, and herbs, this diaP new; Where, from above, the milder sun Docs through a fragrant zodiac run, And, as it works, the industrious bee ^ rare, exotic ^a bed of various flowers which, opening at successive hours, indicate the time of day Computes its time as well as we ! How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers ? 72 TO HIS COY MISTRESS Had we but world enough, and time. This coyness, Lady, were no crime, We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find ; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. 10 My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow ; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze ; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest ; An age at least to every part. And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state. Nor would I love at lower rate. 20 But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near ; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found. Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song ; then worms shall try That long preserved virginity. And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust : 30 The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew. And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires. Now let us sport us while we may. And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour I'han languish in his slow-chapt ^ power. 40 Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball. And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough ^ the iron gates of life : Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run. ^ Time is represented as having jaws {chaps) that move slowly. ^ through HENRY VAUGHAN 221 HENRY VAUGHAN (1622-1695) THE RETREAT Happy those early days, when I Shined in my angel-infancy ! Before I understood this place Appointed for ni}^ second race, Or taught my soul to fancy ought But a white, celestial thought ; When yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first love. And looking back — at that short space — Could see a glimpse of His bright face ; 10 When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity ; Before I taught my tongue to v^ound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense, A several sin to every sense. But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. 20 O how I long to travel back. And tread again that ancient track ! That I might once more reach that plain, Where first I left my glorious train ; From whence the enlightened spirit sees That shady city of palm trees. But ah ! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way ! Some men a forward motion love. But I by backward steps would move ; 30 And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return. From THE WORLD I saw Eternity the other night. Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm, as it was bright ; And round beneath it Time in hours, days, years, 4 Driven by the spheres Like a vast shadow moved ; in which the world And all her train were hurled. THE TIMBER Sure thou didst flourish once ; and many springs, Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers, Pass'd o'er thy head ; many Hght hearts and wings, Which now are dead, lodged in thy livmg bowers. 4 And still a new succession sings and flies ; Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still enduring skies, 7 While the low violet thrives at their root. But thou beneath the sad and heavy line Of death dost waste, all senseless, cold, and dark; Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, i j Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark. And yet — as if some deep hate and dissent. Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, Were still alive — thou dost great storms resent Before they come, and know'st how near they be. 16 Else aU at rest thou Hest, and the fierce breath Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease ; But this thy strange resentment after death Means only those who broke in life thy peace. 20 THE RESTORATION JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700) From STANZAS ON OLIVER CROM- WELL And now 'tis time ; for their officious haste Who would before have borne him to the sky, Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past, Did let too soon the sacred eagle fly. 4 Though our best notes are treason to his fame Joined with the loud applause of public voice, Since Heaven what praise we offer to his name Hath rendered too authentic by its choice ; 8 Though in his praise no arts can liberal be, Since they, whose Muses have the highest flown, Add not to his immortal memory. But do an act of friendship to their own ; 1 2 Yet 'tis our duty and our interest too Such monuments as we can build to raise, Lest all the world prevent ^ what we should do. And claim a title in him by their praise. 16 How shall I then begin or where conclude To draw a fame so truly circular ? For in a round what order can be shewed, Where all the parts so equal-perfect are ? 20 His grandeur he derived from Heaven alone, For he was great, ere Fortune made him so ; And wars, like mists that rise against the sun. Made him but greater seem, not greater grow. 24 No borrowed bays his temples did adorn, But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring ; Nor was his virtue poisoned, soon as born. With the too early thoughts of being king. 28 anticipate From ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL Of these the false AchitopheP was first, 150 A name to all succeeding ages curst : For close ^ designs and crooked counsels fit, Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit,^ Restless, unfixed in principles and place, In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace : 135 A fiery soul, which, working out its way. Fretted the pigmy body to decay And o'er-informed *' the tenement of clay. A daring pilot in extremity, Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high, He sought the storms ; but, for a calm unfit, Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit. 162 Great wits are sure to madness near allied And thin partitions do their bounds divide ; Else, why should he, with wealth and honour blest, Refuse his age the needful hours of rest ? 166 Punish a body which he could not please. Bankrupt of Hf e, yet prodigal of ease ? And all to leave what with his toil he won To that unf eathered two-legg'd thing, a son. 1 70 A numerous host of dreaming saints succeed Of the true old enthusiastic breed : 530 'Gainst form and order they their power em- ploy, Nothing to build and all things to destroy. But far more numerous was the herd of such Who think too Uttle and who talk too much. These out of mere instinct, they knew not why. Adored their fathers' God and property, 536 And by the same blind benefit of Fate The Devil and the Jebusite * did hate : Born to be saved even in their own despite, Because they could not help believing right. 540 1 the Earl of Shaftesbury ^ secret ^ intellect "• overfilled ^ their enemies, the Catholics THE HIND AND THE PANTHER 123 Such were the tools ; but a whole Hydra ^ more Remains of sprouting heads too long to score. Some of their chiefs were princes of the land ; In the first rank of these did Zimri ^ stand, A man so various that he seemed to be 545 Not one, but all mankind's epitome : Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong. Was everything by starts and nothing long ; But in the course of one revolving moon Was chymist,^ fiddler, statesman, and buffoon ; Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drink- ing, _ _ SSI Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinK- ing. Blest madman, who could every hour employ With something new to wish or to enjoy i Railing and praising were his usual themes.sss And both, to show his judgment, in extremes : So over violent or over civil That every man with him was God or Devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art ; Notliiiig went imrewarded but destrt. 560 Beggared by fools whom still he found ^ too late, He had his jest, and they had his estate. He laughed himself from Court ; then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief : For spite of him, the weight of business fell 565 On Absalom and wise Achitophel ; Thus W'icked but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left. From THE HIND AND THE PANTHER ^ A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged, Fed on the lawns and in the forest ranged ; Without unspotted, innocent wdthin. She feared no danger, for she knew no sin. Yet had she oft been chased with horns and hounds 5 And Scythian ^ shafts, and many winged w^ounds Aimed at her heart ; was often forced to fly. And doomed to death, though fated not to die. Not so her young ; for their unequal line Was hero's make, half human, half divine. 10 ^ a fabulous monster with a hundred heads, killed by Hercules ^ the Duke of Buckin2;ham, whom Dryden hated personally ^ alchemist ^ found out ^ For the churches symbolized by the beasts see the Notes. ^ a general term for barbarians Their earthly mould obnoxious was to fate, The immortal part assumed immortal state. Of these a slaughtered army lay in blood, Extended o'er the Caledonian ^ wood. Their native walk ; whose vocal blood arose 1 5 And cried for pardon on their perjured foes. Their fate was fruitful, and the sanguine seed, Endued with souls, increased the sacred breed. So captive Israel multipUed m chains, A numerous exile, and enjoyed her pains. 2c With grief and gladness mixed, their mother viewed Her martyred offspring and their race re- newed ; Their corps to perish, but their kind to last, So much the deathless plant the dying fruit surpassed. 24 Panting and pensive now she ranged alone, And w^andered in the kingdoms once her own. The common himt, though from their rage re- strained By sovereign pow-er, her company disdained. Grinned as they passed, and wnth a glaring eye Gave gloomy signs of secret enmity. 30 'Tis true she boimded by and tripped so light, They had not time to take a steady sight ; For truth has such a face and such a mien As to be loved needs only to be seen. The bloody Bear, an Independent beast 35 Unlicked to form,- in groans her hate expressed. Among the timorous kind the quaking Hare Professed neutrality, but would not swear. Next her the buft'oon Ape, as atheists use,^ 39 Mimicked all sects and had his own to choose ; Still when the Lion looked, his knees he bent, And paid at chiu'ch a courtier's compHment. The bristled Baptist Boar, impure as he. But whitened with the foam of sanctity. With fat pollutions filled the sacred place, 45 And mountains levelled in his furious race : So first rebeUion founded was in grace. But, since the mighty ravage which he made In German forests •* had his guilt betrayed. With broken tusks and with a borrowed name. He shunned the vengeance and concealed the shame, 5 1 So lurked in sects unseen. With greater guile False Reynard fed on consecrated spoil ; The graceless beast by Athanasius first Was chased from Nice, then by Socinus nursed, ^ Scottish ^ Bear cubs are said to be shapeless lumps until licked into shape by the mother bear. ^ are accustomed * at Miinster 224 JOHN DRYDEN His impious race their blasphemy renewed, 56 And nature's king through nature's optics viewed ; Reversed they viewed him lessened to their eye, Nor in an infant could a God descry. New swarming sects to this obliquely tend, 60 Hence they began, and here they all wUl end. But if they think at all, 'tis sure no higher 316 Than matter put in motion may aspire ; Souls that can scarce ferment their mass of clay, So drossy, so divisible are they As would but serve pure bodies for allay ,^ 3 20 Such souls as shards ^ produce, such beetle things As only buzz to heaven with evening wings, Strike in the dark, offending but by chance, Such are the blindfold blo\^s of ignorance. They know not beings, and but hate a name ; To them the Hind and Panther are the same. 25 30 Timotheus,^ placed on high Amid the tuneful quire. With flying fingers touched the lyre : The trembling notes ascend the sky. And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove,^ Who left his blissful seats above, (Such is the power of mighty love) A dragon's fiery form belied ^ the god : Sublime on radiant spires '^ he rode. When he to fair Olympia ^ pressed ; .And while he sought her snowy breast, Then round her slender waist he curled, And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, A present deity, they shout around ; 35 A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound : With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god, ♦Affects to nod, 40 And seems to sihake the spheres. ALEXANDER'S FEAST ; OR, POWER OF MUSIC THE A SONG IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1697 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By PhiHp's warlike son : Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne ; 5 His valiant peers were placed around ; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound : (So should desert in arms be crowned.) The lovely Thais, by his side. Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, 10 In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair 1 None but the brave. None but the brave. None but the brave deserves the fair. Chorus Happy, happy, happy pair ! None but the brave, None but the brave. None but the brave deserves the fair. Chorus With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god. Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres. 45 alloy dung The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung. Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. The jolly god in triumph comes ; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums oo Flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face : Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes. Bacchus, ever fair and young. Drinking joys did first ordain ; 55 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; Rich the treasure. Sweet the pleasure. Sweet is pleasure after pain. 60 ^a celebrated Athenian musician (d. 357 B.C.), said to have improved the cithara by adding one string to it ^ fabled to have been Alexander's father ^ disguised ^ uplifted in shining spirals * Olympias, mother of Alexander ALEXANDER'S FEAST 225 Chorus Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. 65 Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; Fought all his battles o'er again ; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 70 And while he heaven and earth defied. Changed his hand, and checked his pride. He chose a mournful JMuse, Soft pity to infuse ; He sung Darius ^ great and good, 75 By too severe a fate. Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen. Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood ; Deserted at his utmost need 80 By those his former bounty fed ; On the bare earth exposed he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes. With dov.ncast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his altered soiii 85 The various turns of chance below : And, now and then, a sigh he stole. And tears began to flow. Chorus Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of chance below ; go And, now and then, a sigh he stole. And tears began to flow. The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree ; 'Twas but a kindred-sound to move 95 For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; Honour but an empty bubble ; 100 Never ending, still beginning. Fighting still, and still destroying : If the world be worth thy winning. Think, O think it worth enjoying : Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 105 Take the good the gods provide thee. ^ whom Alexander had conquered The many rend the skies with loud applause : So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain. Gazed on the fair no Who caused his care. And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again ; At length, with love and wine at once op- pressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. Chorus The prince, unable to conceal his pain. Gazed on the fair 1 1 7 Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. Sighed and looked, and sighed again ; 1 20 At length, with l6ve and wine at once op- pressed. The vanqvdshed victor sunk upon her breast. Now strike the golden lyre again ; A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunder 125 And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark, the horrid sound Has raised up his head ; As awaked from the dead. And, amazed, he stares around. 130 "Revenge, revenge !" Timotheus cries; " See the Furies arise ; See the snakes that they rear. How they hiss in their hair. And the sparkles that flash from their eyes? 135 Behold a ghastly band. Each a torch in his hand ! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain. And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain : 140 Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew. Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes. And glittering temples of their hostile gods." The princes applaud with a furious joy ; 146 And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; Thais led the waj^ To light him to his prey, 149 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 226 JOHN DRYDEN Chorus And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey, 153 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre. Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 160 At last divine Cecilia ^ came, Inventress of the vocal frame ; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Erflarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, 165 With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown : He raised a mortal to the skies ; She drew an angel down.^ 170 Grand Chorus At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds. And added length to solemn sounds, 175 With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown : He raised a mortal to the skies ; She drew an angel down. iSo LINES PRINTED UNDER THE EN- GRAVED PORTRAIT OF MILTON {In Tonson's folio edition of the Paradise Lost, 1688) Three poets,'' in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpassed, ^ St. Cecilia, the patron saint of musicians and, according to legend, the inventor of the organ — the "vocal frame," as JJryden calls it "^ An angel came to hear her play. ^ Homer, Vergil, and Milton The next in majesty, in both the last. The force of Nature could no farther go ; To make a third she joined the former two. From AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY This moderation of Crites, as it was pleasing to all the company, so it put an end to that dis- pute ; which Eugenius, who seemed to have the better of the argument, would urge no farther. But Lisideius, after he had acknowl- edged himself of Eugenius his opinion con- cerning the ancients, yet told him, he had forborne, tiU his discourse were ended, to ask him, why he preferred the English plays above those of other nations? and whether vvc ought not to submit our stage to the exact- ness of our next neighbours? Though, said Eugenius, I am at all times ready to defend the honour of my country against the French, and to maintain, we are as \\ ell able to vanquish them with our pens, as oar ancestors have been with their swords; yet, if you please, added he, looking upon Ne- ander, I will commit this cause to my friend's management ; his opinion of our plays is the same with mine : and besides, there is no reason, that Crites and I, who have now left the stage,^ should reenter so suddenly upon it ; which is against the laws of comedy. If the question had been stated, replied Lisideius, who had writ best, the French or English, forty years ago, I should have been of your opinion, and adjudged the honour to our own nation ; but since that time, (said he, turning towards Neander,) we have been so long together bad Englishmen, that we had not leisure to be good poets. Beaumont, Fletcher, and Jonson, (who were only capable of bring- ing us to that degree of perfection which we have,) were just then leaving the world ; as if in an age of so much horror, wit, and those milder studies of humanity, had no farther l)usiness among us. But the muses, who ever follow peace, went to plant in another coun- try : it was then that the great Cardinal of Richelieu began to take them into his pro- tection ; and that, by his encouragement, Corneille, and some other Frenchmen, re- formed their theatre, which before was as ^ i.e., ceased from discussion AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY 227 much below ours, as it now surpasses it and the rest of Europe. But because Crites, in his discourse for the ancients, has prevented me, by observing many rules of the stage, which the moderns have borrowed from them, I shall only, in short, demand of you, whether you are not convinced that of all nations the French have observed them? In the unity of time you find them so scrupulous, that it yet remains a dispute among their poets, whether the artificial day of twelve hours, more or less, be not meant by Aristotle, rather than the natural one of twenty -four; and consequently, whether all plays ought not to be reduced into that compass. This I can testify, that in all their dramas writ within these last twenty years and upwards, I have not observed any that have extended the time to thirty hours. In the unity of place they are full as scrupulous ; for many of their critics limit it to that very spot of ground where the play is supposed to begin ; none of them exceed the compass of the same town or city. The unity of action in all their plays is yet more conspicuous ; for they do not burden them with under-plots, as the English do : which is the reason why many scenes of our tragi-comedies carry on a design that is nothing of kin to the main plot ; and that we see two distinct webs in a play, like those in ill-wrought stuffs ; and two actions, that is, two plays, carried on together, to the con- founding of the audience ; who, before they are warm in their concernments for one part, are diverted to another ; and by that means espouse the interest of neither. From hence likewise it arises, that the one half of our actors are not known to the other. They keep their distances, as if they were Mon- tagues and Capulets, and seldom begin an acquaintance tiU the last scene of the fifth act, when they are all to meet upon the stage. There is no theatre m the world has anything so absurd as the English tragi-comedy ; it is a drama of our own mvention, and the fashion of it is enough to proclaim it so ; here a covirse of mirth, there another of sadness and passion, and a third of honour and a duel : thus, in two hours and a half we run through aU the fits of Bedlam. The French affords you as much variety on the same day, but they do it not so unseasonably, or mal a propos, as we : our poets present you the play and the farce together ; and our stages still retain some- what of the original civility^ of the Red Bull : 2 Atque ursum et pugiles media inter carmina poscunt.^ The end of tragedies or serious plays, says Aristotle, is to beget admiration, compassion, or concernment ; but are not mirth and com- passion things incompatible ? and is it not evi- dent, that the poet must of necessity destroy the former by intermingling of the latter ? that is, he must ruin the sole end and object of his tragedy, to introduce somewhat that is forced into it, and is not of the body of it. Would you not think that physician mad, who, hav- ing prescribed a purge, should immediately order you to take restringents? But to leave our plays, and return to theirs. I have noted one great advantage they have had in the plotting of their tragedies ; that is, they are always grounded upon some known history : according to that of Horace, Ex nolo fictum carmen sequar; ^ and in that they have so imitated the ancients, that they have sur- passed them. For the ancients, as was ob- served before, took for the foundation of their plays some poetical fiction, such as \mder that consideration could move but little concernment in the audience, because they already knew the event of it. But the French goes farther : Atque ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet, Prima ne medium, medio ne discrepet itmim} He so interweaves truth with probable fiction, that he puts a pleasmg fallacy upon us, mends the intrigues of fate, and dispenses with the severity of history, to reward that virtue which has been rendered to us there unfortu- nate. Sometimes the story has left the suc- cess so doubtful, that the writer is free, by the privilege of a poet, to take that which of two or more relations will best suit with his design : as for example, in the death of Cyrus, whom Justin ^ and some others report to have perished in the Scythian war, but Xenophon ^ Spoken ironically. - one of the older theatres of London ^ And in the midst of the poems they call for the bears and the boxers. "* On a known fact I base a feigned song. ^ He so mixes false with true that the middle may not disagree with the beginning nor the end with the middle. ^ a Roman historian 228 JOHN DRYDEN affirms to have died in his bed of extreme old age. Nay more, when the event is past dispute, even then we are wilhng to be de- ceived, and the poet, if he contrives it with appearance of truth, has all the audience of his party ; at least during the time his play is acting : so naturally we are kind to virtue, when our own interest is not in question, that we take it up as the general concernment of mankind. On the other side, if you consider the historical plays of Shakespeare, they are rather so many chronicles of kings, or the busi- ness many times of thirty or forty years, cramped into a representation of two hours and a half ; which is not to imitate or paint nature, but rather to draw her in miniature, to take her in Httle ; to look upon her through the wrong end of a perspective,^ and receive her images not only much less, but infinitely more imperfect than the life : this, instead of making a play delightful, renders it ridiculous : Quodcumque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi} For the spirit of man cannot be satisfied but with truth, or at least verisimility ; and a poem is to contain, if not to. ^Tv/xa,^ yet iTvixoiaiv ofx-oia,^ as one of the Greek poets has expressed it. Another thing in which the French differ from us and from the Spaniards, is, that they do not embarrass, or cumber themselves with too much plot ; they only represent so much of a story as will constitute one whole and great action sufficient for a play : we, who under- take more, do but multiply adventures; which, not being produced from one another, as effects from causes, but barely following, constitute many actions in the drama, and consequently make it many plays. But by pursuing closely one argument, which is not cloyed with many turns, the French have gained more liberty for verse, in which they write : they have leisure to dwell on a subject which deserves it ; and to repre- sent the passions, (which we have acknowl- edged to be the poet's work,) without being hurried from one thing to another, as we are in the plays of Calderon,* which we have seen lately upon our theatres, under the name of Spanish plots. I have taken notice but of ^ telescope ^ Whatever you show me thus, I dis- believe and hate. ^ true things ■* things resembling truth ^ a famous Spanish dramatist one tragedy of ours, whose plot has that uni- formity and unity of design in it, which I have commended in the French ; and that is "Rollo," ^ or rather, under the name of Rollo, the story of Bassianus and Geta in Herodian : ^ there indeed the plot is neither large nor intri- cate, but just enough to fill the minds of the audience, not to cloy them. Besides, you see it founded upon the truth of history, — only the time of the action is not reduceable to the strictness of the rules ; and you see in some places a little farce mingled, which is below the dignity of the other parts ; and in this all our poets are extremely peccant : even Ben Jonson himself, in "Sejanus" and "Catiline," has given us this olio of a play, this unnatural mixture of comedy and tragedy, which to me sounds jvist as ridiculously as the history of David with the merry humours of Goliath. In "Sejanus" you may take notice of the scene betwixt Livia and the physician, which is a pleasant satire upon the artificial helps of beauty: in "Catiline" you may see the parliament of women ; the little envies of them to one another ; and aU that passes betwixt Curio and Fulvia : scenes admirable in their kind, but of an ill mingle with the rest. But I return again to the French writers, who, as I have said, do not burden themselves too much with plot, which has been re- proached to them by an ingenious person of our nation as a fault ; for he says, they com- monly make but one person considerable in a play ; they dwell on him, and his concern- ments, while the rest of the persons are only subservient to set him off. If he intends this by it, — that there is one person in the play who is of greater dignity than the rest, he must tax, not only theirs, but those of the ancients, and, which he would be loth to do, the best of ours ; for it is impossible but that one person must be more conspicuous in it than any other, and consequently the great- est share in the action must devolve on him. We see it so in the management of all affairs ; even in the most equal aristocracy, the balance cannot be so justly poised, but some one will be superior to the rest, either in parts, for- tune, interest, or the consideration of some glorious exploit ; which will reduce the greatest part of business into his hands. ' The Bloody Brother, or Rollo Duke of Nor- mandy, a play by Fletcher and others ^ a Greek writer of the history of Rome from 180-238 AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY 229 But, if he would have us to imagine, that in exalting one character the rest of them are neglected, and that all of them have not some share or other in the action of the play, I de- sire him to produce any of Corneille's trage- dies, wherein every person (like so many servants in a well-governed family) has not some employment, and who is not necessary to the carrying on of the plot, or at least to your understanding it. There are indeed some protatic ^ persons in the ancients, whom they make use of in their plays, either to hear, or give the relation : ^ but the French avoid this with great address, making their narrations only to, or by such, who are some way interested in the main de- sign. And now I am speaking of relations, I cannot take a fitter opportunity to add this in favour of the French, that they often use them with better judgment and more a propos than the English do. Not that I commend narrations in general, — but there are two sorts of them ; one, of those things which are antecedent to the play, and are related to make the conduct of it more clear to us ; but it is a faidt to choose such subjects for the stage as will force us on that rock, because we see they are seldom listened to by the audi- ence, and that is many times the ruin of the play ; for, being once let pass without atten- tion, the audience can never recover them- selves to understand the plot ; and indeed it is somewhat unreasonable, that they should be put to so much trouble, as, that to compre- hend what passes in their sight, they must have recourse to what was done, perhaps, ten or twenty years ago. But there is another sort of relations, that is, of things happening in the action of the play, and supposed to be done behind the scenes ; and this is many times both convenient and beautiful : for, by it the French avoid the tumult to which we are subject in England, by representing duels, battles, and the like ; which renders our stage too like the theatres where they fight prizes. For what is more ridiculous than to represent an army with a drum and five men behind it ; all which, the hero of the other side is to drive in before him ? or to see a duel fought, and one slain with two or three thrusts of the foils, which we know are so blunted, that we might give a man ^ introductory - narration of events not shown on the stage AE an hour to kill another in good earnest with them? I have observed, that in all our tragedies the audience cannot forbear laughing when the actors are to die ; it is the most comic part of the whole play. All passions may be lively represented on the stage, if to the well-writing of them the actor supplies a good commanded voice, and limbs that move easily, and without stiffness ; but there are many actions which can never be imitated to a just height : dying especially is a thing which none but a Roman gladiator could naturally perform on the stage, when he did not imitate, or represent, but do it ; and therefore it is better to omit the repre- sentation of it. I shall grant Lisideius, without much dis- pute, a great part of what he has urged against us; for I acknowledge, that the French contrive their plots more regularly, and observe the laws of comedy, and decorum of the stage, (to speak generally,) with more exactness than the English. Farther, I deny not but he has taxed us justly in some irreg- ularities of ours, which he has mentioned; yet, after all, I am of opinion, that neither of our faults, nor their virtues, are considerable enough to place them above us. For the lively imitation of nature being in the definition of a play, those which best ful- fil that law, ought to be esteemed superior to the others. 'Tis true, those beauties of the French poesy are such as will raise per- fection higher where it is, but are not sufficient to give it where it is not : they are indeed the beauties of a statue, but not of a man, because not animated with the soul of poesy, which is imitation of humour and passions : and this Lisideius him.self, or any other, however biassed to their party, cannot but acknowl- edge, if he Avill either compare the humours of our comedies, or the characters of our serious plays, ■^\'ith theirs. He who will look upon theirs which have been written tiU these last ten years, or thereabouts, will find it an hard matter to pick out two or three pass- able humours amongst them. CorneUle him- self, their arch-poet, what has he produced except "The Liar," 1 and you know how it was cried up in France ; but when it came upon the English stage, though well translated, ^ Le Menteur 230 JOHN DRYDEN and that part of Dorant acted to so much advantage as I am confident it never received in its own country, the most favourable to it would not put it in competition with many of Fletcher's or Ben Jonson's. In the rest of Corneille's comedies you have little hu- mour ; he tells you himself, his way is, first to show two lovers in good intelligence with each other; in the working up of the play, to embroil them by some mistake, and in the latter end to clear it, and reconcile them. But of late years Moliere, the younger Cor- neille,^ Quinault,^ and some others, have been imitating afar off the quick turns and graces of the English stage. They have mixed their serious plays with mirth, like our tragi-come- dies, since the death of Cardinal Richelieu, which Lisideius, and many others, not ob- serving, have commended that in them for a virtue, which they themselves no longer practise. Most of their new plays are, like some of ours, derived from the Spanish novels. There is scarce one of them without a veil,^ and a trusty Diego, ^ who drolls much after the the rate of the "Adventures."^ But their hvunours, if I may grace them v/ith that name, are so thin sown, that never above one of them comes up in any play. I dare take upon me to find more variety of them in some one play of Ben Jonson's, than in all theirs to- gether: as he who has seen the "Alchemist," "The SUent Woman," or "Bartholomew Fair," cannot but acknowledge with me. I grant the French have performed what was possible on the ground-work of the Span- ish plays; what Avas pleasant before, they have made regular : but there is not above one good play to be writ on all those plots ; they are too much alike to please often, which we need not the experience of our own stage to justify. As for their new way of mingling mirth with serious plot, I do not, with Lisi- deius, condemn the thing, though I cannot approve their manner of doing it. He tells us, we cannot so speedily recollect ourselves after a scene of great passion and concern- ment, as to pass to another of mirth and humour, and to enjoy it with any relish : but why should he imagine the soul of man ^ Thomas, younger brother of Pierre Corneille ^ Philippe Quinault, the creator of lyric tragedy ^ nun ^servant ^ The Adventures of Five Hours, a play translated by Sir Samuel Take from Calderon more heavy than his senses? Does not the eye pass from an unpleasant object to a pleasant, in a much shorter time than is re- qmred to this? and does not the unpleasant- ness of the first commend the beauty of the latter? The old rule of logic might have convinced him, that contraries, when placed near, set off each other. A continued gravity keeps the spirit too much bent ; we must refresh it sometimes, as we bait in a jour- ney, that we may go on with greater ease. A scene of mirth, mixed with tragedy, has the same effect upon us which our music has betwixt the acts ; wliich we find a relief to us from the best plots and language of the stage, if the discourses have been long. I must therefore have stronger arguments, ere I am convinced that compassion and mirth in the same subject destroy each» other; and in the meantime, cannot but conclude, to the honour of our nation, that we have invented, increased, and perfected, a more pleasant way of writing for the stage, than was ever known to the ancients or moderns of any nation, which is tragi-comedy. And this leads me to wonder why Lisideius and many others should cry up the barren- ness of the French plots, above the variety and copiousness of the English. Their plots are single, they carry on one design, which is pushed forward by all the actors, every scene in the play contributing and moving towards it. Our plays, besides the main design, have underplots, or by-concernments, of less con- siderable persons and intrigues, which are carried on with the motion of the mam plot : as they say the orb of the fixed stars, and those of the planets, though they have motions of their own, are whirled about by the motion of the prhnum mobile,'^ in which they are contained. That similitude ex- presses much of the English stage; for if contrary motions may be found in nature to agree ; if a planet can go east and west at the same time ; — one Avay by virtue of his own motion, the other by the force of the first mover ; ^ — it wiU not be difficult to imagine how the under-plot, which is only different, not contrary to the great design, may natu- rally be conducted along with it. Eugenius has already shown us, from the confession of the French poets, that the 1 See the note on Milton's Hymn on the Nativity, 1. 48. ^ primuru mobile AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY 231 unity of action is sufficiently preserved, if all the imperfect actions of the play are conducing to the main design ; but when those petty intrigues of a play are so ill ordered, that they have no coherence with the other, I must grant that Lisideius has reason to tax that want of due connec- tion; for coordination in a play is as dan- gerous and unnatural as in a state. In the meantime he must acknowledge, our variety, if well ordered, will afford a greater pleasure to the audience. I hope I have already proved m this dis- course, that though we are not altogether so punctual ^ as the French, in observing the laws of comedy, yet our errors are so few, and little, and those things wherein we excel them so considerable, that we ought of right to be preferred before them. But what will Lisi- deius say, if they themselves acknowledge they are too strictly bounded by those laws, for breaking which he has blamed the Eng- lish? I will allege Corneille's words, as I find them in the end of his Discourse of the three Unities: // est facile aux speculatifs acstre sever es, etc. "It is easy for specula- tive persons to judge severely ; but if they would produce to public view ten or twelve pieces of this natiu^e, they would perhaps give more latitude to the rules than I have done, when, by experience, they had known how much we are limited and constrained by them, and how many beauties of the stage they ban- ished from it." To illustrate a little what he has said : — by their servile observations of the unities of time and place, and integrity of scenes, they have brought on themselves that dearth of plot, and narrowness of imagination, which may be observed in all their plays. How many beautiful accidents might natu- rally happen in two or three days, which can- not arrive with any probability in the com- pass of twenty-four hours? There is time to be allowed also for maturity of design, which amongst great and prudent persons, such as are often represented in tragedy, cannot, with any likelihood of truth, be brought to pass at so short a warning. Farther, by tying them- selves strictly to the unity of place, and un- broken scenes, they are forced many times to omit some beauties which cannot be shown where the act began ; but might, if the scene were interrupted, and the stage cleared for the persons to enter in another place ; and therefore the French poets are often forced upon absurdities: for if the act begins in a chamber, all the persons in the play must have some business or other to come thither, or else they are not to be shown that act ; and sometimes their characters are very unfitting to appear there : as suppose it were the king's bed-chamber, yet the meanest man in the tragedy must comie and despatch his business there, rather than in the lobby, or court-yard, (which is fitter for him,) for fear the stage should be cleared, and the scenes broken. Many times they fall by it into a greater incon- venience ; for they keep their scenes un- broken, and yet change the place; as in one of their newest plays, where the act begins in the street. There a gentleman is to meet his friend ; he sees him with his man, coming out from his father's house ; they talk to- gether, and the first goes out: the second, who is a lover, has made an appointment with his mistress ; she appears at the window, and then we are to imagine the scene lies under it. This gentleman is called away, and leaves his servant with his mJstress : presently her father is heard from within ; the young lady is afraid the serving-man should be dis- covered, and thrusts him into a place of safety, which is supposed to be her closet. After this, the father enters to the daughter, and now the scene is in a house : for he is seeking from one room to another for this poor Philipin,^ or French Diego, who is heard from within, drolling and breaking many a miserable conceit on the subject of his sad condition. In this ridiculous manner the play goes for- ward, the stage being never empty all the while : so that the street, the window, the two houses, and the closet, are made to walk about, and the persons to stand still. Now, what, I beseech you, is more easy than to write a regular French play, or more difficult than to write an irregular English one, like those of Fletcher, or of Shakespeare? If they content themselves, as Corneille did, with some flat design, which, like an ill riddle, is found out ere it be half proposed, such plots we can make every way regular as easily as they ; but whenever they endeavour to rise to any quick turns and counter-turns of ^ exact ^ a conventional name for a servant 232 JOHN DRYDEN plot, as some of them have attempted, since Corneille's plays have been less in vogue, you see they write as irregularly as we, though they cover it more speciously. Hence the reason is perspicuous, why no French plays, when translated, have, or ever can succeed on the English stage. For, if you consider the plots, our own are fuller of variety ; if the writing, ours are more quick and fuller of spirit ; and therefore 'tis a strange mistake in those who decry the way of writing plays in verse, as if the English therein imitated the French. We have borrowed nothing from them ; our plots are weaved in English looms : we endeavour therein to follow the variety and greatness of characters, which are de- rived to us from Shakespeare and Fletcher ; the copiousness and well-knitting of the in- trigues we have from Jonson ; and for the verse itself we have English precedents of elder date than any of Corneille's plays. Not to name our old comedies before Shakespeare, which were all writ in verse of six feet, or Alexandrines, such as the French now use, — I can show in Shakespeare, many scenes of rhyme together, and the like in Ben Jonson's tragedies: in "Catiline" and "Sejanus" sometimes thirty or forty lines, — I mean be- sides the chorus, or the monologues ; which, by the way, showed Ben no enemy to this way of writing, especially if you read his "Sad Shepherd," which goes sometimes on rhyme, sometimes on blank verse, like an horse who eases himself on trot and amble. You find him likewise commending Fletcher's pastoral of "The Faithful Shepherdess," which is for the most part rhyme, though not refined to that purity to which it hath since been brought. And these examples are enough to clear us from a servile imitation of the French. But to return whence I have digressed : I dare boldly afiirm these two things of the English drama ; — First, that we have many plays o[ ours as regular as any of theirs, and which, besides, have more variety of plot and characters ; and, secondly, that in most of the irregular plays of Shakespeare or Fletcher, (for Ben Jonson's are for the most part regu- lar), there is a more masculine fancy, and greater spirit in the writing, than there is in any of ihc French. I could produce even in Shakespeare's and Pletcher's works, some plays which are almost exactly formed ; as the "Merry Wives of Windsor," and "The Scorn- ful Lady " : ^ but, because (generally speaking) Shakespeare, who writ first, did not perfectly observe the laws of comedy, and Fletcher, who came nearer to perfection, yet through carelessness made many faults ; I will take the pattern of a perfect play from Ben Jonson, who was a careful and learned observer of the dramatic laws, and from all his comedies I shall select "The Silent Woman;" of which I v.'ill make a short examen, according to those rules which the French observe. As Neander was beginning to examine "The Silent Woman," Eugenius, earnestly regard- ing him : I beseech you, Neander, said he, gratify the company, and me in particular, so far as, before you speak of the play, to give us a character of the author ; and tell us frankly your opinion, whether you do not think all writers, both French and English, ought to give place to him ? I fear, repHed Neander, that, in obeying your commands, I shall draw some envy on myself. Besides, in performing them, it will be first necessary to speak somewhat of Shakespeare and Fletcher, his rivals in poesy ; and one of them, in my opinion, at least his equal, perhaps his superior. To begin then with Shakespeare. He was the man who of all modern, and perhaps an- cient poets, had the largest and most compre- hensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily : when he describes anything, you more than see it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learn- ing, give him the greater commendation : he was naturally learned ; he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature ; he looked inwards, and found her there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike ; were he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the great- est of mankind. He is many times flat, insipid ; his comic wit degenerating into clenches,^ his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some great occa- sion is presented to him : no man can say, he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself as high above the rest of poets. Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi} ^ by Fletcher and Beaumont ^ comic " gags" ' As do the tall cypresses above the laggard shrubs. AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY 233 The consideration of this made Yir. Hales of Eton say, that there was no subject of which any poet ever writ, but he would pro- duce it much better done in Shakespeare ; and however others are now generally pre- ferred before him, yet the age wherein he lived, which had contemporaries with him, Fletcher and Jonson, never equalled them to him in their esteem: and in the last king's court, when Ben's reputation was at highest, Sir John Suckling, and with him the greater part of the courtiers, set our Shakespeare far above him. Beaumont and Fletcher, of whom I am next to speak, had, with the advantage of Shake- speare's wit, which was their precedent, great natural gifts, improved by study ; Beaumont especially being so accurate a judge of plays, that Ben Jonson, while he lived, submitted all his writings to his censure, and 'tis thought, used his judgment in correcting, if not con- triving, all his plots. What value he had for him, appears by the verses he writ to him ; and therefore I need speak no farther of it. The first play that brought Fletcher and him in esteem, was their "Philaster"; for before that, they had written two or three very unsuccessfully : as the like is reported of Ben Jonson, before he writ "Ever>^ INIan in his Humour." Their plots were generally more regular than Shakespeare's, especially those which were made before Beaumont's death ; and they understood and imitated the con- versation of gentlemen much better ; whose wild debaucheries, and quickness of wit in repartees, no poet before them could paint as they have done. Humour,^ which Ben Jonson derived from particular persons, they made it not their business to describe : they repre- sented all the passions ver>' lively, but above all, love. I am apt to believe the English language in them arrived to its highest per- fection ; what words have since been taken in, are rather superfluous than ornamental. Their plays are now the m.ost pleasant and frequent entertainments of the stage ; two of theirs being acted through the year for one of Shakespeare's or Jonson's : the reason is, because there is a certain gaiety in their come- dies, and pathos in their more serious plays, which suits generally with all men's humours. Shakespeare's language is likewise a little ^ a natural or affected peculiarity of thought or action obsolete, and Ben Jonson's wit comes short of theirs. As for Jonson, to whose character I am now arrived, if we look upon him while he was him- self, (for his last plays were but his dotages,) I think him the most learned and judicious writer which any theater ever had. He was a most severe judge of himself, as well as others. One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he v.'as frugal of it. In his works you find little to retrench or alter. Wit and language, and humour also in some measure, we had be- fore him ; but something of art was wanting to the drama, tiU he came. He managed his strength to more advantage than any who preceded him. You seldom find him making love in any of his scenes, or endeavouring to move the passions ; his genius was too sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially when he knew he came after those who had performed both to such an height. Humour was his proper sphere ; and in that he de- lighted most to represent mechanic people.^ He was deeply conversant in the ancients, both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from them : there is scarce a poet or historian among the Roman authors 'of those times, whom he has not translated in "Sejanus" and "Catiline." But he has done his rob- beries so openly, that one may see he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a monarch ; and what would be theft in other poets, is only victory in him. With the spoils of these writers he so repre- sents old Rome to us, in its rites, ceremonies, and customs, that if one of their poets had written either of his tragedies, we had seea less of it than in him. If there was any fault in his language, it was, that he weaved it too closely and laboriously, in his comedies espe- cially : perhaps too, he did a little too much Romanize our tongue, leaving the words which he translated almost as much Latin as he found them : wherein, though he learnedly followed their language, he did not enough comply with the idiom of ours. If I would compare him with Shakespeare, I must ac- knowledge him the more correct poet, but Shakespeare the greater wit.^ Shake- speare was the Homer, or father of our dra- matic poets; Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing; I admire him, but I love Shakespeare. To conclude of him ; tradespeople genius 234 SAMUEL PEPYS as he has given us the most correct plays, so in the precepts which he has laid down in his "Discoveries," we have as many and profit- able rules for perfecting the stage, as any wherewith the French can furnish us. SAMUEL PEPYS (1633-1703) From his DIARY September ist. (Lord's day.) Last night being very rainy, [the water] broke into my house, the gutter being stopped, and spoiled all my ceilings almost. At church in the morning. After dinner we were very merry with Sir W. Pen ^ about the loss of his tankard, though all be but a cheate, and he do not yet understand it ; but the tankard was stole by Sir W. Batten, and the letter, as from the thief, wrote by me, which makes veiy good sport. Captain Holmes and I by coach to White Hall ; in our way, I found him by dis- course to be a great friend of my Lord's,^ and he told me there was a many did seek to re- move him ; but they were old seamen, such as Sir J. Minnes, but he would name no more, though he do believe Sir W. Batten is one of them that do envy him, but he says he knows that the King do so love him, and the Duke of York too, that there is no fear of him. He seems to be very well acquainted with the king's mind, and with all the several factions at Court, and spoke all with so much frank- ness, that I do take him to be my Lord's good friend, and one able to do him great service, being a cunning fellow, and one, by his own confession to me, that can put on two several faces, and look his enemies in the face w'ith as much love as his friends. But, good God ! what an age is this, and what a world is this ! that a man cannot live wathout play- ing the knave and dissimulation. 2d. Mr. Pickering and I to Westminster Hall ^ again, and there walked an houre or two talking, and, though he be a fool, yet he keeps much company, and will tell all he sees or hears, and so a man may understand what the common talk of the town is. And I find that * an English admiral and commissioner of the Admiralty, father of the founder of Pennsylvania ^ Edward Montagu, earl of Sandwich, general of the English fleet ^ the parliament building there are endeavours to get my Lord out of play at sea, which I believe Mr. Coventry ^ and the Duke ^ do think will make them more abso- lute ; but I hope for all this, they will not be able to do it. My wife tells me that she met at Change ^ with my young ladies of the Ward- robe,'^ and there helped them to buy things, and also with Mr. Somerset, who did give her a bracelet of rings, which did a little trouble me, though I know there is no hurt yet in it, but only for fear of further acquaintance. 3d. Dined at home, and then with my wiife to the Wardrobe, where my Lady's child was christened, my Lord Crewe and his lady, and my Lady Montagu, my Lord's mother-in- law, were the witnesses, and named Catherine, the Queen elect's name ; but to my and all our trouble, the Parson of the parish chris- tened her, and did not sign the child with the sign of the cross. After that was done, we had a very fine banquet. 4th. My wife come to me to Whitehall,^ and we went and w^alked a good while in St. James's Parke to see the brave alterations. Sth. Put my mother and Pall^ into the wagon, and saw them going presently — Pall crying exceedingly. To my uncle Fenner's to dinner, in the way meeting a French footman with feathers, who was in quest of my wife, and spoke with her privately, but I could not tell what it was, only my wife promised to go to some place to-morrow morning, which do trouble my mind how to know whither it was. My wife and I to the fair, and I showed her the Italians dancing the ropes, and the women that do strange tumbling tricks. 6th. I went to the Theatre, and saw "Elder Brother"^ acted; meeting herewith Sir J. Askew, Sir Theophilus Jones, and an- other knight, with Sir W. Pen, we to the Ship taverne, and there staid, and were merry till late at night. 7 th. Having appointed the young ladies at the Wardrobe to go with them to the play to- day, my wife and I took them to the Theatre, where we seated ourselves close by the King, ^Sir William Coventry, M.P., later a commis- sioner of the Admiralty ^ the Duke of York, Lord High Admiral ^ the Royal Exchan!;e, where there were many fine shops '' The Earl of Sandwich had been assigned official residence at the King's Ward- robe; the young ladies belonged to his family. ^ the royal palace '^ his sister Paulina '' a play by Fletcher HIS DIARY 235 and Duke of York, and Madame Palmer,^ which was gi'eat content ; and, indeed, I can never enough admire her beauty. And here was ''Bartholomew Fayre," ^ with the puppet- showe, acted to-day, which had not been these forty years, it being so satyrical against Puri- tanism, they durst not till now, which is strange they should already dare to do it, and the King to countenance it, but I do never a whit like it the better for the puppets, but rather the worse. Thence home wath the ladies, it being by reason of our staying a great w^hile for the King's coming, and the length of the play, near nine o'clock before it was done. 8th. (Lord's day.) To church, and com- ing home again, found our new mayd Doll asleep, that she could not hear to let us in, so that we w^ere fain to send a boy in at a window to open the door to us. Begun to look over my accounts, and, upon the whole, I do find myself, by what I can yet see, worth near 600/, for which God be blessed. 9th. To Salisbury Court play-house, where was acted the first timiC, "'Tis pity she's a W — e," ^ a simple play, and iU acted, only it was my fortune to sit by a most pretty and ingenious lady, w^hich pleased me much. To the Dolphin, to drink the 305. that we got the other day of Sir W. Pen about his tankard. Here was Sir R. Slingsby, Holmes, Captain Allen, Mr. Turner, his wife and daughter, my Lady Batten, and Mrs. Martha, &c., and an excellent company of fiddlers ; so we exceed- ing merry till late ; and then we begun to tell Sir W. Pen the business, but he had been drinking to-da)', and so is almost gone, that we could not make him understand it, which caused us more sport. nth. To Dr. WUliams, w'ho did carry me into his garden, where he hath abundance of grapes : and he did show^ me how a dog that he hath do kUl aU the cats that come thither to kill his pigeons, and do afterwards bury them ; and do it with so much care that they shall be quite covered; that if the tip of the tail hangs out, he will take up the cat again, and dig the hole deeper, which is very strange ; and he tells me, that he do believe he hath killed above 100 cats. Home to my house to dinner, where I found my wife's brother Baity * mistress of the King, later created Duchess of Cleveland ^ a comedy by Ben Jonson ^ a tragedy by John Ford as fine as hands could make him, and his servant, a Frenchman, to wait on him, and come to have my wife \dsit a young lady which he is a servant ' to, and have hope to trepan,^ and get for his wife. I did give w-ay for my wife to go with him. Walking through Lincoln's Inn Fields, observed at the Opera a new play, " Twelfth Night," was acted there, and the King there : so I, against my own mind and resolution, could not forbear to go in, which did make the play seem a burthen to me ; and I took no pleasure at all in it : and so, after it was done, went home with my mind troubled for my going thither, after my swearing to my wife that I would never go to a play without her. My wife was with her brother to see his mistress ^ to-day, and says she is 3'oung, rich, and handsome, but not likely for him to get. 1 2th. To my Lady's to dinner at the Ward- robe ; and in my way upon the Thames, I saw the King's new pleasure-boat that is come now for the Kiiig to take pleasure in above bridge, and also two Gundaloes,* that are lately brought, -which are very rich and fine. Called at Sir W. Batten's, and there hear that Sir W. Pen do take our jest of the tankard very ill, which I am sorry for. 13th. I was sent for by my uncle Fenner to come and advise about the burial of my aunt, the butcher,^ who died yesterday. Thence to the Wardrobe, where I found my v.dfe, and thence she and I to the water to spend the afternoon in pleasure, and so we went to old George's,^ and there eat as much as w^e would of a hot shoulder of mutton, and so to boat again and home. 14th. Before we had dined comes Sir R. Slingsby, and his lady, and a great deal of company, to take my wife and I out b}- barge, to show them the King's and Duke's yachts. We had great pleasure, seeing all four yachts, , viz., these two, and the two Dutch ones. 15th. (Lord's day.) To my aunt Kate's in the morning, to help my uncle Fenner to put things in order against anon for the burial. After sermon, with my wife to the burial of my aunt Kite, where, besides us and my uncle Fenner's family, there was none of any qual- ity, but poor and rascally people. So w^e went to church with the corps, and there had, ser- ^ suitor ^ ensnare ^ sweetheart ^ two gondolas, presented to the King by the Duke of Venice ^ the butcher's wife ^ a tavern 236 SAMUEL PEPYS vice read at the grave, and back again with Pegg Kite, who will be, I doubt, a troublesome carrion to us executors, but if she will not be ruled, I shall fling up my executorship. 1 6th. Word is brought me from my brother's, that there is a fellow come from my father out of the country, on purpose to speak with me, and he made a story how he had lost his letter, but he was sure it was for me to come into the country, which I beheved, but I afterwards found that it was a rogue that did use to play such tricks to get money of people, but he got none of me. Letters from my father informing me of the court,^ and that I must come down and meet him at Impington, which I presently resolved to do. 17th. Got up, telling my wife of my jour- ney, and she got me to hire her a horse to go along with me. So I went to my Lady's, and of Mr. Townsend did borrow a very fine side-saddle for my wife, and so, after all things were ready, she and I took coach to the end of the towne towards Kingsland, and there got upon my horse, and she upon her pretty mare that I hired for her, and she rides very well. By the mare at one time falling, she got a fall, but no harm ; so we got to V/are, and there supped, and went to bed. i8th. Up early, and begun our march : the way about Puckridge very bad, and my wife, in the very last dirty place of all, got a fall, but no hurt, though some dirt. At last, she begun, poor wretch, to be tired, and I to be angry at it, but I was to blame ; for she is a very good companion as long as she is well. In the afternoon, we got to Cambridge, where I left my wife at my cozen Angler's, while I went to Christ's College, and there found my brother in his chamber, and talked with him, and so to the barber's, and then to my wife again, and remounted for Impington, where .my uncle received me and my wife very kindly. 2 2d. (Lord's day.) To church, where we had common prayer, and a dull sermon by one Mr. Case, who yet I heard sing very well. 23d. We took horse, and got early to Bald- wick, where there was a fair, and we put in, and eat a mouthful of porke, which they made us pay i^d. for, which vexed me much. And ^ the manorial court under which Pepys held some of his copyhold estates so away to Stevenage, and staid till a shower was over, and so rode easily to Welling. We supped well, and had two beds in the room, and so lay single. 24th. We rose, and set forth, but found a most sad alteration in the roade, by reason of last night's rains, they being now all dirty and washy, though not deep. So we rode easily through, and only drinking at Hollo- way, at the sign of a woman with cakes in one hand, and a pot of ale in the other, ^ which did give good occasion of mirth, resembling her to the maid that served us, we got home very timely and well, and finding there all well, and letters from sea, that speak of my Lord's being well ; and his Action, though not considerable of any side, at Algiers. 25th. Sir W. Pen told me that I need not fear any reflection upon my Lord for their ill success at Argier, for more could not be done. Meeting Sir R. Slingsby in St. Martin's Lane, he and I in his coach through the Mewes, which is the way that now all coaches are forced to go, because of a stop at Charing Crosse, by reason of digging of a drayne there to clear the streets. To my Lord Crewe's, and dined with him, where I was used with all im- aginable kindness both from him and her. And I see that he is afraid my Lord's reputa- con will a little suffer in common talk by this late successe ; but there is no help for it now. The Queen of England, as she is now owned and called, I hear, doth keep open court, and distinct at Lisbone. To the Theatre, and saw "The Merry Wives of Windsor" ill done. 26th. With my wife by coach to the Thea- tre, to show her " King and no King," ^ it being very well done. 27th. At noon, met my wife at the Ward- robe ; and there dined, where we found Cap- tain Country, my little Captain that I loved, who carried me to the Sound, ^ with some grapes and millons * from my Lord at Lisbone, the first that ever I saw ; but the grapes are rare things. In the afternoon comes Mr. Edward Montagu, by appointment this morning, to talk with my Lady and me about the provi- sions fit to be bought and sent to my Lord ^ the original of the sign called Mother Redcap ^ a play by Beaumont and Fletcher ^ Pepys had accompanied Sir Edward Montagu on his vo3'age to the Sound (a narrow passage between Sweden and the Danish island of Zealand) in 1658. * melons SAMUEL BUTLER 237 along with him. And told us, that we need not trouble ourselves how to buy them, for the King would pay for all, and that he would take care to get them : which put my Lady and me into a great deal of ease of mind. Here we stayed and supped too ; and, after my wife had put up some of the grapes in a basket for to be sent to the King, we took coach and home, where we found a hamper of millons sent to me also. 28th. Sir W. Pen and his daughter, and I and my wife, to the Theatre, and there saw "Father's own Son," ^ a very good play, and the first time I ever saw it. 29th. (Lord's day.) What at dinner and supper I drink, I know not how, of my own accord, so much wine, that I was even almost foxed, and m.y head ached all night ; so home and to bed, without prayers, which I never did yet, since I come to the house, of a Sunday night : I being now so out of order that I durst not read prayers, for fear of being perceived by my servants in what case I was. SAMUEL BUTLER (161 2-1 680) HUDIBRAS PART I. From CANTO I We grant, altho' he had much wit, H' was very shy of using it. As being loath to wear it out ; And therefore bore it not about, Unless on holidays or so. As men their best apparel do. 50 Beside, 'tis known he could speak Greek As naturally as pigs squeak ; That Latin was no more difficile. Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle : Being rich in both, he never scanted His bounty unto such as wanted ; But much of either would afford To many that had not one word. For Hebrew roots, altho' they're found To flourish m.ost in barren ground, 60 He had such plenty as sufficed To make some think him circumcised : And truly so perhaps he was, 'Tis many a pious Christian's case. He was in logic a great critic, Profoundly skill'd in analytic : ^ an old play, by an unknown author He could distinguish, and divide A hair 'twixt south and south-west side ; On either which he would dispute. Confute, change hands, and still confute. 70 He'd undertake to prove, by force Of argument, a man's no horse ; He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, And that a lord may be an owl, A calf an alderman, a goose a justice. And rooks committee-men and trustees. He'd run in debt by disputation, And pay with ratiocination. All this by syllogism, true In mood and figure, he would do. 80 For rhetoric, he could not ope His mouth, but out there flew a trope ; And when he happen'd to break off I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, H' had hard words ready to show why, And tell what rules he did it by ; Else, when with greatest art he spoke, You'd think he talk'd like other folk : For all a rhetorician's rules Teach nothing but to name his tools. 90 But, when he pleased to show't, his speech In loftiness of sound was rich ; A Babylonish dialect, Which learned pedants much affect ; It was a party-colour'd dress Of patch'd and piebald languages r 'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, Like fustian heretofore on satin ; It had an odd promiscuous tone, As if h' had talk'd three parts in one ; 100 Which made some think, when he did gabble, Th' had heard three labourers of Babel, Or Cerberus himself pronounce A leash of languages at once. Beside, he was a shrewd philosopher, And had read every text and gloss over ; Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath. He understood b' implicit faith ; 130 Whatever sceptic could inquire for. For every why he had a wherefore ; Knew more than forty of them do. As far as words and terms could go ; All which he understood by rote, And, as occasion served, would quote ; No matter whether right or wTong, They might be either said or sung. His notions fitted things so well, That which was which he could not tell, 140 But oftentimes mistook the one 238 OLDHAM AND LOCKE For th' other, as great clerks have done. He could reduce all things to acts, And knew their natures by abstracts ; Where Entity and Quiddity, The ghosts of defunct bodies, fly ; Where truth in person does appear, Like words congeal'd in northern air. He knew what's what, and that's as high As metaphysic Avit can fly. 150 JOHN OLDHAM (1653-1683) From A SATIRE DISSUADING FROM POETRY 'Tis so, 'twas ever so, since heretofore The blind old bard, with dog and bell before, Was fain to sing for bread from door to door : The needy muses all turn'd Gipsies then, 159 And, of the begging-trade, e'er since have been: My own hard usage here I need not press Where you have ev'ry day before your face Plenty of fresh resembling instances : Great Cowley's muse the same ill treatment had. Whose verse shall live forever to upbraid 171 Th' ungrateful world, that left such worth unpaid. Waller himself may thank inheritance For what he else had never got by sense. On Butler who can think without just rage, The glory, and the scandal of the age ? Fair stood his hopes, when first he came to town. Met, ev'ry where, with welcomes of renown, Courted, caress'd by all, with wonder read, And promises of princely favour fed ; 180 But what reward for all had he at last, After a life in dull expectance pass'd? The wretch, at summing up his misspent days. Found nothing left, but poverty, and praise. Of all his gains by verse he could not save Enough to purchase flannel, and a grave : Reduc'd to want, he, in due time, fell sick, Was fain to die, and be interr'd on tick ; And well might bless the fever that was sent. To rid him hence, and his worse fate prevent. You've seen what fortune other poets share ; View ne5!;t the factors of the theatre : 192 That constant mart, which all the year does hold. Where staple wit is barter'd, bought, and sold. Here trading scriblers for their maintenance, And hvelihood, trust to a lott'ry-chance. But who his parts would in the service spend, Where all his hopes on vulgar breath depend? Where ev'ry sot, for paying half a crown ,^ Has the prerogative to cry him down. 200 Sedley indeed may be content with fame. Nor care, should an iU-judging audience damn ; But Settle, and the rest, that write for pence, Whose whole estate's an ounce or two of brains. Should a thin house on tlie third day appear, Must starve, or live in tatters all the year. And what can we expect that's brave and great. From a poor needy wretch, that writes to eat ? Who the success of the next play must wait For lodging, food, and clothes, and whose chief care 210 Is how to spunge for the next meal, and where ? JOHN LOCKE (163 2-1 704) From OF THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING 4. Of Practice and Habits. — We are born with faculties and powers capable almost of anj'thing, such at least as Avould carry us further than can easily be_ imagined : but it is only the exercise of those powers which gives us ability and skill in anything, and leads us towards perfection. A middle-aged ploughman will scarce ever be brought to the carriage and language of a gentleman, though his body be as well-pro- portioned, and his joints as supple, and his natural parts not any way inferior. The legs of a dancing-master and the fingers of a musician fall as it were naturally, without thought or pains, into regular and admirable motions. Bid them change their parts, and they will in vain endeavour to produce hke motions in the members not used to them, and it will require length of time and long practice to attain but some degrees of a like abihty. What incredible and astonishing ac- ^ the price of a good seat JOHN BUNYAN 239 tions do we find rope-dancers and tumblers bring their bodies to ! Not but that sundry in almost all manual arts are as wonderful ; but I name'those which the world takes notice of for such, because on that very account they give money to see them. All these admired motions, beyond the reach and almost con- ception of unpractised spectators, are nothing but the mere effects of use and industry in men whose bodies have nothing peculiar in them from those of the amazed lookers-on. As it is in the body, so it is in the mind : practice makes it what it is ; and most even of those excellencies which are looked on as natural endowments, wiU be found, when examined into more narrowly, to be the prod- uct of exercise, and to be raised to that pitch only by repeated actions. Some men are re- marked for pleasantness in raillery ; others for apologues and apposite diverting stories. This is apt to be taken for the effect of pure nature, and that the rather because it is not got by rules, and those who excel in either of them never purposely set themselves to the study of it as an art to be learnt. But yet it is true, that at first some lucky hit, which took with somebody and gained him cormnendation, en- couraged him to try again, inclined his thoughts and endeavours that way, till at last he insensibly got a facility in it, without per- ceiving how ; and that is attributed wholly to nature which was much more the effect of use and practice. I do not deny that natural disposition may often give the first rise to it, but that never carries a man far without use and exercise, and it is practice alone that brings the powers of the mind, as well as those of the body, to their perfection. ^Many a good poetic vein is buried under a trade, and never produces anything for want of improve- ment. We see the ways of discourse and reasoning are very different, even concerning the same matter, at court and in the university. And he that will go but from Westminster- haU^ to the Exchange will find a different genius and turn in their ways of talking ; and yet one cannot think that all whose lot fell in the city were bom with different parts ^ from those who were bred at the university or inns of court. To what purpose all this but to show that the difference so observable in men's under- standings and parts does not arise so much ^ i.e., from courtiers to tradesmen ^ abilities from their natural faculties as acquired habits. He would be laughed at that should go about to make a fine dancer out of a country hedger at past fifty. And he will not have much better success who shall endeavour at that age to make a man reason well, or speak handsomely, who has never been used to it, though you should lay before him a collection of all the best precepts of logic or oratory. Nobody is made anything by hearing of rules or laying them up in his memory; practice must settle the habit of doing without reflect- ing on the rule ; and you may as well hope to make a good painter or musician extempore, by a lecture and instruction in the arts of music and painting, as a coherent thinker or a strict reasoner by a set of rules showing him wherein right reasoning consists. This being so that defects and weakness in men's understanding, as well as other facul- ties, come from want of a right use of their own minds, I am apt to think the fault is generally mislaid upon nature, and there is often a complaint of want of parts when the fault lies in want of a due improvement of them. We see men frequently dexterous and sharp enough in making a bargain who, if you reason with them about matters of rehgion, appear perfectly stupid. JOHN BUNYAN (1628-1688) From THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS THE FIGHT WITH APOLLYON Then I saw in my dream that these good companions, when Christian was gone to the bottom of the hill, gave him a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, and a cluster of raisins ; and then he went on his way. But nov^r, in this Valley of Humiliation, poor Christian w'as hard put to it ; for he had gone but a little way, before he espied a foul fiend coming over the field to meet him ; his name is ApoUyon. Then did Christian begin to be afraid, and to cast in his mind whether to go back or to stand his groimd. But he consid- ered again that he had no armour for his back ; and, therefore, thought tliat to turn the back to him might give him the greater advantage, with ease to pierce him with his darts. There- fore he resolved to venture and stand his ground ; for, thought he, had I no more in 240 JOHN BUNYAN mine eye than the saving of my life, it would be the best way to stand. So he went on, and ApoUyon met him. Now the monster was hideous to behold ; he was clothed with scales, like a fish (and they are his pride), he had wings like a dragon, feet like a bear, and out of his belly came fire and smoke, and his mouth was as the mouth of a lion. When he was come up to Christian, he beheld him with a disdainful countenance, and thus began to question with him. A pol. Whence come you ? and whither are you bound? Chr. I am come from the City of Destruc- tion, which is the place of all evil, and am going to the City of Zion. A pol. By this I perceive thou art one of my subjects, for all that country is mine, and I am the prince and god of it. How is it, then, that thou hast run away from thy king ? Were it not that I hope thou mayest do me more ser- vice, I would strike thee now, at one blow, to the ground. Chr. I was born, indeed, in your dominions, but your service was hard, and your wages such as a man could not live on, " for the wages of sin is death ;" therefore, when I was come to years, I did as other considerate persons do, look out, if, perhaps, I might mend myself. Apol. There is no prince that will thus lightly lose his subjects, neither will I as yet lose thee ; but since thou complainest of thy service and wages, be content to go back ; what our country will afford, I do here promise to give thee. Chr. But I have let myself to another, even to the King of princes ; and how can I, with fairness, go back with thee? Apol. Thou hast done in this according to the proverb, 'Changed a bad for a worse;' but it is ordinary for those that have professed themselves his servants, after a while to give him the slip, and return again to me. Do thou so too, and all shall be well. Chr. I have given him my faith, and sworn my allegiance to him; how, then, can I go back from this, and not be hanged as a traitor? Apol. Thou didst the same to me, and yet I am willing to pass by all, if now thou wilt yet turn again and go back. Chr. What I promised thee was in my nonage ; and, besides, I count the Prince under whose banner now I stand is able to absolve me ; yea, and to pardon also what I did as to my compliance with thee ; and be- sides, O thou destroying ApoUyon ! to speak truth, I like his service, his w^ages, his servants, his government, his company, and country, better than thine ; and, therefore, leave off to persuade me further; I am his servant, and I will follow him. Apol. Consider again, when thou art in cool blood, what thou art like to meet with in the way that thou goest. Thou knowest that, for the most part, his servants come to an ill end, because they are transgressors against me and my ways. How many of them have been put to shameful deaths ! and, besides, thou count- est his service better than mine, whereas he never came yet from the place where he is to deliver any that served him out of their hands ; but as for me, how many times, as all the world very well knows, have I delivered, either by power or fraud, those that have faithfully served me, from him and his, though taken by them ; and so I will deliver thee. Chr. His forbearing at present to deliver them is on purpose to try their love, whether they will cleave to him to the end ; and as for the ill end thou sayest they come to, that is most glorious in their account ; for, for present deliverance, they do not much expect it, for they stay for their glory, and then they shall have it, when their Prince comes in his and the glory of the angels. Apol. Thou hast already been unfaithful in thy service to him ; and how dost thou think to receive wages of him ? Chr. Wherein, O ApoUyon ! have I been unfaithful to him? Apol. Thou didst faint at first setting out, when thou wast almost choked in the Gulf of Despond ; thou didst attempt wrong ways to be rid of thy burden, whereas thou shouldest have stayed till thy Prince had taken it off ; thou didst sinfully sleep, and lose thy choice thing ; thou wast, also, almost persuaded to go back, at the sight of the lions ; and when thou talkest of thy journey, and of what thou hast heard and seen, thou art inwardly desir- ous of vain-glory in all that thou sayest or do est. Chr. All this is true, and much more which thou hast left out ; but the Prince, whom I serve and honour, is merciful, and ready to forgive ; but, besides, these infirmities pos- sessed me in thy country, for there I sucked them in ; and I have groaned under them, been sorry for them, and have obtained pardon of my Prince. THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 241 Apol. Then Apollyon broke out into a grievous rage, saying, I am an enemy to this Prince ; I hate his person, his laws, and people ; I am come out on purpose to withstand thee. Chr. Apollyon, beware what you do ; fori am in the king's highway, the way of holiness, therefore take heed to yourself. Apol. Then Apollyon straddled quite over the whole breadth of the way, and said, I am void of fear in this matter : prepare thyself to die ; for I swear by my infernal den , that thou shalt go no further ; here will I spill ^ thy soul. And with that he threw a flaming dart at his breast ; but Christian had a shield in his hand, with which he caught it, and so prevented the danger of that. Then did Christian draw ; for he saw it was time to bestir him : and Apollyon as fast made at him, throwing darts as thick as hail ; by the which, notwithstanding all that Christian could do to avoid it, Apollyon w^ounded him in his head, his hand, and foot. This made Christian give a little back ; Apollyon, there- fore, followed his work amain, and Christian again took courage, and resisted as manfully as he could. This sore combat lasted for above half a day, even tiU Christian was al- most quite spent ; for you must know, that Christian, by reason of his wounds, must needs grow W'caker and weaker. Then Apollyon, esp>'ing his opportunity, began to gather up close to Christian, and wrestling with him, gave him a dreadfid fall ; and with that. Christian's sword flew out of his hand. Then said Apollyon, I am sure of thee now. And with that he had almost pressed him to death ; so that Christian began to despair. of life: but as God would have it, while Apollyon was fetching of his last blow, thereby to make a full end of this good man. Christian nimbly stretched out his hand for his sword, and caught it, saying, "Rejoice not against me, mine enemy : when I fall, I shall arise;" and with that gave him a deadly thrust, which made him give back, as one that had received his mortal wound. Christian perceiving that, made at him again, saying ; " Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors, through him that loved us." And with that Apollyon spread forth his dragon's wangs, and sped him away, that Christian for a season saw him no more. In this combat no man can imagine, unless he had seen and heard as I did, what yelling and hideous roaring Apollyon made aU the time of the fight — he spake like a dragon ; and, on the other side, what sighs and groans burst from Christian's heart. I never saw him all the whUe give so much as one pleasant look, till he perceived he had wounded Apol- lyon with his two-edged sword ; then, indeed, he did smile, and look upward ; but it was the dreadfulest sight that ever I saw. VAXITY FAIR Then I saw in my dream, that when they were got out of the wilderness, tliey presently saw a town before them, and the name of that town is \'anity ; and at the town there is a fair kept, called Vanity Fair : it is kept all the year long ; it beareth the name of \'anity Fair, be- cause the town where it is kept is lighter than vanity ; and also because all that is there sold, or that Cometh thither, is vanity. As is the saying of the w'ise, "All that cometh is van- ity-". This fair is no new-erected business, but a thing of ancient standing ; I w'ill show you the original^ of it. Almost five thousand years agone, there were pilgrims w'alking to the Celestial City as these two honest persons are : and Beelzebub, Apollyon, and Legion, with their companions, perceiving by the path that the pilgrims made, that their way to the city lay through this town of Vanity, they contrived here to set up a fair; a fair wherein should be sold aU sorts of vanity, and that it should last all the year long ; therefore at this fair are all such merchandise sold, as houses, lands, trades, places, honours, preferments, titles, countries, kingdoms, lusts, pleasures, and delights of all sorts, as whores, bawds, wives, husbands, children, masters, servants, lives, blood, bodies, souls, silver, gold, pearls, precious stones, and what not. And, moreover, at this fair there is at all times to be seen juggling, cheats, games, plays, fools, apes, knaves, and rogues, and that of every kind. Here are to be seen too, and that for nothing, thefts, murders, adulteries, false swearers, and that of a blood-red colour. And as in other fairs of less moment, there are the several rows and streets, under their ^ destroy ongin 242 JOHN BUNYAN proper names, v/here such and such wares are vended ; so here Hkewise you have the proper places, rows, streets (viz. countries and king- doms), where the wares of this fair are soonest to be found. Here is the Britain Row, the French Row, the Itahan Row, the Spanish Row, the German Row, where several sorts of vanities are to be sold. But, as in other fairs, some one commodity is as the chief of all the fair, so the ware of Rome and her merchan- dise is greatly promoted in this fair ; only our English nation, with some others, have taken a dislike thereat. Now, as I said, the way to the Celestial City Hes just through this town where this lusty fair is kept ; and he that will go to the City, and yet not go through this town, must needs "go out of the world." The Prince of princes himself, when here, went throvigh this town to his own country, and that upon a fair day too ; yea, and as I think, it was Beelzebub, the chief lord of this fair, that invited him to buy of his vanities ; yea, would have made him lord of the fair, would he but have done him reverence as he went through the town. Yea, because he was such a person of honour, Beelzebub had him from street to street, and showed him all the kingdoms of the world in a little time, that he might if possible, allure the Blessed One to cheapen^ and buy some of his vanities ; but he had no mind to the mer- chandise, and therefore left the town, without laying out so much as one farthing upon these vanities. This fair, therefore, is an ancient thing, of long standing, and a very great fair. Now these Pilgrims, as I said, must needs go through this fair. Well, so they did; but, behold, even as they entered into the fair, all the people in the fair were moved, and the town itself as it were in a hubbub about them ; and that for several reasons ; for ■ — • First, The pilgrims were clothed with such kind of raiment as was diverse from the rai- ment of any that traded in that fair. The people, therefore, of the fair, made a great gazing upon them : some said they were fools, some they were bedlams,^ and some they are outlandish men.'"' Secondly, And as they wondered at their apparel, so they did likewise at their speech ; for few could understand what they said ; they naturally spoke the language of Canaan, but they that kept the fair were the men of this world ; so that, from one end of the fair to the other, they seemed barbarians each to the other. Thirdly, But that which did not a little amuse the merchandisers was, that these pilgrims set very light by all their wares; they cared not so much as to look upon them ; and if they called upon them to buy, they would put their fingers in their ears, and cry, "Turn away mine eyes from beholding van- ity," and look upwards, signifying that their trade and traffic was in heaven. One chanced mockingly, beholding the car- riage of the men, to say unto them, "What will ye buy?" But they, looking gravely upon him, answered, "We buy the truth." At that there was an occasion taken to despise the men the more : some mocking, some taunting, some speaking reproachfully, and some calling upon others to smite them. At last things came to a hubbub, and great stir in the fair, insomuch that all order was con- founded. Now was word presently brought to the great one of the fair, who quickly came down, and deputed some of his most trusty friends to take these men into examination, about whom the fair was almost overturned. So the men were brought to examination ; and they that sat upon them, asked them whence they came, whither they went, and what they did there in such an miusual garb ? The men told them, that they were pilgrims and strangers in the world, and that they were going to their own country, which was the heavenly Jerusalem ; and that they had given no occasion to the men of the town, nor yet to the merchandisers, thvis to abuse them, and to let ^ them in their journey, except it was, for that, when one asked them what they would buy, they said they would buy the truth. But they that were appointed to examine them did not believe them to be any other than bedlams and mad, or else such as came to put all things into a confusion in the fair. Therefore they took them and beat them, and besmeared them with dirt, and then put them into the cage, that they might be made a spectacle to all the men of the fair. There, therefore, they lay for some time, and were made the objects of any man's sport, or malice, or revenge, the great ones of the fair laughing still at all that befell them. But the men being patient, and not rendering railing ^ bargain for ^ lunatics ^ foreigners hinder MINOR LYRISTS 243 for railing, but contrariwise, blessing, and giv- ing good words for bad, and kindness for injuries done, some men in the fair that were more observing, and less prejudiced than the rest, began to check and blame the baser sort for their continual abuses done by them to the men ; they, therefore, in angry manner, let fly at them again, counting them as bad as the men in the cage, and telling ttjem that they seemed confederates, and should be made partakers of their misfortunes. The other replied, that for aught they could see, the men were quiet, and sober, and intended nobody any harm ; and that there were many that traded in their fair, that were more worthy to be put into the cage, yea, and pillory too, than were the men that they had abused. Thus, after divers words had passed on both sides, the men behaving themselves all the while very wisely and soberly before them, they fell to some blows among themselves, and did harm one to another. Then were these two poor men brought before their examiners again, and there charged as being guilty of the late hubbub that had been in the fair. So they beat them pitifully, and hanged irons upon them, and led them in chains up and dowTi the fair, for an example and a terror to others, lest any should speak in their behalf, or join themselves unto them. But Christian and Faithful behaved them- selves yet more wisely, and received the ignominy and shame that was cast upon them, with so much meekness and patience, that it won to their side, though but few in compari- son of the rest, several of the men in the fair. This put the other party yet into greater rage, insomuch that they concluded the death of these two men. Wherefore they threatened, that the cage nor irons should serve their turn, but that they should die, for the abuse they had done, and for deluding the men of the fair. MINOR LYRISTS SONG Love still has something of the sea, From whence his Mother rose ; No time his slaves from love can free, Nor give their thoughts repose. They are becalm 'd in clearest days, 5 And in rough weather tost ; They wither under cold delays, Or are in tempests lost. One whUe they seem to touch the port, Then straight into the main ^ 10 Some angry wind in cruel sport Their vessel drives again. At first disdain and pride they fear, Which, if they chance to 'scape. Rivals and falsehood soon appear 15 In a more dreadful shape. By such degrees to joy they come, And are so long withstood, So slowly they receive the sum, It hardly does them good. 20 'Tis cruel to prolong a pain ; And to defer a bliss. Believe me, gentle Hermione, No less inhuman is. An hundred thousand oaths your fears 25 Perhaps would not remove. And if I gazed a thousand years, I could no deeper love. — Sir Charles Sedley (i639?-i7oi) TO CELIA Not, Celia, that I juster am, Or better than the rest ; For I would change each hour like them Were not my heart at rest. But I am tied to very thee 5 By every thought I have; Thy face I only care to see, Thy heart I only crave. All that in woman is adored In thy dear self I find; 10 For the whole sex can but afford The handsome and the kind. Why then should I seek further store And still make love anew ? When change itself can give no more. 15 'Tis easy to be true. — Sir Charles Sedley (1639?-! 701) ^ open sea 244 MINOR LYRISTS LOVE AND LIFE AH my past life is mine no more ; The flying liours are gone, Like transitory dreams given o'er Whose images are kept in store By memory alone. 5 The time that is to come is not ; How can it then be mine ? The present moment's all my lot ; And that, as fast as it is got, PhiUis, is only thine. 10 Then talk not of inconstancy, False hearts, and broken vows ; If I by miracle can be This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heaven allows. — John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680) EPITAPH ON CHARLES II Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King, Whose word no man relies on, Who never said a foolish thing. Nor ever did a wise one. — John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680) THE ENCHANTMENT I did but look and love awhile, 'Twas but for one half-hour ; Then to resist I had no will, And now I have no power. To sigh and wish is all my ease ; Sighs which do heat impart Enough to melt the coldest ice. Yet cannot warm your heart. O would your pity give my heart One corner of your breast, 10 'Twould learn of yours the winning art And qvuckly steal the rest. — Thomas Otway (1652-1685) TO HIS MISTRESS Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? why Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye? O Without thy light what light remains in me? Thou art my life ; my way, my light's in thee ; I live, I move, and by thy beams I see. 6 Thou art my life — if thou but turn away, My life's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way — Without thee. Love, I travel not but stray. 9 My hght thou art — without thy glorious sight My eyes are darken'd with eternal night. M)f Love, thou art my way, my life, my light. Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly. 13 Thou art my light ; if hid, how blind am I ! Thou art my life ; if thou withdraw'st, I die. My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see : To whom or whither should my darkness flee. But to that light? — and who's that light but thee? 18 If I have lost my path, dear lover, say, ShaU I still wander in a doubtful way? 20 Love, shall a lamb of Israel's sheepfold stray? My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray ; I cannot go, nor can I safely stay ; 23 Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way? And yet thou turn'st thy face away and fly'st me! And yet I sue for grace and thou deny'st me ! Speak, art thou angry. Love, or only try'st me? 27 Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blindman's eye. The dead man's life. On thee my hopes rely : If I but them remove, I surely die. 30 Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay! See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray 1 — O thou art my life, my light, my way ! S3 Then work thy will ! If passion bid me flee. My reason shall obey, my wings shall be Stretch'd out no farther than from me to thee! 36 — John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647- I 680) THE CLASSICAL AGE DANIEL DEFOE (i66i?-i73i) From AN ESSAY UPON PROJECTS AN ACADEMY FOR WOMEN I have often thought of it as one of the most barbarous customs in the world, consid- ering us as a civiHzed and a Christian country, that we deny the advantages of learning to women. We reproach the sex every day with folly and impertinence, while I am confident, had they the advantages of education equal to us, they would be guUty of less than ourselves. One would wonder, indeed, how it should happen that women are conversible at all, since they are only beholding to natural parts for all their knowledge. Their youth is spent to teach them to stitch and sew or make baubles. They are taught to read, indeed, and perhaps to write their names or so, and that is the height of a woman's education. And I would but ask any who slight the sex for their understanding, what is a man (a gentleman, I mean) good for that is taught no more? I need not give instances, or examine the character of a gentleman with a good estate, and of a good family, and with tolerable parts, and examine what figure he makes for want of education. The soul is placed in the body like a rough diamond, and must be polished, or the lustre of it will never appear: and 'tis manifest that as the rational soul distinguishes us from brutes, so education carries on the distinction and makes some less brutish than others. This is too evident to need any demonstra- tion. But why then should women be denied the benefit of instruction? If knowledge and understanding had been useless additions to the sex, God Almighty would never have given them capacities, for He made nothing needless. Besides, I would ask such what they can see in ignorance that they should think it a necessary ornament to a woman? or how much worse is a wise woman than a fool? or what has the woman done to forfeit the privilege of being taught? Does she plague us with her pride and impertinence? Why did we not let her learn, that she might have had more wit ? Shall we upbraid women with folly, when 'tis only the error of this inhuman custom that hindered them being made wiser? The capacities of women are supposed to be greater and their senses quicker than those of the men ; and what they might be capable of being bred to is plain from some instances of female wit,^ which this age is not without ; which upbraids us with injustice, and looks as if we denied women the advantages of education for fear they should vie with the men in their improvements. To remove this objection, and that women might have at least a needful opportunity of education in all sorts of useful learning, I propose the draught of an Academy for that purpose. I know 'tis dangerous to make pubhc ap- pearances of the sex. They are not either to be confined or exposed ; the first will dis- agree with their inclinations, and the last with their reputations, and therefore it is somewhat difificidt ; and I doubt a method proposed by an ingenious lady^ in a little book called Advice to the Ladies, would be found impracticable, for, saving my respect to the sex, the le\dty, which perhaps is a little peculiar to them, at least in their youth, will not bear the restraint ; and I am satisfied nothing but the height of bigotry can keep up a nunnery. Women are extravagantly desirous of going to heaven, and will punish their pretty bodies to get thither; but noth- ing else ■udll do it, and even in that case some- times it falls out that nature will prevail. When I talk, therefore, of an academy for women, I mean both the model, the teaching, and the government different from what is proposed by that ingenious lady, for whose ^ intelligence ^ Mary Astell 245 246 DANIEL DEFOE proposal I have a very great esteem, and also a great opinion of her wit ; different, too, from all sorts of religious confinement, and, above all, from vows of celibacy. Wherefore the academy I propose should differ but little from public schools, wherein such ladies as were willing to study should have all the advantages of learning suitable to their genius. But since some severities of discipline more than ordinary woidd be absolutely necessary to preserve the reputation of the house, that persons of quality and fortune might not be afraid to venture their children thither, I shall venture to make a small scheme by way of essay. The house I would have built in a form by itself, as well as in a place by itself. The building should be of three plain fronts, without any jettings or bearing-work, that the eye might at a glance see from one coin ^ to the other ; the gardens walled in the same triangular figure, vv^ith a large moat, and but one entrance. When thus every part of the situation was contrived as well as might be for discovery, and to render intriguing dangerous, I would have no guards, no eyes, no spies set over the ladies, but shall expect them to be tried by the principles of honor and strict virtue. In this house, the persons who enter should be taught all sorts of breeding suitable to both their genius and their qviality; and in particular music and dancing, which it would be cruelty to bar the sex of, because they are their darlings ; but besides this, they should be taught languages, as particularly French and Italian ; and I would venture the injury of giving a woman more tongues than one. They should, as a particular study, be taught all the graces of speech and aU the necessary air of conversation, which our common education is so defective in that I need not expose it. They should be brought to read books, and especially history, and so to read as to make them understand the world, and be able to know and judge of things when they hear of them. To such whose genius would lead them to it I would deny no sort of learning ; but the chief thing in general is to cultivate the under- standings of the sex, that they may be capable of all sorts of conversation ; that, their parts and judgments being improved, they may be as profitable in their conversation as they are pleasant. Women, in my observation, have little or no difference in them, but as they are or are not distinguished by education. Tempers indeed may in some degree influence them, but the main distinguishing part is their breeding. The whole sex are generally quick and sharp. I believe I may be allowed to say generally so, for you rarely see them lumpish and heavy when they are children, as boys will often be. If a woman be well bred, and taught the proper management of her natural wit, she proves generally very sensible and retentive ; and without partiality, a woman of sense and manners is the finest and most delicate part of God's creation, the glory of her Maker, and the great instance of His singular regard to man, His darling creature, to whom He gave the best gift either God could bestow or man receive. And 'tis the sordidest piece of folly and ingratitude in the world to withhold from the sex the due lustre which the advantages of education give to tlie natural beauty of their minds. A woman well bred and well taught, fur- nished with the additional accomplishments of knowledge and behavior, is a creature without comparison ; her society is the em- blem of sublimer enjoyments; her person is angelic and her conversation heavenlj' ; she is all softness and sweetness, peace, love, wit, and delight. She is every way suitable to the subhmest wish, and the man that has such a one to his portion has nothing to do but to rejoice in her and be thankful. On the other hand, suppose her to be the very same woman, and rob her of the benefit of education, and it follows thus : — If her temper be good, want of education makes her soft and easy. Her wit, for want of teaching, makes her impertinent and talk- ative. Her knowledge, for want of judgment and experience, makes her fanciful and whim- sical. If her temper be bad, want of breed- ing makes her worse, and she grows haughty, insolent, and loud. If she be passionate, want of manners makes her termagant and a scold, which is much at one with lunatic. If she be proud, want of discretion (which still is breeding) makes her conceited, fantastic, AN ESSAY UPON PROJECTS 247 and ridiculous. And from these she degen- erates to be turbulent, clangorous, noisy, nasty, and the devil. Methinks mankind for their own sakes — since, say what we will of the women, we all think fit at one time or other to be concerned with them — shoidd take some care to breed ^ them up to be suitable and serviceable, if they expected no such thing as delight from them. Bless us ! what care do we take to breed up a good horse and to break him well ! and what a value do we put upon him when it is done, and all because he should be fit for our use ! and why not a woman ? Since all her ornaments and beauty without suitable behavior is a cheat in nature, like the false tradesman, who puts the best of his goods uppermost, that the buyer may think the rest are of the same goodness. Beauty of the body, which is the women's glory, seems to be now unequally bestowed, and Nature, or rather Pro\'idence, to he imder some scandal about it, as if 'twas given a woman for a snare to men, and so made a kind of a she-devil of her ; because, they saj^, exquisite beauty is rarely given with wit, more rarely with, goodness of temper, and never at all with modesty. And some, pre- tending to justify the equity of such a dis- tribution, wtII tell us 'tis the effect of the justice of Providence in dividing particular excellencies among all His creatures, share and share alike, as it were, that all might for something or other be acceptable to one an- other, else some woidd be despised. I think both these notions false, and yet the last, which has the show of respect to Providence, is the worst, for it supposes Providence to be indigent and empt}', as if it had not wherewith to furnish all the creatures it had made, but was fain to be parsimonious in its gifts, and distribute them by piecemeal for fear of being exhausted. If I might venture my opinion against an almost universal notion, I wovdd say most men mistake the proceedings of Pro\ddence in this case, and all the world at this day are mistaken in their practice about it. And because the assertion is very bold, I desire to explain myself. That Almighty First Cause which made us all is certainly the fountain of excellence, as it is of being, and by an invisible influence ^ train, educate could have diffused equal qualities and per- fections to all the creatures it has made, as the sun does its light, without the least ebb or diminution to Himself, and has given indeed to every individual sufficient to the figure His providence had designed him in the world. But to come closer to the business, the great distinguishmg difference which is seen in the world between men and women is in their education, and this is manifested by comparing it with the difference between one man or woman and another. And herein it is that I take upon me to make such a bold assertion that all the world are mistaken in their practice about women; for I cannot think that God Almighty ever made them so delicate, so glorious creatures, and furnished them with such charms, so agreeable and so delightful to mankind, with souls capable of the same accomplishments with men, and all to be only stewards of our houses, cooks, and slaves. Not that I am for exalt mg the female government in the least; but, in short, I would have men take women for compan- ions, and educate them to be fit for it. A woman of sense and breeding \\'ill scorn as much to encroach upon the prerogative of the man as a man of sense will scorn to op- press the wealoiess of the woman. But if the women's souls were refined and improved by teaching, that word would be lost ; to say, the weakness of the sex as to judgment, would be nonsense, for ignorance and folly would be no more found among women than men. I remember a passage which I heard from a very fine woman; she had wdt and capacity enough, an extraordinary shape and face, and a great fortune, but had been clois- tered up all her time, and, for fear of being stolen, had not had the Uberty of being taught the common necessary' knowledge of women's affairs ; and when she came to converse in the world, her natural wit made her so sensible of the want of education, that she gave this short reflection on herself: — "I am ashamed to talk with my very maids," says she, "for I don't know when they do right or wrong. I had more need go to school than be married." I need not enlarge on the loss the defect of education is to the sex, nor argue the benefit of the contrary practice ; 'tis a thing wfll be more easily granted than remedied. This 248 JONATHAN SWIFT chapter is but an essay at the thing, and I refer the practice to those happy days, if ever they shall be, when men shall be wise enough to mend it. JONATHAN SWIFT (i 667-1 745) From A TALE OF A TUB SECTION II Once upon a time there was a man who had three sons by one wife and all at a birth, neither could the midwife tell certainly which was the eldest. Their father died while they were young, and upon his death-bed, calling the lads to him, spoke thus : " Sons, because I have purchased^ no estate, nor was born to any, I have long considered of some good legacies to bequeath you, and at last, with much care as well as expense, have provided each of you (here they are) a new coat. Now, you are to understand that these coats have two virtues contained in them ; one is, that with good wearing they will last you fresh and sound as long as you live ; the other is, that they will grow in the same proportion with your bodies, lengthening and widening of themselves, so as to be always fit. Here, let me see them on you before I die. So, very well ! Pray, children, wear them clean and brush them often. You will find in my will ^ (here it is) full instructions in every particular concerning the wearing and management of your coats, wherein you must be very exact to avoid the penalties I have appointed for every transgression or neglect, upon which your future fortunes will entirely depend. I have also commanded in my will that you should live together in one house like brethren and friends, for then you will be sure to thrive and not otherwise." Here the story says this good father died, and the three sons went all together to seek their fortunes. I shall not trouble you with recounting what adventures they met for the first seven years, any farther than by taking notice that they carefully observed their father's will and kept their coats in very good order ; that they trav- elled through several countries, encountered a reasonable quantity of giants, and slew cer- tain dragons. ^ procured ^ the New Testament Being now arrived at the proper age for producing themselves, they came up to town and fell in love with the ladies, but especially three, who about that time were in chief repu- tation, the Duchess d'Argent,^ Madame de Grands-Titres,- and the Countess d'Orgueil.^ On their first appearance, our three adven- turers met with a very bad reception, and soon with great sagacity guessing out the reason, they quickly began to improve in the good qualities of the town. They wrote, and rallied,'' and rhymed, and sung, and said, and said nothing; they drank, and fought, and slept, and swore, and took snufif ; they went to new plays on the first night, haunted the chocolate-houses, beat the watch ; they bilked hackney-coachmen, ran in debt with shop- keepers, and lay with their wives ; they killed bailiffs, kicked fiddlers downstairs, ate at Locket's,^ loitered at Will's;® they talked of the drawing-room' and never came there; dined with lords they never saw ; whispered a duchess and spoke never a word ; exposed the scrawls of their laundress for billet-doux of quality ; came ever just from court and were never seen in it ; attended the levee* sub dio ; ^ got a list of peers by heart in one com- pany, and with great familiarity retailed them in another. Above all, they constantly at- tended those committees of Senators ^° who are silent in the House and loud in the coffee- house, where they nightly adjourn to chew the cud of politics, and are encompassed with a ring of disciples who lie in wait to catch up their droppings. The three brothers had acquired forty other qualifications of the like stamp too tedious to recount, and by conse- quence were justly reckoned the most accom- plished persons in town. But all would not suffice, and the ladies aforesaid continued still inflexible. To clear up which difficulty, I must, with the reader's good leave and pa- tience, have recourse to some points of weight which the authors of that age have not suffi- ciently illustrated. For about this time it happened a sect arose whose tenets obtained and spread very far, especially in the grand inonde,^^ and among ^ Duchess INIoney ^ Madame Great Titles ^ Countess Pride * jested ^ a famous tavern ^ a fashionable coffee-house ' reception at court * an informal reception at court ^ in the open air, i.e., they stayed away ^" members of the House of Commons " fashionable world A TALE OF A TUB 249 everybody of good fashion. . They worshipped a sort of idol,^ who, as their doctrine delivered, did daUy create men by a kind of manufactory operation. This idol they placed in the highest parts of the house on an altar erected about three feet. He was shown in the pos- ture of a Persian emperor sitting on a super- ficies with his legs interwoven under him. This god had a goose for his ensign, whence it is that some learned men pretend to deduce his original from Jupiter Capitolinus.- At his left hand, beneath the altar, Hell seemed to open and catch at the animals the idol was creating, to prevent which, certain of his priests hourly flung in pieces of the unin- formed mass or substance, and sometimes whole limbs already enlivened, which that horrid gulf insatiably swallowed, terrible to behold. The goose was also held a subaltern divinity, or Dens minorum gentium,^ before whose shrine was sacrificed that creature^ whose hourly food is human gore, and who is in so great reno'\\'n abroad for being the de- light and favourite of the Egyptian Cercopi- thecus.^ Millions of these animals were cruelly slaughtered every day to appease the hunger of that consuming deity. The chief idol was also worshipped as the inventor of the yard and the needle, whether as the god of seameh, or on account of certain other mysti- cal attributes, hath not been sufficiently cleared. The worshippers of this deity had also a system of their belief which seemed to turn upon the following fundamental. They held the universe to be a large suit of clothes which invests everything ; that the earth is invested by the air ; the air is invested by the stars ; and the stars are invested by the Primum Mobile.^ Look on this globe of earth, you wiU find it to be a very complete and fashion- able dress. What is that which some call land but a fine coat faced with green, or the sea but a waistcoat of water-tabby ? ^ Proceed to the particular works of the creation, you will find how curious journeyman Nature hath been to trim up the vegetable beaux ; observe how sparkish a periwig adorns the head of a ' a tailor - alluding to the story that Rome u'as saved by tlie cackling of geese ^ a god of the lesser peoples * lice ^ the monkey ® In the Ptolemaic system of astronomy, the hollow sphere inclosing the universe and moving all things with itself. ^ watered silk beech, and what a fine doublet of white satin is worn by the birch. To conclude from all, what is man himself but a microcoat,^ or rather a complete suit of clothes with all its trim- mings? As to his body there can be no dis- pute, but examine even the acquirements of his mind, you will find them all contribute in their order towards furnishing out an exact dress. To instance no more, is not reUgion a cloak, honesty a pair of shoes worn out in the dirt, self-love a surtout, vanity a shirt, and conscience a pair of breeches. These postulata^ being admitted, it wiU follow in due course of reasoning that those beings which the world calls improperly suits of clothes are in reality the most refined species of animals, or, to proceed higher, that they are rational creatures or men. For is it not mani- fest that they live, and move, and talk, and perform all other ofiices of human life? Are not beauty, and wit, and mien, and breeding their inseparable proprieties? In short, we see nothing but them, hear nothing but them. Is it not they who walk the streets, fill up Parliament-, coffee-, play-, bawdy-houses? It is true, indeed, that these animals, which are vulgarly called suits of clothes or dresses, do according to certain compositions receive different appellations. If one of them be trimmed up with a gold chain, and a red gown, and a white rod, and a great horse, it is called a Lord Mayor ; if certain ermines and furs be placed in a certain position, we style them a Judge, and so an apt conjunction of lawTi and black satin we entitle a Bishop. Others of these professors, though agreeing in the main system, were yet more refined upon certain branches of it ; and held that man was an animal compounded of two dresses, the natural and the celestial suit, which were the body and the soul ; that the soul was the outward, and the body the in- ward clothing ; that the latter was ex traduce,^ but the former of daily creation and circum- fusion. This last they proved by Scripture,^ because in them we live, and move, and have our being : as likewise by philosophy, because they are aU in all, and all in every part. Be- sides, said they, separate these two, and you ^ a play on the term '^microcosm" {little world), applied to man by philosophers ^ assumptions ^ from the original stock ■* Acts xvii : 28 250 JONATHAN SWIFT will find the body to be only a senseless un- savoury carcass. By all which it is manifest that the outward dress must needs be the soul. To this system of religion were tagged several subaltern doctrines, which were enter- tained with great vogue ; as particularly the faculties of the mmd were deduced by the learned among them in this manner : em- broidery was sheer wit , gold fringe was agree- able conversation, gold lace was repartee, a huge long periwig was humour, and a coat full of povv'der^ was very good raillery. All which required abundance of finesse and delicatesse to manage with advantage, as well as a strict observance after time and fashions. I have mth much pains and reading col- lected out of ancient authors this short sum- mary of a body of philosophy and divinity which seems to have been composed by a vein and race of thinking very different from any other systems, either ancient or modern. And it was not merel)^ to entertain or satisfy the reader's curiosity, but rather to give him light into several circumstances of the following story, that, knowing the state of dispositions and opinions in an age so remote, he may better comprehend those great events which were the issue of them. I advise, therefore, the courteous reader to peruse with a world of application, again and again, whatever I have written upon this matter. And so leaving these broken ends, I carefully gather up the chief thread of my story, and proceed. These opinions, therefore, were so universal, as well as the practices of them, among the refined part of court and town, that our three brother adventurers, as their circumstances then stood, were strangely at a loss. For, on the one side, the three ladies they addressed themselves to (whom we have named already) were ever at the very top of the fashion, and abhorred all that were below it but the breadth of a hair. On the other side, their father's will was very precise, and it was the main precept in it, with the greatest penalties an- nexed, not to add to or diminish from their coats one thread without a positive command in the will. Now the coats their father had left them were, it is true, of very good cloth, and besides, so neatly sewn you would swear they were all of a piece, but, at the same time, very plain, with little or no ornament ; and it happened that before they were a month in ^ Men of fashion powdered Iheir hair. town great shoulder-knots ^ came up. Straight all the world was shoulder-knots ; no ap- proaching the ladies' r«c//e5- without the quota of shoulder-knots. "That fellow," cries one. "has no soul: where is his shoulder-knot?" Our three brethren soon discovered their want by sad experience, meeting in their walks with forty mortifications and indignities. If they went to the play-house, the door- keeper showed them into the twelve-penny gallery.^ If they called a boat, says a water- man, "I am first sculler."'' If they stepped into the "Rose" to take a bottle,^ the drawer would cry, "Friend, we sell no ale." If they went to visit a lady, a footman met them at the door with "Pray, send up your message." In this unhappy case they went immediately to consult their father's will, read it over and over, but not a word of the shoulder-knot. What should they do? What temper should they find? Obedience was absolutely neces- sary, and yet shoulder-knots appeared ex- tremely requisite. After much thought, one of the brothers, who happened to be more book-learned than the other two, said he had found an expedient. "It is true," said he, "there is nothing here in this will, totidem verbis,'' makmg mention of shoulder-knots, but I dare conjecture we may find them in- clusive, or totidem syllabis." ^ This disthaction v/as immediately approved by all ; and so they fell again to examine the will. But their evil star had so directed the matter that the first syllable was not to be found in the whole writing ; upon which disappointment, he who found the former evasion took heart, and said, "Brothers, there is yet hopes; for though we cannot find them totidem verbis nor totidem syllabis, I dare engage we shall make them out tertio modo * or totidem Uteris." ^ This dis- covery was also highly commended, upon which they fell once more to the scrutiny, and soon picked out S, H, O, U, L, D, E, R, when the same planet, enemy to their repose, had wonderfully contrived that a K was not to be found. Here was a weighty difficulty ! But the distinguishing brother (for whom we shall hereafter find a name), now his hand ^ knots of gold or silver lace ^ morning recep- tions ^ Good seats cost two sldUings and a Jialf. * Scullers were unfasldonahle ; fasliion demanded a "pair of oars." ^ of wine ^ in exactly those words '' in those very syllables * in a third way ® in those very letters A TALE OF A TUB 251 was in, proved by a very good argument that K was a modern illegitimate letter, unknown to the learned ages, nor anywhere to be found in ancient manuscripts. "It is true," said he, "the word Calcndae had in Q. V. C.^ been sometimes writ with a K, but erroneously, for in the best copies it is ever spelled with a C ; and by consequence it was a gross mistake in our language to spell 'knot with a K," but that from henceforward he would take care it should be writ with a C. Upon this all further difficulty vanished ; shoulder- knots were made clearly out to be jure paterno,^ and our three gentlemen swaggered with as large and as flaunting ones as the best. But as human happiness is of a ver}^ short duration, so in those days were human fashions, upon which it entirely depends. Shoulder-knots had their time, and we must now imagine them in their decline, for a cer- tain lord came just from Paris with fifty yards of gold lace upon his coat, exactly trimmed after the court fashion of that month. In two days all mankind appeared closed up in bars of gold lace. Whoever durst peep abroad without his complement of gold lace was' as scandalous as a , and as ill received among the women. ^Vhat should our three knights do in this momentous affair? They had sufficiently strained a point already in the affair of shoulder-knots. Upon recourse to the will, nothing appeared there but alHim silen- tmm? That of the shoulder-knots was a loose, fl>ang, circumstantial point, but this of gold lace seem.ed toe considerable an al- teration ■\^•ithout better warrant. It did ali- quo modo essentiae adhacrere,'^ and therefore required a positive precept. But about this time it fell out that the learned brother afore- said had read "Aristotelis Dialectica,"^ and especially that wonderful piece de Intcrpre- tatione, which has the faculty of teaching its readers to find out a meaning in everything but itself, like commentators on the Revela- tions, who proceed® prophets without under- standing a syllable of the text. "Brothers," said he, "you are to be informed that of wills, dico sunt genera,'' nuncupatory* and scriptory,' ^ certain old IMss. ^ by paternal authority ^ absolute silence ^ it belonged in a manner to the essential meaning * Aristotle's treatise on reason- ing ^ set up as, undertake to be ^ there are two kinds ^ oral ^ written that in the scriptory will here before us there is no precept or mention about gold lace, conccditur,^ but si idem ajfirmctur de ntmcu- patorio negatur.^ For, brothers, if you re- member, we heard a fellow say when we were boys that he heard my father's man say that he heard my father say that he would advase his sons to get gold lace on their coats as soon as ever they could procure money to buy it." " That is very true," cries the other. "I remember it perfectly well," said the third. And so, without more ado, the}^ got the largest gold lace in the parish, and walked about as fine as lords. A while after, there came up all in fashion a pretty sort of flame-coloured satin for linings, and the mercer brought a pattern of it im- mediately to our three gentlemen. "And please your worships," said he, "my Lord C— and Sir J. W. had linings out of this very piece last night; it takes wonderfidly, and I shall not have a remnant left enough to make my -wiie a pin-cushion by to-morrow morning at ten o'clock." Upon this they fell again to rummage the will, because the present case also required a positive precept, the fining being held by orthodox writers to be of the essence of the coat. After long search they could fi.x upon nothing to the m.atter in hand, except a short advice in their father's will to take care of fire and put out their candles before they went to sleep. This, though a good deal for the purpose, and helping very far towards self-conviction, yet not seeming wholly of force to estabUsh a command, and being resolved to avoid further scruple, as well as future occasion for scandal, says he that was the scholar, "I remember to have read in wills of a codicil an- nexed, which is indeed a part of the will, and what it contains hath equal authority with the rest. Now I have been considering of this same will here before us, and I 'cannot reckon it to be complete for want of such a codicil. I will therefore fasten one in its proper place very dexterously. I have had it by me some time ; it was written by a dog- keeper of my grandfather's, and talks a great deal, as good luck would have it, of this very flame-coloured satin." The project was im- mediately approved by the other tv/o ; an old parchment scroU was tagged on according ^ it is admitted ^ but if the same is affirmed of a nuncupatory will, we deny it. 252 JONATHAN SWIFT to art, in the form of a codicil annexed, and the satin bought and worn. Next winter a player, hired for the purpose by the Corporation of Fringemakers, acted his part in a new comedy, all covered with silver fringe, and according to the laudable custom gave rise to that fashion. Upon which the brothers, consulting their father's will, to their great astonishment found these words : "Item, I charge and command my said three sons to wear no sort of silver fringe upon or about their said coats," etc., with a penalty in case of disobedience too long here to insert. How- ever, after some pause, the brother so often mentioned for his erudition, who was well skilled in criticism, had found in a certain author, which he said should be nameless, that the same word which in the will is called fringe does also signify a broom-stick, and doubtless ought to have the same interpre- tation in this paragraph. This another of the brothers disliked, because of that epithet silver, which could not, he humbly conceived, in propriety of speech be reasonably applied to a broom-stick ; but it was replied upon him that this epithet was understood in a mytho- logical and allegorical sense. However, he objected again why their father should forbid them to wear a broom-stick on their coats, a caution that seemed unnatural and imperti- nent ; upon which he was taken up short, as one that spoke irreverently of a mystery which doubtless was very useful and signifi- cant, but ought not to be over-curiously pried into or nicely reasoned upon. And in short, their father's authority being now consider- ably sunk, this expedient was allowed to serve as a lawful dispensation for wearing their full proportion of silver fringe. A while after was revived an old fashion, long antiquated, of embroidery with Indian figures of men, women, and children. Here they had no occasion to examine the will. They remembered but too well how their father had always abhorred this fashion ; that he made several paragraphs on purpose, im- porting his utter detestation of it and bestow- ing his everlasting curse to his sons whenever they should wear it. For all this, in a few days they appeared higher in the fashion than anybody else in the town. But they solved the matter by saying that these figures were not at all the same with those that were formerly worn and were meant in the will ; besides, they did not wear them in that sense, as forbidden by their father, but as they were a commendable custom, and of great use to the public. That these rigorous clauses in the will did therefore require some allowance and a favourable interpretation, and ought to be understood cum grano sails} But fashions perpetually altering in that age, the scholastic brother grew weary of searching further evasions and solving ever- lasting contradictions. Resolved, therefore, at all hazards to comply with the modes of the world, they concerted matters together, and agreed unanimously to lock up their father's will in a strong-box, brought out of Greece or Italy (I have forgot which), and trouble them- selves no farther to examine it, but only refer to its authority whenever they thought fit. In consequence whereof, a whQe after it grew a general mode to wear an infinite number of points,^ most of them tagged with silver ; upon which the scholar pronounced ex cathedra ^ that points were absolutely jure paterno,^ as they might very well remember. It is true, indeed, the fashion prescribed somewhat more than were directly named in the will ; how- ever, that they, as heirs-general of their father, had power to make and add certain clauses for public emolument, though not deducible todidem verbis from the letter of the will, or else multa ahsurda sequerentur.^ This was understood for canonical, and therefore on the following Sunday they came to church all covered with points. The learned brother so often mentioned was reckoned the best scholar in all that or the next street to it ; insomuch, as having run something behindhand with the world, he obtained the favour from a certain lord to receive him into his house and to teach his children. A while after the lord died, and he, by long practice upon his father's will, found the way of contriving a deed of conveyance of that house to himself and his heirs ; upon which he took possession, turned the young squires out, and received his brothers in their stead.'^ ^ with a grain of salt ^ laces used instead of buttons to fasten clothing ^ officially * in accord- ance with paternal law * many absurd conse- quences would follow ^ For the symbolic mean- ings of the objects and events that jigure in this satire, see the Notes at the end of this volume. A MODEST PROPOSAL 253 From A MODEST PROPOSAL FOR PREVENTING THE CHILDREN OF POOR PEOPLE IN IRELAND FROM BEING A BURDEN TO THEIR PAR- ENTS OR COUNTRY, AND FOR MAK- ING THEM BENEFICIAL TO THE PUBLIC It is a melancholy object to those who walk through this great town,^ or travel in the coun- try, when they see the streets, the roads, and cabin-doors, crowded with beggars of the female sex, followed by three, four, or six children, all in rags, and importuning every passenger- for an alms. These mothers, in- stead of being able to work for their honest livelihood, are forced to employ all their time in strolling to beg sustenance for their help- less infants : who, as they grow up, either turn thieves for want of work, or leave their dear native country to fight for the Pretender in Spain, or sell themselves to the Barbadoes.^ I think it is agreed by all parties, that this prodigious number of children in the arms, or on the backs, or at the heels of their mothers, and frequently of their fathers, is, in the present deplorable state of the kingdom, a very great additional grievance ; and, there- fore, whoever could find out a fair, cheap, and easy method of making these children sound, useful members of the commonwealth, would deserve so well of the public, as to have his statue set up for a preserver of the nation. But my intention is very far from being confined to provide only for the children of professed beggars; it is of a much greater extent, and shall take in the whole number of infants at a certain age, who are born of parents in effect ^ as little able to support them as those who demand our charity in the streets. As to my own part, having turned my thoughts for many years upon this important subject, and maturely weighed the several schemes of our projectors, I have always found them grossly mistaken in their compu- tation. It is true, a child, just born, may be supported by its mother's milk for a solar year, with little other nourishment ; at most, not above the value of two shillings, which the mother may certainly get, or the value in ^ Dublin - passer-by '^ Many poor persons sold themselves to go as servants to the Barbadocs and other English colonics. * in reality scraps, by her lawful occupation of begging ; and it is exactly at one year old that I pro- pose to provide for them in such a manner, as, instead of being a charge upon their parents or the parish, or wanting food and raiment for the rest of their lives, they shall, on the con- trary, contribute to the feeding, and partly to the clothing, of many thousands. The number of souls in this kingdom being usually reckoned one million and a half, of these I calculate there may be about two hun- dred thousand couple whose wives are breed- ers; from which number I subtract thirty thousand couple, who are able to maintain their own children, (although I apprehend there cannot be so many, under the present distresses of the kingdom) ; but this being granted, there will remain a hundred and seventy thousand breeders. I again subtract fifty thousand, for those women who miscarry, or whose children die by accident or disease within the year. There only remain a hun- dred and twenty thousand children of poor parents annually born. The question there- fore is, How this number shall be reared and provided for? which, as I have already said, under the present situation of affairs, is utterly impossible by all the methods hitherto proposed. For we can neither employ them in handicraft or agriculture ; we neither build houses (I mean in the country), nor cultivate land : they can very seldom pick up a liveli- hood by stealing, till they arrive at six years old, except where they are of towardly parts ;^ although I confess they learn the rudiments much earlier; during which time they can, however, be properly looked upon only as probationers ; as I have been informed by a principal gentleman in the county of Cavan, who protested to me, that he never knew above one or two instances under the age of six, even in a part of the kingdom so renowned for the quickest proficiency in that art. I am assured by our merchants, that a boy or a girl before twelve years old is no saleable commodity ; ^ and even when they come to this age they will not yield above three pounds or three pounds and half-a-crown at most, on the exchange ; which cannot turn to account either to the parents or kingdom, the charge ^ precocious ability - Poor parents often sold their children as bondservants. 254 SIR RICHARD STEELE of nutriment and rags having been at least four times that value. I shall now, therefore, humbly propose my own thoughts, which I hope will not be liable to the least objection. I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child, well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled ; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in fricasee or a ragout. I do therefore humbly offer it to public con- sideration, that of the hundred and twenty thousand children already computed, twenty thousand may be reserved for breed. . . . That the remaining hundred thousand may, at a year old, be offered in sale to the persons of quality and fortune through the kingdom ; always advising the mother to let them suck plentifully in the last month, so as to render them plump and fat for a good table. A child will make two dishes at an entertain- ment for friends ; and when the family dines alone, the fore or hind quarter will make a reasonable dish, and, seasoned with a little pepper or salt, will be very good boiled on the fourth day, especially in v/inter. I have reckoned, upon a medium, that a child just born will weigh twelve pounds, and in a solar year, if tolerably nursed, will in- crease to twenty-eight pounds. I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for landlords, who, as they have already devoured most of the parents, seem to have the best title to the children. I have already computed the charge of nursing a beggar's child (in which list I reckon all cottagers, labourers, and four-fifths of the farmers) to be about two shillings per annum, rags included ; and I believe no gentleman would repine to give ten shillings for the car- cass of a good fat child, which, as I have said, will make four dishes of excellent nutritive meat, when he has only some particular friend, or his own family, to dine with him. Thus the squire will learn to be a good landlord, and grow popular among his tenants ; the mother will have eight shillings net profit, and be fit for work till she produces another child. Those who are more thrifty (as I must con- fess the times require) may flay the carcass; the skin of which, artificially ^ dressed, will make admirable gloves for ladies, and summer- boots for fine gentlemen. As to our city of Dublin, shambles may be appointed for this purpose in the most con- venient parts of it, and butchers we may be assured will not be wanting ; although I rather recommend buying the children alive, then dressing them hot from the knife, as we do roasting pigs. SIR ■ RICHARD STEELE (1672-1729) THE TATLER NO. 95. NOVEMBER 17, 1709 Interea diilces pendent circum oscula nati, Casta pitdicitiam scrvat domus.^ ■ — ViRG. Georg. ii. 523. There are several persons who have many pleasures and entertainments in their posses- sion, which they do not enjoy. It is, there- fore, a kind and good office to acquaint them with their own happiness, and turn their attention to such instances of their good for- tune as they are apt to overlook. Persons in the married state often want such a monitor ; and pine away their days, by looking upon the same condition in anguish and murmur, which carries with it in the opinion of others a complication^ of all the pleasures of life, and a retreat from its inquietudes. I am led into this thought by a visit I made an old friend, who was formerly my school- fellow. He came to town last week with his family for the winter, and yesterday morning sent me word his wife expected me to dinner. I am, as it were, at home at that house, and every member of it knows me for their well- wisher. I cannot indeed express the pleasure it is, to be met by the children with so much joy as I am when I go thither. The boys and girls strive who shall come first, when they think it is I that am knocking at the door ; and that child which loses the race to ^ skilfully ^ Meanwhile his sweet children hang upon his kisses and his chaste home is the abode of virtue. ^ mixture THE TATLER 255 me runs back again to tell the father*it is Mr. Bickerstaff . This day I was led in by a pretty girl, that we ail thought must have forgot me ; for the family has been out of town these two years. Her knowing me again was a mighty subject with us, and took up our dis- course at the first entrance. After wliich, they began to rally ^ me upon a thousand little stories they heard in the country, about my marriage to one of my neighbour's daughters. Upon which the gentleman, my friend, said, "Nay, if jSIr. Bickerstaff marries a child of any of his old companions, I hope mine shall have the preference ; there is IVIrs. ISIary is now sixteen, and would make him as fine a ■\ndow as the best of them. But I know him too well ; he is so enamoured with the very memory of those who flourished in our youth, that he will not so much as look upon the modern beauties. I remember, old gentle- man, hovv' often you went home in a day to refresh your coimtenance and dress when Teraminta reigned in your heart. As we came up in the coach, I repeated to my wife some of your verses on her." With such re- flections, on Httle passages^ which happened long ago, we passed our time, during a cheer- fid and elegant meal. After dinner, his lady left the room, as did also the children. As soon as we were alone, he took me by the hand; "Well, my good friend," says he, "I am heartily glad to see thee ; I was afraid you wovild never have seen all the company that dined v.ith you to-day again. Do not you think the good woman of the house a Uttle altered since you followed her from the play- house, to find out who she was, for me?" I perceived a tear fall down his cheek, as he spoke, which moved me not a little. But, to turn the discourse, I said, "She is not indeed quite that creature she was, when she returned me the letter I carried from you ; and told me, 'she hoped, as I was a gentleman, I would be employed no more to trouble her, who had never oft"ended me ; but would be so much the gentleman's friend, as to dissuade him from a pursuit, which he could never succeed in.' You may remember, I thought her in earnest ; and you were forced to employ your cousin Wfll, who made his sister get acquainted with her, for you. You cannot expect her to be for ever fifteen." "Fifteen!" replied my good friend : "Ah ! you Uttle understand, you that have lived a bachelor, how great, how exqui- site a pleasure there is, in being really be- loved I It is impossible, that the most beau- teous face in nature should raise in me such pleasmg ideas, as when I look upon that excel- lent woman. That fading in her countenance is chieliy caused b}^ her watching with me, in m.y fever. This was followed by a fit of sick- ness, which had like to have carried her off last winter. I tell you sincerely, I have so many obligations to her, that I cannot, with any sort of moderation, think of her present state of health. But as to what you say of fifteen, she gives me every day pleasures be- yond what I ever knew in the possession of her beauty, when I was in the vigour of youth. Every moment of her life brings me fresh in- stances of her complacency to my inclinations, and her prudence in regard to my fortune. Her face is to me much more beautiful than when I first saw it ; there is no decay in any feature, which I cannot trace, from the very instant it was occasioned by some anxious concern for my v.'elfare and interests. Thus, at the same time, methinks, the love I con- ceived towards her for what she was, is height- ened by my gratitude for what she is. The love of a wife is as much above the idle passion commonly called by that name, as the loud laughter of buffoons is inferior to the elegant mirth of gentlemen. Oh ! she is an itiestima- ble jewel. In her examination of her house- hold affairs, she shows a certain fearfulness to find a fault, which makes her servants obey her like children ; and the meanest we have has an ingenuous shame for an oft'ence, not always to be seen in children in other families. I speak freely to you, my old friend ; ever since her sickness, things that gave me the quickest joy before, turn now to a certain anxiety. As the children play in the next room, I know the poor things by their steps, and am considering what they must do,' should they lose their mother in their tender years. The pleasure I used to take in telling my boy stories of battles, and asking my girl questions about the disposal of her baby.^ and the gossiping of it, is turned into inward re- flection and melancholy." He would have gone on in this tender way, when the good lady entered, and with an in- expressible sweetness in her countenance told us, "she had been searching her closet for ^ joke - events doU 256 SIR RICHARD STEELE something very good, to treat such an old friend as I was." Her husband's eyes sparkled with pleasure at the cheerfulness of her countenance ; and I saw all his fears van- ish in an instant. The lady observing some- thing in our looks which showed we had been more serious than ordinar}^, and seeing her husband receive her with great concern under a forced cheerfulness, immediately guessed at what we had been talking of; and applying herself to me, said, with a smile, "Mr. Bickerstaff, do not believe a word of what he tells you, I shall still live to have you for my second, as I have often promised you, unless he takes more care of himself than he has done since his coming to town. You must know, he tells me that he finds London is a much more healthy place than the country ; for he sees several of his old acquaintance and school-fellows are here young fellows with fair full-bottomed periwigs.^ I could scarce keep him in this morning from going out open-breasted." ^ My friend, who is always extremely delighted with her agreeable humour, made her sit down with us. She did it with that easiness which is peculiar to women of sense ; and to keep up the good humour she had brought in with her, turned her raillery upon me. "Mr. Bickerstaff, you remember you followed me one night from the play-house ; suppose you should carry me thither to-morrow night, and lead me into the front box." This put us into a long field of discourse about the beauties, who were mothers to the present, and shined in the boxes twenty years ago. I told her, "I was glad she had transferred so many of her charms, and I did not question but her eldest daughter was within half-a-year of being a toast." We v/ere pleasing ourselves with this fan- tastical preferment of the young lady, when on a sudden we were alarmed with the noise of a drum, and immediately entered my little god- son to give me a point of war.^ His mother, between laughing and chiding, would have put him out of the room ; but I would not part with him so. I found, upon conversation with him, though he was a fit tie noisy in his mirth, that the child had excellent parts,^ and was a great master of all the learning on the ' such as only young men wore ^ with his coat unbuttoned, like a young gallant ^ a signal on a drum or trumpet '' abilities other side eight years old. I perceived him a very great historian in /Esop's Fables : but he frankly declared to me his mind, "that he did not delight in that learning, because he did not believe they were true;" for which reason I found he had very much turned his studies, for about a twelvemonth past, into the lives and adventures of Don Belianis of Greece,^ Guy of Warwick,- the Seven Cham- pions,^ and other historians of that age. I could not but observe the satisfaction the father took in the forwardness of his son ; and that these diversions might turn to some profit, I found the boy had made remarks, which might be of service to him during the course of his whole life. He would tell you the mismanagements of John Hickerthrift,* find fault with the passionate temper in Bevis of Southampton,^ and loved St. George for being the champion of England ; ^ and by this means had his thoughts insensibly moulded into the notions of discretion, virtue, and honour. I was extolling his accomplishments, when the mother told me, that the little girl who led me in this morning was in her way a better scholar than he. "Betty," said she, "deals chiefly in fairies and sprights; and sometimes in a winter-night will terrify the maids with her accounts, until they are afraid to go up to bed." I sat with them until it was very late, some- times in merry, sometimes in serious discourse, with this particular pleasure, which gives the only true relish to all conversation, a sense that every one of us liked each other. I v/ent home, considering the different conditions of a married life and that of a bachelor; and I must confess it struck me with a secret con- cern, to reflect, that v/henever I go off I shall leave no traces behind me. In this pensive mood I returned to my family ; that is to say, to my maid, my dog, and my cat, v;ho only can be the better or worse for what happens to me. ^ hero of a Spanish romance translated into English in 1598 ^a legendary English hero, who killed a giant ^ St. George of England, St. Andrew of Scotland, St. Patrick of Ireland, St. David of Wales, etc. "* a nursery-tale hero, like Jack the Giant Killer ^hero of a very popular semi- religious mediaeval romance. ® These heroes of the earlier romances had become in the eighteenth century the subjects of chap-books for children and the common people. THE TATLER 257 THE TATLER NO. 167. MAY 4, 1 710 Segniiis irritant animos demissa per aures, Quam quae sunt oculis submissa Jidelibus?- — HoR. From my own Apartment, May 2. Having received notice, that the famous actor, Mr. Betterton, was to be interred this evening in the cloisters near Westminster Abbey, I was resolved to walk thither, and see the last office done to a man whom I had always very much admired, and from whose action I had received more strong impressions of what is great and noble in human nature, than from the arguments of the most solid philosophers, or the descriptions of the most charming poets I had ever read. As the rude and untaught multitude are no way wrought upon more effectually than by seeing public punishments and executions ; so men of letters and education feel their humanity most forcibly exercised, when they attend the obsequies of men who had arrived at any per- fection in liberal accomplishments. Theatri- cal action is to be esteemed as such, except it be objected, that we cannot call that an art which cannot be attained by art. Voice, stature, motion, and other gifts, must be very bountifully bestowed by nature, or labour and industry will but push the unhappy en- deavourer in that way, the farther off his wishes. Such an actor as Mr. Betterton ought to be recorded with the same respect as Roscius among the Romans. The greatest orator has thought fit to quote his judgment, and cele- brate his life. Roscius was the example to all that would form themselves into proper and winning behaviour. His action was so well adapted to the sentiments he expressed, that the youth of Rome thought they only wanted to be virtuous to be as graceful in their ap- pearance as Roscius. The imagination took a lovely impression of what was great and good ; and they who never thought of setting up for the art of imitation, became themselves inimitable characters. There is no human invention so aptly calculated for the forming a free-born people as that of a theatre. Tully reports, that the ^ Things told move us less than those seen by our own faithful eyes. celebrated player of whom I am speaking, used frequently to say, "The perfection of an actor is only to become what he is doing." Young men, who are too inattentive to re- ceive lectures, are irresistibly taken with per- formances. Hence it is, that I extremely lament the little relish the gentry of this nation have at present for the just and noble representations in some of our tragedies. The operas, which are of late introduced, can leave no trace behind them that can be of service beyond the present moment. To sing and to dance, are accomplishments very few have any thoughts of practising ; but to speak justly, and move gracefully, is what every man thinks he does perform, or wishes he did. I have hardly a notion, that any performer of antiquity could surpass the action of Mr. Betterton in any of the occasions in which he has appeared on our stage. The wonderful agony which he appeared in, when he exam- ined the circumstance of the handkerchief in Othello ; the mixture of love that intruded upon his mind, upon the innocent ans\vers Desdemona makes, betrayed in his gesture such a variety and vicissitude of passions, as would admonish a man to be afraid of his own heart, and perfectly convince him, that it is to stab it, to admit that worst of daggers, jealousy. Whoever reads in his closet^ this admirable scene, will find that he cannot, except he has as warm an imagination as Shakespeare himself, find any but dry, inco- herent, and broken sentences: but a reader that has seen Betterton act it, observes there could not be a word added ; that longer speeches had been unnatural, nay, impossible, in Othello's circumstances. The charming passage in the same tragedy, where he tells the manner of vanning the affection of his mistress, was urged with so moving and grace- ful an energy, that while I walked in the Clois- ters, I thought of him with the same concern as if I waited for the remains of a person who had in real life done all that I had seen him represent. The gloom of the place, and faint lights before the ceremony appeared, contrib- uted to the melancholy disposition I was in ; and I began to be extremely afflicted, that Brutus and Cassius had any difference ; that Hotspur's gallantry was so unfortunate ; and that the mirth and good humour of Falstaff ^ private room 258 SIR RICHARD STEELE could not exempt him from the grave. Nay, this occasion in me, who look upon the dis- tinctions amongst men to be merely scenical, raised reflections upon the emptiness of all human perfection and greatness in general ; and I could not but regret, that the sacred heads which lie buried in the neighbourhood of this little portion of earth in which my poor old friend is deposited, are returned to dust as well as he, and that there is no difference in the grave between the imaginary and the real monarch. This made me say of human life itself with Macbeth : To-morrow, to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in a stealing pace from day to day, To the last moment of recorded time ! And all our yesterdays have lighted fools To the eternal night ! Out, out, short candle ! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. The mention I have here made of Mr. Betterton, for whom I had, as long as I have known anything, a very great esteem and gratitude for the pleasure he gave me, can do him no good ; but it may possibly be of ser- vice to the unhappy woman he has left behind him, to have it known, that this great trage- dian was never in a scene half so moving, as the circumstances of his ai?airs created at his departure. His wife after the cohabitation of forty years In the strictest amity, has long pined away with a sense of his decay, as well in his person as his little fortune ; and, in proportion to that, she has herself decayed both in her health and reason. Her husband's death, added to her age and infirmities, would certainly have determined ^ her life, but that the greatness of her distress has been her relief, by a present deprivation of her senses. This absence of reason is her best defence against sorrow, poverty, and sickness. I dwell upon this account so distinctly, in obedi- ence to a certain great spirit, who hides her name, and has by letter applied to me to recommend to her some object of compassion, from whom she may be concealed. This, I think, is a proper occasion for exert- ing such heroic generosity ; and as there is an ingenuous shame in those who have known better fortune to be reduced to receive obliga- tions, as well as a becoming pain in the truly ^ ended generous to receive thanks ; in this case both these delicacies are preserved ; for the person obliged is as incapable of knowing her bene- factress, as her benefactress is unwilling to be known by her. THE TATLER NO. 264. DECEMBER 16, 1710 Favele Unguis.^ — Hoe. Od. iii. 2. 2. Boccalini,^ in his "Parnassus," indicts a la- conic writer for speaking that in three words which he might have said in two, and sen- tences him for his punishment to read over all the words of Guicciardini.^ This Guicciardini is so very prolix and circumstantial in his writings, that I remember our countryman. Doctor Donne, speaking of that majestic and concise manner in which ISIoses has described the creation of the world, adds, "that if such an author as Guicciardini were to have written on such a subject, the world itself would not have been able to have contained the books that gave the history of its creation." I look upon a tedious talker, or what is generally known by the name of a story-teller, to be much more insufferable than even a prolix writer. An author may be tossed out of your hand, and thrown aside when he grows dull and tiresome ; but such liberties are so far from being allowed towards your orators in common conversation, that I have known a challenge sent a person for going out of the room abruptly, and leaving a man of honour in the midst of a dissertation. This evil is at present so verj^ common and epidemical, that there is scarce a coffee-house * in town that has not some speakers belonging to it, who utter their political essays, and draw parallels out of Baker's " Chronicle" ^ to almost every part of her majesty's reign. It was said of two ancient authors, who had very different beauties in their style, "that if you took a word from one of them, you only spoiled his eloquence ; but if you took a word from the other, you spoiled his sense." I have often applied the first part of this criticism to sev- eral of these coffee-house speakers whom I ^ Spare speech ^ an Italian critic, who wrote in 161 2 ^ an Italian historian of the sixteenth century * See Macaulay's account, p. 516. ^an old-fashioned history of England, pub. 1641 THE TATLER 259 have at present in my thoughts, though the character that is given to the last of those authors, is what I would recommend to the imitation of my loving countrymen. But it is not only pubhc places of resort, but private clubs and conversations over a bottle, that are infested with this loquacious kind of animal, especially with that species which I compre- hend under the name of a story-teUer. I would earnestly desire these gentlemen to consider, that no point of wit or mirth at the end of a story can atone for the half hour that has been lost before they come at it. I would likewise lay it home to their serious consider- ation, whether they think that every man in the company has not a right to speak as well as themselves? and whether they do not think they are invading another man's property, when they engross the time vrhich should be divided equally among the company to their own private use? What makes this evU the much greater in conversation is, that these humdrum com- panions seldom endeavour to wand up their narrations into a point of mirth or instruction, which might make some amends for the tediousness of them ; but think they have a right to tell anything that has happened with- in their memory. They look upon matter of fact to be a sufficient foundation for a story, and give us a long account of things, not be- cause they are entertaining or surprising, but because they are true. My ingenious kinsman, Mr. Humphry Wagstaff, used to say, "the life of man is too short for a story-teller." ]\Iethusalem might be half an hour in tell- ing what o'clock it was : but as for us post- diluvians, we ought to do everj'thing in haste ; and in our speeches, as well as actions, remem- ber that our time is short. A man that talks for a quarter of an hour together in company, if I meet him frequently, takes up a great part of my span. A quarter of an hour may be reckoned the eight-and-fortieth part of a day, a day the three hundred and sixtieth part of a year, and a year the threescore and tenth part of Ufe. By this moral arithmetic, supposing a man to be in the talking world one third part of the day, whoever gives another a quarter of an hour's hearing, makes him a sacrifice of more than the four hundred thousandth part of his conversable life. 1 would establish but one great general rule to be observed in aU conversation, which is this, "that men should not talk to please themselves, but those that hear them." This would make them consider, whether what they speak be worth hearing ; whether there be either wit or sense in what they are about to say ; and, whether it be adapted to the time when, the place where, and the person to whom, it is spoken. For the utter extirpation of these orators and story-tellers, which I look upon as very great pests of society, I have invented a watch which divides the minute into twelve parts, after the same manner that the ordinary watches are divided into hours : and will en- deavour to get a patent,^ which shall oblige every club or company to provide themselves with one of these watches, that shall he upon the table as an hour-glass is often placed near the pulpit, to measure out the length of a discourse. I shall be wilUng to allow a man one round of my watch, that is, a whole minute, to speak in ; but if he exceeds that time, it shall be lawful for any of the company to look upon the watch, or to call him down to order. Provided, however, that if any one can make it appear he is turned of threescore, he may take two, or, if he pleases, three rounds of the watch without giving offence. Pro- vided, also, that this rule be not construed to extend to the fair sex, who shall still be at hberty to talk by the ordinary watch that is now in uSe. I would likewise earnestly recom- mend this little automaton, which may be easUy carried in the pocket without any in- cumbrance, to all such as. are troubled with this infirmity of speech, that upon pulling out their watches, they may have frequent occa- sion to consider what they are doing, and by that means cut the thread of the story short, and hurry to a conclusion. I shall only add, that this watch, with a paper of directions how to use it, is sold at Charles Lillie's. I am afraid a Tatler will be thought a very improper paper to censure this humour of being talkative ; but I would have my readers know that there is a great difference between tattle and loquacity, as I shall show at large in a following lucubration ; it being my design to throw away a candle - upon that subject, in order to explain the whole art of tattling in all its branches and subdivisions. ^ a royal order ^ i.e. burn it in composing an essay 26o SIR RICHARD STEELE THE SPECTATOR NO. II. MARCH 13, 1711 Dat veniam corvis, vcxat censiira columhas} — Juv. Sat. ii. 63. Arietta is visited by all persons of both sexes, who have any pretence to wit and gallantry. She is in that time of life which is neither affected with the follies of youth, nor infirmities of age ; and her conversation is so mixed with gaiety and prudence, that she is agreeable both to the young and the old. Her behaviour is very frank, without being in the least blameable : and as she is out of the track of any amorous or ambitious pursuits of her own, her visitants entertain her with accovmts of themselves very freely, whether they concern their passions or their interests. I made her a visit this afternoon, having been formerly introduced to the honour of her acquaintance by my friend Will Honeycomb, who has prevailed upon her to admit me sometimes into her assembly, as a civil in- offensive man. I found her accompanied with one person only, a common-place talker, who, upon my entrance, arose, and after a very slight civility sat down again ; then, turning to Arietta, pursued his discourse, which I found was upon the old topic of constancy in love. He went on with great facility in repeating what he talks every day of his life ; and with the ornaments of insignificant laughs and gestures, enforced his arguments by quota- tions out of plays and songs, which allude to the perjuries of the fair, and the general levity of women. Methought he strove to shine more than ordinarily in his talkative way, that he might insult my silence, and distin- guish himself before a woman of Arietta's taste, and understanding. She had often an inclination to interrupt him, but could find no opportunity, till the larum ceased of itself, which it did not till he had repeated and mur- dered the celebrated story of the Ephcsian Matron. 2 Arietta seemed to regard this piece of raillery as an outrage done to her sex ; as in- deed I have always observed that women, whether out of a nicer regard to their honour, or what other reason I cannot tell, are more ^ Censure spares the crows and attacks the doves. 2 A story of an easily consoled widow, told by Petronius, a Latin writer of the first century. sensibly touched with those general aspersions which are cast upon their sex, than men are by what is said of theirs. When she had a little recovered herself from the serious anger she was in, she replied in the following manner : "Sir, when I consider how perfectly new all you have said on this subject is, and that the story you have given us is not quite two thou- sand years old, I cannot but think it a piece of presumption to dispute it with you ; but 3^our quotations put me in mind of the fable of the lion and the man. The man walking with that noble animal, showed him, in the ostentation of human superiority, a sign of a man killing a lion. Upon which, the lion said very justly, 'We lions are none of us painters, else we could show a hundred men killed by lions for one lion killed by a man.' You men are writers, and can represent us women as unbecoming as you please in your works, while we are unable to return the injury. You have twice or thrice observed in your dis- course, that hypocrisy is the very foundation of our education ; and that an ability to dis- semble our affections is a professed part of our breeding. These and such other reflec- tions are sprinkled up and do-\vn the writings of all ages, by authors, who leave behind them memorials of their resentment against the scorn of particular women, in invectives against the whole sex. Such a writer, I doubt not, was the celebrated Petronius, who invented the pleasant aggravations of the frailty of the Ephesian lady; but when we consider this question between the sexes, which has been either a point of dispute or raillery ever since there were men and women, let us take facts from plain people, and from such as have not either ambition or capacity to embellish their narrations with any beauties of imagination. I was the other day amusing myself with Ligon's Account of Bai-badoes ; ' and, in answer to your well- wrought tale, I will give you, (as it dwells upon my memory) out of that honest traveller, in his fifty-fifth page, the history of Inkle and Yarico. "'Mr. Thomas Inkle, of London, aged twenty years, embarked in the Downs, ^ on the good ship called the Achilles, bound for the West Indies, on the i6th of June, 1647, in ' pub. 1657 ' a roadstead for ships off the east coast of Kent THE SPECTATOR 261 order to improve his fortune by trade and merchandise. Our adventurer was the third son of an eminent citizen, who had taken particular care to instU into his mind an early love of gain, by making him a perfect master of numbers,^ and consequently giving him a quick view of loss and advantage, and pre- venting the natural impulses of his passions, by prepossession towards his interests. With a mind thus turned, young Inkle had a per- son every way agreeable, a ruddy vigour in his countenance, strength in his hmbs, with ring- lets of fair hair loosely flowing on his shoulders. It happened, in the course of the voyage, that the Achilles, in some distress, put into a creek on the main - of America, in search of provisions. The youth, who is the hero of my story, among others went on shore on this occasion. From their first landing they were observed by a part)^ of Indians, who hid them- selves in the woods for that purpose. The EngUsh unadvisedly marched a great distance from the shore into the countr>% and were in- tercepted by the natives, who slew the greatest number of them. Our adventurer escaped among others, by fl>'ing into a forest. Upon his coming into a remote and pathless part of the wood, he threw himself, tired and breath- less, on a Uttle hillock, when an Indian maid rushed from a thicket behind him. After the first surprise they appeared mutually agree- able to each other. If the European was highly charmed with the limbs, features, and wild graces of the naked American; the American was no less taken with the dress, complexion, and shape of an European, cov- ered from head to foot. The Indian grew immediately enamoured of him, and conse- quently solicitous for his preservation. She therefore conveyed him to a cave, where she gave him a delicious repast of fruits, and led him to a stream to slake his thirst. In the midst of these good ofl&ces, she would some- times play with his hair, and delight in the opposition of its colour to that of her fingers ; then open his bosom, then laugh at him for covering it. She was, it seems, a person of distinction, for she every day came to him in a different dress, of the most beautiful shells, bugles,^ and bredes.'* She Ukewise brought him a great many spoils, which her other lovers had presented to her, so that his cave was richly adorned with all the spotted skins of ^ arithmetic - mainland ^ beads * braided work AE beasts, and most parti-coloured feathers of fowls, which that world aiJorcfed. To make his confinement more tolerable, she would carr>' him in the dusk of the evening, or by the favour of moonlight, to unfrequented groves and solitudes, and show him where to lie down in safety, and sleep amidst the falls of waters and melody of nightingales. Her part was to watch and hold him awake in her arms, for fear of her countr>'men, and wake him on occasions to consult his safety. In this man- ner did the lovers pass away their time, till they had learned a language of their own, in which the voyager commimicated to his mis- tress how happy he should be to have her in his country, where she should be clothed in such silks as his waistcoat was made of, and be carried in houses drawn by horses, without being exposed to wind or weather. All this he promised her the enjo>Tnent of, without such fears and alarms as they were there tor- mented with. In this tender correspondence these lovers lived for several months, when Yarico, instructed by her lover, discovered a vessel on the coast, to v.-hich she made signals ; and in the night, with the utmost jo}^ and satisfaction, accompanied him to a ship's crew of his count r\Tnen bound to Barbadoes. WTien a vessel from the main arrives in that island, it seems the planters come dowTi to the shore, where there is an immediate market of the Indians and other slaves, as with us of horses and oxen. '"To be short, INIr. Thomas Inkle, now coming into English territories, began se- riously to reflect upon his loss of time, and to weigh with himself how many days' interest of his money he had lost during his stay with Yarico. This thought made the young man very pensive, and careful what account he should be able to give his friends of his voyage. Upon which consideration, the prudent and frugal young man sold Yarico to a Barbadian merchant ; notwithstanding that the poor girl, to incline him to commiserate her condi- tion, told him that she was with child by him : but he only made use of that information, to rise in his demands upon the purchaser.'" I was so touched with this story (which I think should be always a counterpart to the Ephesian IMatron) that I left the room wdth tears in my eyes, which a woman of Arietta's good sense did, I am sure, take for greater applause than any compliments I could make her. 262 JOSEPH ADDISON JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719) From THE CAMPAIGN, A POEM TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH But, O my muse, what numbers wilt thou find To sing the furious troops in battle joined! Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound The victor's shouts and dying groans confound, The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies. And all the thunder of the battle rise! 'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty soul was proved. That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved. Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, 281 Examined all the dreadful scenes of war ; In peaceful thought the field of death sur- veyed, To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, Inspired repulsed battalions to engage. And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. So when an angel by divine command With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past,^ Calm and serene he drives the furious blast ; And, pleased the Almighty's orders to per- form, 291 Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. But see the haughty household-troops^ ad- vance ! The dread of Europe, and the pride of France. The war's whole art each private soldier knows, And with a general's love of conquest glows ; Proudly he marches on, and, void of fear. Laughs at the shaking of the British spear: Vain insolence ! with native freedom brave, The meanest Briton scorns the highest slave. HYMN The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. Th' unwearied Sun from day to day 5 Docs his Creator's power, display ; ^ in November, 1703 ^ the royal guard of France And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail. The Moon takes up the wondrous tale ; 10 And nightly to the listening Earth Repeats the story of her birth : Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, 15 And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though in solemn silence ail ]\Iove round the dark terrestrial ball ; What though no real voice nor sound Amidst their radiant orbs be found? 20 In Reason's ear they all rejoice. And utter forth a glorious voice ; Forever singing as they shine, "The Hand that made us is divine." THE SPECTATOR NO. 10. MONDAY, MARCH 12, 1711 Non alilcr quam qui advcrso vix flwnine lembum Remigiis subigit: si hrachia forte remisit, Atque ilium in praeccps prono rapit alveus amni} — ViRG. It is v/ith much satisfaction that I hear this great city inquirmg day by day after these my papers, and receiving my mornmg lectures with a becoming seriousness and attention. My publisher tells me, that there are already three thousand of them distributed every day : So that if I allow twenty readers to every paper, which I look upon as a modest compu- tation, I may reckon abovit threescore thou- sand disciples in London and Westminster, who I hope will take care to distinguish them- selves from the thoughtless herd of their ignorant and unattentive brethren. Since I have raised to myself so great an audience, I shall spare no pains to make their instruction agreeable, and their diversion useful. For which reasons I shall endeavour to enliven morality with wit, and to temper wit with morality, that ray readers may, if possible, ' So the boat's brawny crew the current stem, And, slow advancing, struggle with the stream; But if they slack their hands or cease to strive, Then down the flood with headlong haste they drive. — Dryden. THE SPECTATOR 263 botia ways find their account in the specula- tion of the day. And to the end that their virtue and discretion may not be short, tran- sient, intermitting starts of thoughts, I have resolved to refresh their memories from day to day, till I have recovered them out of that desperate state of vice and folly into which the age is fallen. The mind that hes fallow but a single day, sprouts up in foUies that are only to be killed by a constant and assiduous culture. It was said of Socrates, that he brought philosophy down from heaven, to inhabit among men ; and I shah be ambitious to have it said of me, that I have brought philosophy out of closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell in clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables and in coffee-houses. I would therefore in a ver>' particular manner recommend these my speculations to all well-regulated families, that set apart an hour in every morning for tea and bread and butter ; and would earnestly advise them for their good to order this paper to be punctually served up, and to be looked upon as a part of the tea equipage. Sir Francis Bacon observes, that a well- written book, compared with its rivals and antagonists, is like jMoses's serpent, that im- mediately, swallowed up and devoured those of the Eg>'ptians. I shall not be so vain as to think, that where the Spectator appears, the other pubhc prints will vanish ; But shall leave it to my reader's consideration, whether. Is it not much better to be let into the knowl- edge of one's self, than to hear what passes in Muscovy or Poland; and to amuse our- selves with such writings as tend to the wear- ing out of ignorance, passion, and prejudice, than such as naturally conduce to inflame hatreds, and make enmities irreconcilable? In the next place, I would recormnend this paper to the daily perusal of those gentlemen whom I cannot but consider as my good brothers and allies, I mean the fraternity of Spectators, who hve in the world without having anything to do in it ; and either by the affluence of their fortunes, or laziness of their dispositions, have no other business with the rest of mankind, but to look upon them. Un- der this class of men are comprehended all contemplative tradesmen ,1 titular physicians, ^ Fellows of the Royal-society,^ Templars * that ^ retired merchants ^ physicians who do not practice ^ dilettante scientists * lawyers are not given to be contentious, and statesmen that are out of business ; in short, every one that considers the world as a theatre, and de- sires to form a right judgment of those who are the actors on it. There is another set of men that I must like- wise lay a claim to, whom I have lately called the blanks of society, as being altogether vm- furnished with ideas, till the business and con- versation of the day has supplied them. I have often considered these poor souls with an eye of great commiseration, when I have heard them asking the first man they have met with, whether there was any news stirring? and by that means gathering together mate- rials for thinking. These needy persons do not know what to talk of, till about twelve a clock in the morning ; for by that time they are pretty good judges of the weather, know which way the wind sits, and whether the Dutch mail be come in. As they lie at the mercy of the first man they meet, and are grave or impertinent all the day long, accord- ing to the notions which they have imbibed in the morning, I would earnestly entreat them not to stir out of their chambers till they have read this paper, and do promise them that I will daily instil into them such sound and wholesome sentiments, as shall have a good effect on their conversation for the ensuing twelve hours. But there are none to whom this paper wiU be more useful, than to the female world. I have often thought there has not been suffi- cient pains taken in finding out proper em- ployments and diversions for the fair ones. Their amusements seem contrived for them, rather as they are women, than as they are reasonable creatures ; and are more adapted to the sex than to the species. The toilet is their great scene of business, and the right adjusting of their hair the principal employ- ment of their lives. The sorting of a suit of ribbons is reckoned a very good morning's work; and if they make an excursion to a mercer's or a toy-shop, so great a fatigue makes them unfit for any thing else all the day after. Their more serious occupations are sewing and embroidery, and their greatest drudgery the preparation of jellies and sweet- meats. This, I say, is the state of ordinary women ; though I know there are multitudes of those of a more elevated life and conversa- tion, that move in an exalted sphere of knowl- edge and virtue, that join all the beauties of 264 JOSEPH ADDISON the mind to the ornaments of dress, and inspire a kind of awe and respect, as well as love, into their male beholders. I hope to encrease the number of these by publishing this daily paper, which I shall always endeavour to make an innocent if not an improving enter- tainment, and by that means at least divert the minds of my female readers from greater trifles. At the same time, as I would fain give some finishing touches to those which are already the most beautiful pieces in human nature, I shall endeavour to point out all these imperfections that are the blemishes, as well as those virtues which are the embellishments of the sex. In the meanwhile I hope these my gentle readers, who have so much time on their hands, will not grudge throwing away a quarter of an hour in a day on this paper, since they may do it without any hindrance to busi- ness. I know several of my friends and well- wishers are in great pain for me, lest I should not be able to keep up the spirit of a paper which I oblige myself to furnish every day : But to make them easy in this particular, I will promise them faithfully to give it over as soon as I grow dull. This I know will be matter of great raillery to the small Wits ; who will frequently put me in mind of my prom- ise, desire me to keep my word, assure me that it is high time to give over, with many other little pleasantries of the like nature, which men of a little smart genius cannot forbear throwing out against their best friends, when they have such a handle given them of being witty. But let them remember that I do hereby enter my caveat against this piece of raillery. THOUGHTS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY NO. 26. FRIDAY, MARCH 30, 171 1 Pallida mors aequo pulsat pcde pauperum tahernas Rcgumqicc turres, hcate Sexti. Vilae sunima brevis spem nos vctal inchoare longam, Jam te premet nox, fabulaeque manes, El domus exilis Plutonia} — HoK. i. Od. iv. 13. 1 With equal foot, rich friend, impartial fate Knocks at the cottage, and the palace gate : Life's span forbids thee to extend thy cares, And stretch thy hopes beyond thy years : Night soon will seize, and you must quickly go To story'd ghosts, and Pluto's house below. When I am in a serious humour, I very often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey ; where the gloominess of the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the building, and the condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a whole afternoon in the churchyard, the cloisters, and the church, amusing myself with the tomb- stones and inscriptions that I met with in those several regions of the dead. Most of them recorded nothing else of the buried person, but that he was born upon one day, and died upon another: the whole history of his life being com.prehended in those two circumstances that are common to all man- kind. I could not but look upon these regis- ters of existence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon the departed persons ; who left no other memorial of them, but that they were born, and that they died. They put me in mind of several persons mentioned in the battles of heroic poems, who have sounding names given them, for no other reason but that they may be killed, and are celebrated for nothing but being knocked on the head. " TXavKbv T€ Me56i'Ta re QepffiKox^'' Te. " ^ — HOM. " Glaucumque, Medontaque, Thersilochumque." — ViRG. The life of these men is finely described in Holy Writ by " the path of an arrow," which is immediately closed up and lost. Upon my going into the church, I enter- tained myself with the digging of a grave; and saw in every shovel-full of it that was thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull intermixed with a kind of fresh mouldering earth, that some time or other had a place in the composition of an human body. Upon this I began to consider with myself, what in- numerable multitudes of people lay confused together under the pavement of that ancient cathedral ; how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were crumbled amongst one another, and blended together in the same common mass ; how beauty, strength, and youth, with old age, weakness, and deformity, ^ " Glaucus, and Medon, and Thersilochus." THE SPECTATOR 265 lay undistinguished in the same promiscuous heap of matter. After having thus surveyed this great maga- zine of mortaUty, as it were in the lump, I ex- amined it more particularly by the accounts which I found on several of the monuments which are raised in ever}- quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of them were covered with such extravagant epitaphs, that if it were possible for the dead person to be ac- quainted with them, he would blush at the praises which his friends have bestowed on him. There are others so excessively modest, that they deliver the character of the person departed in Greek or Hebrew, and by that means are not understood once in a twelve- month. In the poetical quarter, I found there were poets who had no monuments, and mon- uments which had no poets. I observed, in- deed, that the present war had filled the church with many of these uninhabited monu- ments, which had been erected to the memory of persons whose bodies were, perhaps, buried in the plains of Blenheim, or in the bosom of the ocean. I could not but be very much delighted with several modern epitaphs, which are written with great elegance of expression and justness of thought, and therefore do honour to the living as well as to the dead. As a foreigner is very apt to conceive an idea of the igno- rance or politeness of a nation from the turn of their public monuments and inscriptions, they should be submitted to the perusal of men of learning and genius before they are put in execution. Sir Cloudesley Shovel's^ monument has very often given me great offence. Instead of the brave, rough, English admiral, Vv^hich was the distinguishing char- acter of that plain, gallant man, he is repre- sented on his tomb by the figure of a beau, dressed in a long periwig, and reposing him- self upon velvet cushions under a canopy of state. The inscription is answerable to. the monument ; for, instead of celebrating the many remarkable actions he had performed in the service of his coimtrj^ it acquaints us only with the manner of his death, in which it was impossible for him to reap any honour. The Dutch, whom we are apt to despise for want of genius, show an infinitely greater taste of antiquity and politeness in their buildings and works of this nature, than what we meet ^ Drowned at sea, 1707 with in those of ovir own coimtry. The monu- ments of their admirals, which have been erected at the pubUc expense, represent them Uke themselves, and are adorned with rostral ^ crowns and naval ornaments, with beautiful festoons of sea-weed, shells, and coral. But to return to our subject. I have left the repository of our English kings for the contemplation of another day, when I shall fijid my mind disposed for so serious an amuse- ment. I know that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise dark and dismal thoughts in timorous minds and gloomy imaginations ; but for my own part, though I am always serious, I do not kiaow what it is to be melancholy ; and can therefore take a view of nature in her deep and solemn scenes, v>ith the same pleasure as in her most gay and delightful ones. By this means I can improve myself with those objects, which others con- sider with terror. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me ; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, ever^' inordinate desire goes out ; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tomb-stone, my heart melts with compas- sion : when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us be contem- poraries, and make our appearance together. THE HEAD-DRESS NO. 98. FRIDAY, JUNE 22, 1711 Tanta est quacrendl ciira decoris.^ — Juv. Sat. vi. 500. There is not so variable a thing in nature as a lady's head-dress. Within my own memory I have known it rise and fall above thirty ^ a crown adorned with figures of prows of ships 2 So studiously their persons they adorn. 266 JOSEPH ADDISON degrees. About ten years ago it shot up to a very great height, insomuch that the female part of our species were much taller than the men. The women were of such an enonnous stature, that "we appeared as grasshoppers before them ; " ^ at present the whole sex is in a manner dwarfed, and shrunk into a race of beauties that seems almost another species. I remember several ladies, who were once very near seven foot high, that at present want some inches of five. How they came to be thus curtailed I cannot learn. Whether the whole sex be at present under any penance which we know nothing of ; or whether they have cast their head-dresses in order to sur- prise us with something in that kind which shall be entirely new ; or whether some of the tallest of the sex, being too cunning for the rest, have contrived this method to make themselves appear sizeable, is still a secret ; though I find most are of opinion, they are at present like trees new lopped and pruned, that will certainly sprout up and flourish with greater heads than before. For my own part, as I do not love to be insulted by women who are taller than myself, I admire the sex much more in their present humilia- tion, which has reduced them to their natural dimensions, than when they had extended their persons and lengthened themselves out into formidable and gigantic figures. I am not for adding to the beautiful edifices of nature, nor for raising any whimsical super- structure upon her plans : I must therefore repeat it, that I am highly pleased with the coiffure now in fashion, and think it shows the good sense which at present very much reigns among the valuable part of the sex. One may observe that women in all ages h^ve taken more pains than men to adorn the out- side of their heads; and indeed I very much admire,^ that those female architects who raise such wonderful structures out of ribands, lace, and v/ire, have not been recorded for their respective inventions. It is certain there have been as many orders in these kinds of building, as in those which have been made of marble. Sometimes they rise in the shape of a pyramid, sometimes like a tower, and sometimes like a steeple. In Juvenal's time the building grew by several orders and stories, as he has very humorously described it: ^ Cf. Numbers xiii : 33 ^ wonder "Tot premit ordinibus, tot adhuc compagibus altum Aedificat caput : Andromachen a f rente videbis ; Post minor est : aliam credas." ^ — Juv. Sal. vi. 501. But I do not remember in any part of my reading, that the head-dress aspired to as great an extravagance as in the fourteenth century ; when it was built up in a couple of cones or spires, which stood so excessively high on each side of the head, that a woman, who was but a Pigmy without her head-dress, appeared like a Colossus upon putting it on. Monsieur Paradin ^ says, "That these old-fashioned fon- tanges ^ rose an ell above the head ; that they were pointed like steeples ; and had long loose pieces of crape fastened to the tops of them, which were curiously fringed, and hung down their backs hke streamers." The vromen might possibly have carried this Gothic building much higher, had not a famous monk, Thomas Conecte ■* by name, at- tacked it with great zeal and resolution. This holy man travelled from place to place to preach down this monstrous commode ; and succeeded so well in it, that, as the magicians sacrificed their books to the flames upon the preaching of an apostle, many of the women threw down their head-dresses in the middle of his sermon, and made a bonfire of them within sight of the pulpit. He was so re- nowned, as well for the sanctity of his life as liis manner of preaching, that'he had often a congregation of twenty thousand people ; the men placing themselves on the one side of his pulpit, and the women on the other, that ap- peared (to use the similitude of an ingenious writer) like a forest of cedars with their heads reaching to the clouds. He so warmed and animated the people against this monstrous ornament, that it lay under a kind of perse- cution ; and, whenever it appeared in public, was pelted down by the rabble, who flung stones at the persons that wore it. But notwithstanding this prodigy vanished while the preacher was among them, it began to ap- 1 " With curls on curls they build her head before, And mount it with a formidable tower : A giantess she seems ; but look behind, And then she dwindles to the pigmy kind." ^a French historian of England (1510-1500) ' a kind of headdress * a Carmelite friar, burned in 1434 THE SPECTATOR ?67 pear again some months after his departure, or, to tell it in JNlonsieur Paradin's own words, "the women, that like snails in a fright had drav.'n in their horns, shot them out again as soon as the danger was over." This extrava- gance of the women's head-dresses in that age is taken notice of by Monsieur d'Argentre ^ in his History of Bretagne, and by other his- torians, as well as the person I have here quoted. It is usually observed, that a good reign is the only proper time for the making of laws against the exorbitance of power ; in the same manner an escessive head-dress may be at- tacked the most effectually when the fashion is against it. I do therefore recommend this paper to my female readers by way of preven- tion. I would desire the fair sex to consider how impossible it is for them to add anything that can be ornamental to what is already the masterpiece of nature. The head has the most beautiful appearance, as well as the high- est station, in a human figure. Nature has laid out all her art in beautifying the face ; she has touched it with vermillion, planted in it a double row of ivory, made it the seat of smiles and blushes, lighted it up and enlivened it with the brightness of the eyes, hung it on each side with the curious organs of sense, giving it airs and graces that cannot be described, and sur- rounded it with such a flowing shade of hair as sets all its beauties in the most agreeable light. In short, she seems to have designed the head as the cupola to the most glorious of her works ; and when we load it with such a pile of supernumerary ornaments, we destroy the symmetry of the human figure, and fool- ishly contrive to call off the eye from great and real beauties, to childish gewgaws, ribands, and bone-lace. THE VISION OF MIRZA NO. 159. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER i, 1711 Omnem, quae nunc obdticta tuenti Morlales hcbetat visits tihi, el huniida circiim Call gat, nubcm eripiani "... — ViRG. Aen. ii. 604. ^ a French writer of the sixteenth century 2 The cloud, which, intercepting the clear light, Hangs o'er thy eyes, and blunts thy mortal sight, I will remove . . . WTien I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several Oriental manuscripts, which I have still by me. Among others I met with one entitled "The Visions of Mirza," which I have read over with great pleasure. I intend to give it to the public when I have no other en- tertainment for them ; and shall begin with the first vision, which I have translated word for word as follows : "On the fifth day of the moon, which ac- cording to the custom of my forefathers I always keep holy, after ha\ang washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I as- cended the high hills of Bagdad, m order to pass the rest of the day in mediiation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the momitains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life ; and passing from one thought to another, ' surely,' said I, 'man is but a shadow, and life a dream.' Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceed- ingly sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from anything I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed soids of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to wear out the impressions of their last ago- nies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. ]\Iy heart melted away in secret raptures. "I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a Genius ; and that sev- eral had been entertained with music v/ho had passed by it, but never heard that the musi- cian had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those trans- porting airs which he played to taste the pleas- ures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature ; and as m}'^ heart was entirely subdued by the captivatmg strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The Genius smiled upon, me Mith a look of com- passion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all 268 JOSEPH ADDISON the fears and apprehensions with which I ap- proached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, 'Mirza,' said he, 'I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.' "He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of it, ' Cast thy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell me what thou seest.' ' I see,' said I, ' a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.' 'The valley that thou seest,' said he, 'is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great Tide of Eter- nity.' 'What is the reason,' said I, 'that the tide I see fises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other?' 'What thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion of eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consumma- tion. Examine now,' said he, 'this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou disco verest in it.' 'I see a bridge/ said I, 'standing in the midst of the tide.' 'The bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is Human Life : consider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of three score and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which added to those that were entire, made up the number about an hundred. As I was counting the arches, the Genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. 'But teU me farther,' said he, 'what thou discoverest on it.' 'I see multi- tudes of people passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud hanging on each end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it ; and upon farther examination, perceived there were innumerable I rap-doors that lay con- cealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disap- peared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of Ihe bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire. "There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. "I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderfid structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens, in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell, out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes and danced before them ; but often when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed and down they sunk. In this confusion of objects, I observed some with scimitars in their hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them. "The Genius seeing me indulge myself on this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. 'Take thine eyes off the bridge,' said he, 'and tell me if thou yet seest anything thou dost not comprehend.' Upon looking up, 'What mean,' said I, 'those great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many other feathered creatures several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches.' 'These,' said the Genius, 'are Envy, Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that infest human life.' "I here fetched a deep sigh. 'Alas,' said I, ' Man was made in vain ! how is he given awa)' to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and swallowed up in death!' The Genius being moved with compassion towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. 'Look no more,' said he, 'on man in the first stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternity ; but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it.' I directed my sight as I was ordered, and (whether or no the good Genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was THE SPECTATOR 269 before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the farther end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it ; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were covered with fruits and flowers, and inter- woven with a thousand little shining seas that ran among them. I coidd see persons dressed in glorious habits with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers ; and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats ; but the Genius told me there was no passage to them except through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. 'The islands,' said he, 'that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sands on the sea-shore : there are myriads of islands behind those which thou here dis- coverest, reaching farther than thine eye, or even thine imagination can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distrib- uted among these several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfec- tions of those who are settled in them : every island is a paradise accommodated to its re- spective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth contending for? Does life appear miserable that gives thee oppor- tunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared that wiU convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him.' I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. At length, said I, ' Show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of ada- mant.' The Genius making me no answer, I turned me about to address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had left me ; I then turned again to the vision which I had been so long contemplating ; but instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it." HILPA AND SHALUM NO. 584. MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 1714 Hie gclidi fontes, Mc mollia prata, Lycori, Hie nemus, hie toto teeum eonsiunerer aevo} — ViRG. Eel. X. 42. Hilpa was one of the hundred and fifty daughters of Zilpah, of the race of Cohu, by whom some of the learned think is meant Cain. She was exceedingly beautiful ; and, when she was but a girl of three score and ten years of age, received the addresses of several who made love to her. Among these were two brothers, Harpath and Shalum. Harpath, being the first-born, was master of that fruit- ful region which hes at the foot of Mount Tirzah, in the southern parts of China. Sha- lum (which is to say the planter in the Chinese language) possessed all the neighboring hills, and that great ra'nge of mountains which goes under the name of Tirzah. Harpath was of a haughty contemptuous spirit ; Shalum was of a gentle disposition, beloved both by God and man. It is said, that among the antediluvian wo- men, the daughters of Cohu had their minds wholly set upon riches ; for which reason the beautiful Hilpa preferred Harpath to Shalum, because of his numerous flocks and herds that covered all the low country which runs along the foot of Mount Tirzah, and is watered by several foimtains and streams breaking out of the sides of that mountain. Harpath made so quick a despatch of his courtship, that he married Hilpa in the hun- dredth year of her age ; and, being of an in- solent temper, laughed to scorn his brother Shalimi for having pretended to the beautiful Hilpa, when he was master of nothing but a 1 Come see what pleasures in our plains abound; The woods, the fountains, and the flow'ry groimd, Here I could live, and love, and die, with only you. 270 JOSEPH ADDISON long chain of rocks and mountains. This so much provoked Shalum, that he is said to have cursed his brother in the bitterness of his heart, and to have prayed that one of his mountains might fall upon his head if ever he came within the shadow of it. From this time forward Harpath would never venture out of the valleys, but came to an untimely end in the two hundred and fiftieth year of his age, being drowned in a river as he attempted to cross it. This river is called to this day, from his name who per- ished in it, the river Harpath: and, what is very remarkable, issues out of one of those mountains which Shalum wished might fall upon his brother, wiien he cursed him in the bitterness of his heart. Hilpa was in the hundred and sixtieth year of her age at the death of her husband, having brought him but fifty children before he was snatched away, as has been already related. Many of the antediluvians made love to the young w'idow; though no one was thought so likely to succeed in her affections as her fijrst lover Shalum, who renewed his court to "her about ten years after the death of Harpath ; for it was not thought decent in those days that a widow should be seen by a man within ten years after the decease of her husband. Shalum falling into a deep melancholy, and resolving to take away that objection which had been raised against him when he made his first addresses to Hilpa, began, imme- diately after her marriage with Harpath, to plant all that mountainous region which fell to his lot in the division of this country. He knew how to adapt every plant to its proper soil, and is thought to have inherited many traditional secrets of that art from the first man. This employment turned at length to his profit as "well as to his amusement ; his mountains were in a few years shaded with young trees, that gradually shot up into groves, w'oods, and forests, intermixed with walks, and lawns, and gardens ; insomuch that the whole region, from a naked and desolate prospect, began now to look like a second Paradise. The pleasantness of the place, and the agreeable disposition of Shalum, who was reckoned one of the mildest and wisest of all who lived before the flood, drew into it mul- titudes of people, who were perpetually em- ployed in the sinking of wells, the digging of trenches, and the hollowing of trees, for the better distribution of water through every part of this spacious plantation. The habitations of Shalum looked every year more beautiful in the eyes of Hilpa, who, after the space of seventy autumns, was wonderfully pleased with the distant prospect of Shalmii's hills, which were then covered with innumerable tufts of trees and gloomy scenes, that gave a magnificence to the place, and converted it into one of the finest land- scapes the eye of man could behold. The Chinese record a letter which Shalum is said to have written to Hilpa in the eleventh year of her ^vidowhood. I shall here trans- late it, without departing from that noble simplicity of sentiment and plainness of manners which appears in the original. Shalum w'as at the time one hundred and eighty years old, and Kilpa one hundred and seventy. "Shalum, IVLvster of Mount Tirzah, to Hilpa, Mistress of the Valleys " In the y88th year of the creation. "What have I not suffered, O thou daughter of Zilpah, since thou gavest thyself away in marriage to my rival 1 I grew weary of the light of the sun, and have been ever since covering myself with woods and forests. These threescore and ten years have I be- wailed the loss of thee on the top of Mount Tirzah, and soothed my melancholy among a thousand gloomy shades of my own raising. My dwellings are at present as the garden of God ; every part of them is filled with fruits, and flowers, and fomitains. The whole mountain is perfumed for thy reception. Come up into it, O m^y beloved, and let us people this spot of the new w^orld with a beautiful race of mortals; let us multiply exceedingly among these delightful shades, and fill every quarter of them with sons and daughters. Remember, O thou daughter of Zilpah, that the age of man is but a thousand years ; that beauty is the admiration but of a few^ centuries. It flourishes as a mountain oak, or as a cedar on the top of Tirzah, which in three or four hundred years will fade away, and never be thought of by posterity, unless a young wood springs from its roots. Think well on this, and remember thy neighbour in the mountains." Having here inserted tljis letter, which I look upon as the only antediluvian billet-doux THE SPECTATOR 271 now extant, I shall in my next paper give the answer to it, and the sequel of this story. NO. 585- WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 25, 1714 Ipsi laetitia voces ad sidera jaciant iHtonsi montes : ipsae jam carmUta rupes, Ipsa sonant arhusta?- — ViRG. Ed. V. 62. The Sequel of the Story of Shalui^i and HlLPA The letter inserted in my last had so good an effect upon Hilpa, that she answered in less than a twelvemonth, after the following "HiLPA, IMlSTRESS OF THE VaLLEYS, TO ShALUM, jMaSTER OF JSlOUXT TiRZAH " In the ySgth year of the creation. "What have I to do with thee, O Shalum? Thou praisest Hilpa's beauty, but art thou not secretly enamoiured with the verdure of her meadows? Art thou not more affected with the prospect of her green valleys, than thou wouldest be with the sight of her person? The lowings of my herds and the bleatings of my flocks make a pleasant echo in thy moun- tains, and sound sweetly in thy ears. What though I am delighted with the wavings of thy forests, and those breezes of perfvunes which flow from the top of Tirzah, are these like the riches of the valley? "I know thee, O Shalum; thou art more wise and happy than any of the sons of men. Thy dwellings are among the cedars ; thou searchest out the diversity of soils, thou under- standest the influences of the stars, and mark- est the change of seasons. Can a woman appear lovely in the eyes of such a one? Disquiet me not, O Shalum ; let me alone, that I may enjoy those goodly possessions which are fallen to my lot. Win me not by thy enticing words. IMay thy trees increase and multiply ! mayest thou add wood to wood, and shade to shade ! but tem.pt not Hilpa to destroy thy sohtude, and make thy retirement populous." The Chinese say that a little time after- wards she accepted of a treat in one of the neighbouring hills to which Shalum had in- 1 The mountain tops unshorn, the rocks rejoice ; The lowl}- shrubs partake of human voice. vited her. This treat lasted for two years, and is said to have cost Shalum five hundred antelopes, two thousand ostriches, and a thousand tun of milk ; but what most of all recommended it, was that variety of deUcious fruits and potherbs, in which no person then living could any way equal Shalum. He treated her in the bower which he had planted amidst the wood of nightingales. The wood was made up of such fruit-trees and plants as are most agreeable to the several kinds of singing-birds ; so that it had drawn into it ail the music of the country, and was filled from one end of the year to the other with the most agreeable concert in season. He showed her every day some beautiful and surprising scene in this new region of woodlands ; and, as by this means he had all the opportunities he could wish for, of open- ing his mind to her, he succeeded so well, that upon her departure she made him a kind of promise, and gave him her word to return him a positive answer in less than fifty years. She had not been long among her own people in the valleys, when she received new overtures, and at the same time a most splendid visit from IMishpach, who was a mighty man of old, and had built a great city, which he called after his own name. Every house was made for at least a thousand 3^ears, nay, there were some that were leased out for three lives ; so that the quantity of stone and timber consumed in this building is scarce to be imxagined by those who live in the present age of the world. This great man entertained her with the voice of musical instruments which had been lately invented,^ and danced before her to the sound of the timbrel. He also presented her with seVeral domestic utensils wrought in brass and iron, which had been newly found out - for the conveniency of life. In the meantime Shalum grew very uneasy with himself, and was sorely displeased at Hilpa for the reception which she had given to Mishpach, insomuch that he never wrote to her or spoke of her during a whole revolution of Saturn ; ^ but, finding that this intercourse went no farther than a visit, he again renewed his addresses to her ; who, during his long silence, is said ven,^ often to have cast a wishing eye upon Mount Tirzah. Her mind continued wavering about twenty ^ Cf. Genesis iv: thirty years 21 ^ Genesis iv: 22 ^ nearly 272 MATl'HEW PRIOR years longer between Shalum and Mishpach ; for though her inclinations favoured the former, her interest pleaded very powerfidly for the other. While her heart was in this unsettled condition, the following accident happened, which determined her choice. A high tower of wood that stood in the city of Mishpach having caught fire by a flash of lightning, in a few days reduced the whole town to ashes. Mishpach resolved to rebuild the place, whatever it should cost him : and, having already destroyed all the timber of the country, he was forced to have recourse to Shalum, whose forests were now two hundred years old. He purchased these woods with so many herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, and with such a vast extent of fields -and pastures, that Shalum was now grown more wealthy than Mishpach ; and therefore appeared so charming in the eyes of Zilpah's daughter, that she no longer refused him in marriage. On the day in which he brought her up into the mountains he raised a most prodigious pile of cedar, and of every sweet smelling wood, which reached above three hundred cubits in height ; he also cast into the pile bundles of myrrh and sheaves of spikenard, enriching it with every spicy shrub, and, making it fat with the gums of his plantations. This was the burnt-offering which Shalum offered in the day of his espousals : the smoke of it ascended up to heaven, and filled the whole country with incense and perfume. MATTHEW PRIOR (1664-1721) TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD Lords, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band, That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high command, To show their passions by their letters. 4 My pen among the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed. 8 Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell, Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion. And I may write till she can spell. 12 For, while she makes her silk-worms beds With all the tender things I swear ; Whilst all the house my passion reads, In papers round her baby's hair; 16 She may receive and own my flame. For, though the strictest prudes should know it. She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet. 20 Then too, alas ! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends ; She'll give me leave to write, I fear. And we shall still continue friends. 24 For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it !) That I shall be past making love. When she begins to comprehend it. 28 THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE I sent for Ratcliffe ; was so ill. That other doctors gave me over : He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill, And I was likely to recover. 4 But when the wit began to wheeze, And wine had warm'd the politician, Cured yesterday of my disease, I died last night of my physician. 8 TO HIS SOUL TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF HADRIAN Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing, Must we no longer live together? And dost thou prune thy trembling wing, 3 To take thy flight thou know'st not whither ? Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly Lie all neglected, all forgot : And pensive, wavering, melancholy, Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know'st not what. 8 ALEXANDER POPE 273 ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744) AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM From PART I 'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill Appear in writing or in judging ill ; But, of the two, less dangerous is th' offence To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. Some few in that, but numbers err in this, 5 Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss ; A fool might once himself alone expose, Now one in verse makes many more in prose. 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 10 In poets as true genius is but rare. True taste as seldom is the critic's share ; Both must alike from Heaven derive their light, These born to judge, as well as those to write. Let such teach others who themselves excel. And censure freely who have written well. 16 Authors are partial to their wit,^ 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment too? First follow Nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same : Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 70 One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart. At once the source, and end, and test of Art. Art from that fund each just supply provides, Works without show, and without pomp pre- sides : 75 In some fair body thus th' informing soul With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole. Each motion guides, and every nerve sus- tains ; Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains. Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been pro- fuse, 80 Want as much more, to turn it to its use ; For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. 'Tis more to guide than spur the Muse's steed ; Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed ; 85 The winged courser, like a generous horse. Shows most true mettle when you check his course. Those rules of old discovered, not devised, Are Nature still, but Nature methodized ; Nature, like liberty, is but restrained go By the same laws which first herself ordained. You, then, whose judgment the right course would steer. Know well each ancient's proper character; His fable, subject, scope in every page; 120 Religion, country, genius of his age : Without all these at once before your eyes, Cavil you may, but never criticise. Be Homer's works your study and delight, Read them by day, and meditate by night ; Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring, 126 And trace the Muses upward to their spring. Still with itself compared, his text peruse ; And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.^ " When first young Maro ^ in his boundless mind 130 A work t' outlast immortal Rome designed, Perhaps he seemed above the critic's law. And but from nature's fountains scorned to draw : But when t' examine every part he came. Nature and Homer v/ere, he found, the same. Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold de- sign ; 136 And rules as strict his laboured work confine. As if the Stagirite ^ o'erlooked each line. Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem ; To copy nature is to copy them. 140 Some beauties yet no precepts can declare. For there's a happiness as well as care. Music resembles poetry, in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach. And which a master-hand alone can reach. If, where the rules not far enough extend, (Since rules were made but to promote their end) 147 Some lucky license answer to the full Th' intent proposed, that license is a rule. Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, 150 May boldly deviate from the common track ; From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, Which without passing through the judg- ment, gains ^ creative power ^ Vergil ^ Aristotle 274 ALEXANDER POPE The heart, and all its end at once attains. 155 In prospects thus, some objects please our eyes, Which out of nature's common order rise, The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, And rise to faults true critics dare not mend. But tho' the ancients thus their rules invade, (As kings dispense with laws themselves have made) 162 Moderns, beware ! or if you must offend Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end; Let it be seldom and compelled by need ; 165 And have, at least, their precedent to plead. The critic else proceeds without remorse, Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force. I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts 169 Those freer beauties, e'en in them, seem faults. Some figures monstrous and misshaped ap- pear, Considered singly, or beheld too near. Which, but proportioned to their light or place, Due distance reconciles to form and grace. A prudent chief not always must display 175 His powers in equal ranks, and fair array, But with th' occasion and the place comply. Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly. Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. 180 From PART II Others for language all their care express. And value books, as women, men, for dress : Their praise is still, ^ — the style is excellent ; The sense, they humbly take upon content. Words are like leaves ; and where they most abound, Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, 311 Its gaudy colours spreads on every place ; The face of nature we no more survey. All glares alike, without distinction gay : But true expression, like th' unchanging sun, Clears and improves whatc'cr it shines upon. It gilds all objects, but it alters none. 317 Expression is the dress of thought, and still Appears more decent, as more suitable ; A vile conceit in pompous words expressed, Is like a clown in regal purple dressed : 321 * always For different styles with different subjects sort, As several garbs with country, town, and court. Some by old words to fame have made pre- tence, Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense ; 325 Such laboured nothings, in so strange a style, Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile. Unlucky, as Fungoso ^ in the play, These sparks with awkward vanity display What the fine gentleman wore yesterday ; 330 And but so mimic ancient wits at best, As apes our grandsires, in their doublets dressed. In words, as fashions, the same ride wUl hold ; Alike fantastic, if too new, or old : Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 336 But most by numbers ^ judge a poet's song ; And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong : In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire, _ 339 Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ; Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear. Not mend their minds; as some to church repair. Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require. The' oft the ear the open vowels tire ; 34s While expletives their feeble aid do join. And ten low words oft creep in one dull line : While they ring round the same imvaried chimes, With sure returns of still expected rhymes ; Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze," 35° In the next line, it "whispers through the trees;" If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep," The reader's threatened (not in vain) with "sleep:" Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmcandng thing they call a thought, 355 A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. ^ In Jonson's Every Man out of his Humour he unsuccessfully attempts to ape the fashionable. ^ metre THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 275 Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow ; And praise the easy vigour of a line, 360 Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance. As those move easiest Vvho have learned to dance. 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an echo to the sense. Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows. And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; 367 But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the tor- rent roar. When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 370 The line too labours, and the words move slow; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, And bid alternate passions fall and rise ! 375 While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove Now burns with glor>% and then melts with love ; Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow : Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, 3S0 And the world's victor stood subdued by soimd ! The power of music all our hearts allow. And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. THE RAPE OF THE LOCK AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM Canto I WTiat dire offence from amorous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things, I sing. — This verse to Caryl, IMuse ! is due ; This, e'en Belinda may vouchsafe to view. Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, 5 If she inspire, and he approve my lays. Say what strange motive. Goddess ! could compel A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle ? Oh, say what stranger cause, yet unexplored, Could make a gentle belle reject a lord ? 10 In tasks so bold, can little men engage, And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage? Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray. And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day. Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake, 1 5 And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake. Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the ground,^ And the pressed watch ^ returned a sUver sound. ^[Belinda stiU her downy piUow pressed. Her guardian sylph prolonged the balmy rest ; 20 'Tv/as he had svunmoned to her silent bed The morning dream that hovered o'er her head ; A youth more glittering than a birth-night beau, (That e'en in slumber caused her cheek to glow) Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay, 25 And thus in whispers said, or seemed to say : "Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished care Of thousand bright inhabitants of air ! If e'er one \asion touched thy infant thought. Of aU the nurse and all the priest have taught. Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, 31 The silver token, ^ and the circled green, ^ Or virgins visited by angel powers, With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly flowers f 34 Hear and believe ! thy own importance know. Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. Some secret truths, from learned pride con- cealed. To maids alone and children arc revealed. What though no credit doubting wits may give? The fair and innocent shall still believe. 40 Know, then, unnumbered spirits roimd thee fly, The light militia of the lower sky. These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, Hang o'er the box, and hover round the Ring.^' Think what an equipage thou hast in air, 45 And view with scorn two pages and a chair.* ^ to summon a servant - a repeater ' TJie lines hetween brackets "were not in the first version- of the poem. * a fairy gift ^ where fairies danced ^ as St. Cecilia was "^ a fashionable drive in Hyde Park * a sedan chair 276 ALEXANDER POPE As now your own, our beings were of old, And once enclosed in woman's beauteous mould ; Thence, by a soft transition, we repair From earthly vehicles to these of air. 50 Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled. That all her vanities at once are dead ; Succeeding vanities she still regards, And though she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards. Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, 55 And love of ombre, ^ after death survive. For when the fair in all their pride expire, To their first elements their souls retire : The sprites of fiery termagants in flame Mount up, and take a salamander's name. 60 Soft yielding minds to water glide away, And sip, Avith nymphs, their elemental tea. The graver prude sinks downward to a gnome. In search of mischief still on earth to roam. The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair, 65 And sport and flutter in the fields of air. " Know further yet : whoever fair and chaste Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embraced ; For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. 70 What guards the purity of melting maids. In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades. Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring spark, 2 The glance by day, the whisper in the dark, When kind occasion prompts their warm de- sires, _ 75 When music softens, and when dancing fires? 'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know. Though honour is the word with men below. Some nymphs there arc, too conscious of their face,'^ For life predestined to the gnomes' embrace. These swell their prospects and exalt their pride, 81 When offers are disdained, and love denied : Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train. And garters, stars, and coronets ■* appear, 85 And in soft sounds ' Your Grace ' salutes their ear. 'Tis these that early taint the female soul. Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll. ^ a game of cards ^ beau ' beauty of rank ' symbols Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know, And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 90 "Oft when the world imagine women stray. The sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way. Through all the giddy circle they pursue. And old impertinence expel by new. What tender maid but must a victim fall 95 To one man's treat, but for another's ball? When Florio speaks, what virgin could with- stand. If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand ? With varying vanities, from every part. They shift the moving toyshop of their heart ; Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, loi Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. This erring mortals levity may call ; Oh, blind to truth ! the sylphs contrive it all. "Of these am I, who thy protection claim, A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. 106 Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air,. In the clear mirror of thy ruling star I saw, alas ! some dread event impend, Ere to the main ^ this morning sun descend, But Heaven reveals not what, or how, or where. 1 1 1 Warned by the sylph, O pious maid, beware ! This to disclose is all thy guardian can : Beware of aU, but m.ost beware of man !" He said ; when Shock, who thought she slept too long, 115 Leaped up, and waked his mistress with his tongue. 'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true. Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux ; Wounds, charms, and ardours were no sooner read. But all the vision vanished from thy head. And now, unveiled, the toilet stands dis- played, 121 Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores. With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. A heavenly image in the glass appears, 125 To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears ; Th' inferior priestess,^ at her altar's side. Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here ^I'he various offerings of the world appear ; From each she nicely culls with curious toil, And decks the goddess with the gUttering spoil. 132 ^ the ocean ^ her maid THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 277 This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. The tortoise here and elephant unite, 135 Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puft's, powders, patches, bibles, billets-doux Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; The fair each moment rises in her charms, 140 Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her face ; Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. The busy sylphs surround their darling care, These set the head,^ and those divide the hair, Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown; 147 And Betty's praised for labours not her own. C.4NTO II Not with more glories, in th' ethereal plain, The sun first rises o'er the purpled main,] ^ Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. Fair nymphs, and weU-dressed youths around her shone, 5 But every eye was fixed on her alone. On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore. Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose. Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those ;io Favours to none, to all she smiles extends ; Oft she rejects, but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, And, like the sim, they shine on all alike. Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, 15 ]\Iight hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide ; If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. This nymph, to the destruction of man- kind, Nourished two locks, which graceful hung be- hind 20 In equal curls, and well conspired to deck With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. With hairy springes we the birds betray, 25 Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey, * head-dress ^ Here etids the first addition to the original version. AE « Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare. And beauty draws us with a single hair. Th' adventurous baron ^ the bright locks ad- mired ; He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. Resolved to win, he meditates the way, 31 By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; For when success a lover's toil attends. Few ask, if fraud or force attained his ends. For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored Propitious Heaven, and every power adored, But chiefly Love ; to Love an altar built. Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves. And all the trophies of his former loves ; 40 With tender billets-doux he lights the pyre. And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire. Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer ; 45 The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. ^[But now secure the painted vessel glides, The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides ; While melting music steals upon the sky, And softened sounds along the waters die ; 50 Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. All but the sylph — wdth carefid thoughts oppressed, Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. He summons straight his denizens of air ; 55 The lucid squadrons round the sails repair ; Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe. That seemed but zephjTs to the train beneath. Some to the sun their insect wings unfold. Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold ; Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light. Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew. Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies, 65 Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, WTiile every beam new transient colours flings, Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings. Amid the circle, on the gflded mast, ^ Lord Petre - Here begins the second addi- tion to the original version. 278 ALEXANDER POPE Superior by the head, was Ariel placed ; 70 His purple pinions opening to the sun, He raised his azure wand, and thus begun : "Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give ear ! Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, hear ! Ye know the spheres, and various tasks as- signed _ 75 By laws eternal to th' aerial kind. Some in the fields of purest aether play, And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high. Or roll the planets through the boundless sky. Some less refined, beneath the moon's pale light 81 Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night. Or suck the mists in grosser air below, Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain ; 86 Others on earth o'er human race preside, Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide : Of these the chief the care of nations own, And guard with arms divine the British throne. "Our humbler province is to tend the fair. Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care ; To save the powder from too rude a gale, Nor let th' imprisoned essences exhale ; To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers ; To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in showers, 96 A brighter wash ; to curl their waving hairs, Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs ; Nay, oft in dreams, invention we bestow, To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. 100 "This day, black omens threat the brightest fair That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care; Some dire disaster, or by force, or sleight ; But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in night. Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, Or some frail china jar receive a flaw ; 106 Or stain her honour, or her new brocade ; Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball ; Or whether Heaven has doomed that Shock must fall. no Haste, then, ye spirits ! to your charge repair ; The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care; The drops ^ to thee, Brillante, we consign ; And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine ; Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favourite lock ; Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. 116 To fitly chosen sylphs, of special note, We trust th' important charge, the petticoat : Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to fafl. Though stiff with hoops, and armed with ribs of whale; 120 Form a strong line about the silver bound, And guard the wide circumference around. "Whatever spirit, careless of his charge. His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large. Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, 125 Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins ; Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie. Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye ; Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, Whfle clogged he beats his silken wings in vain; 130 Or alum styptics with contracting power Shrink his thin essence like a rivelled ^ flower ; Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shaU feel The giddy motion of the whirling mill,^ In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, 135 And tremble at the sea that froths below !". He spoke ; the spirits from the safls de- scend ; Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend ; Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair ; Some hang upon the pendants of her ear ; 140 With beating hearts the dire event they wait. Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate.] ■• Canto HI Close by those meads, forever crowned with flowers. Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers, There stands a structure of majestic frame, Which from the neighbouring Hampton^ takes its name. Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home ; 6 Here thou, great Anna ! whom three realms obey, Dost sometimes counsel take — and some- times tea. ^ ear-rings ^ withered ^ chocolate mill. '' Here ends the second addition to the original version. ^ Hampton Court THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 279 Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, To taste awhile the pleasures of a court ; 10 In various talk th' instructive hours they passed, Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last ; One speaks the glory of the British Queen, And one describes a charming Indian screen ; A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes ; At every word a reputation dies. 16 Snuff,^ or the fan, supply each pause of chat, With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray ; 20 The hungry' judges soon the sentence sign. And wretches hang that jurymen may dine ; The merchant from th' Exchange returns in peace, And the long labours of the toilet cease. ^ [Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, 25 Burns to encounter two adventurous knights. At ombre singly to decide their doom ; And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, Each band the number of the sacred nine.^ 30 Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard Descend, and sit on each important card: First, Ariel perched upon a Matadore, Then each, according to the rank they bore ; For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race. Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. Behold, four kings in majesty revered, With hoary whiskers and a forky beard ; And four fair queens whose hands sustain a flower. The expressive emblem of their softer power ; Four knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band. Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand ; 42 And parti-coloured troops, a shining train, Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. The skilful nymph reviews her force with care : 45 Let spades be trumps ! she said, and trumps they were. Now moved to war her sable Matadores, In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. Spadillio "^ first, unconquerable lord ! Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. 50 ^ Suiifl was then fashionable. ^ Here begins the third addition. ^ the Muses ^ ace of spades, the highest trump As many more Manillio ' forced to yield And marched a victor from the verdant field. Him Basto " followed, but his fate more hard Gained but one trump and one plebeian card. With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, The hoary majesty of spades appears, 56 Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed, The rest, his many-coloured robe concealed. The rebel knave, who dares his prince engage, Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 60 E'en mighty Pam,^ that kings and queens o'er- threw. And mowed dowm armies in the fights of Loo,* Sad chance of war ! now destitute of aid. Falls undistinguished by the victor spade! Thus far both armdes to Belinda yield ; 65 Now to the baron fate inclines the field. His warlilce Amazon her host invades. The imperial consort of the crown of spades ; The club's black tyrant first her victim died, Spite of his haughty mien, and barbarous pride. 70 \\Tiat boots the regal circle on his head. His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread ; That long behind he trails his pompous robe, And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe? The baron now his diamonds pours apace ; Th' embroidered king who shows but half his face, 76 And his refulgent queen, Avith powers com- bined. Of broken troops an easy conquest find. Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen, With throngs promiscuous strew the level green. ^ 80 Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons. With like confusion different nations fly, Of various habit, and of various dye. The pierced battalions disunited fall, 85 In heaps on heaps ; one fate o'erwhelms them all. The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts, And wins (oh shamefrd chance !) the queen of hearts. At this the blood the xdrgin's cheek forsook, A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look ; 90 She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille.^ ^ deuce of spades, the next highest ^ace of clubs, third trump. These three are called "maiadores." ^ knave of clubs * another game, in which Pam is the highest card ^ the card table ^ a term sig- nifj-nng the defeat of the single player 28o ALEXANDER POPE And now (as oft in some distempered state) On one nice trick depends the general fate. An ace of laearts steps forth ; the king unseen Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive queen : ■ 96 He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky ; The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. Oh thoughtless mortals ! ever blind to fate. Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. 102 Sudden, these honours shall be snatched away, And cursed forever this victorious day.] ^ For lo ! the board with cups and spoons is crowned, 105 The berries - crackle, and the mill turns round ; On shining altars of Japan ^ they raise The sUver lamp ; the fiery spirits blaze : From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide. While China's earth ■* receives the smoking tide : At once they gratify their scent and taste, 1 1 1 And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. Straight hover round the fair her airy band ; Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned, Some o'er her lap their careful plumes dis- played, 115 Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. Coffee (which makes the politician wise. And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) Sent up in vapours to the baron's brain New stratagems the radiant lock to gain. 1 20 Ah, cease, rash youth ! desist ere 'tis too late, Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate ! Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air. She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair ! * But when to mischief mortals bend their will, _ 125 How soon they find fit instruments of ill ! Just then Clarissa drew with tempting grace A two-edged weapon from her shining case : So ladies in romance assist their knight, 129 Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. He takes the gift with reverence, and extends The little engine on his fingers' ends ; This just behind Belinda's neck he spread. As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. ^ [Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair; 135 And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear; Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew near. Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought The close recesses of the virgin's thought ; 140 As on the nosegay in her breast reclined. He watched th' ideas rising in her mind. Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art, An earthly lover lurking at her heart. Amazed, confused, he found his power ex- pired, _ 145 Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired.]^ The peer now spreads the glittering f orf ex ^ wide, T' inclose the lock; now joins-it, to divide. ^ [E'en then, before the fatal engine closed, A wretched sylph too fondly interposed ; 150 Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain, (But airy substance soon imites again).]* The meeting points the sacred hair dissever From the fair head, forever, and forever ! Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes, _ 155 And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are cast. When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe their last ; Or when rich China vessels, fallen from high. In glittering dust and painted fragments lie ! "Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine," 161 The victor cried ; " the glorious prize is mine ! While fish in streams, or birds delight in air. Or in a coach and six the British fair, As long as Atalantis ^ shall be read, 165 Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed. While visits shall be paid on solemn days. When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze. While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, So long my honour, name, and praise shall live! 170 What Time would spare, from steel receives its- date, And monuments, like men, submit to fate ! Steel could the labour of the gods destroy. And strike to dust th' imperial towers of Troy;* * Here ends the third addition. ^ coffee-laerries ^ japanned tables ■• porcelain ^ Cf. Gayley, p. 219. * Here begins the fourth addition. ^ Here ends the fourth addition. - scissors ^ Here begins the fifth addition. ■* Here ends the fifth ad- dition. ^ a scandalous book of the time THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 281 Steel could the works of mortal pride con- found, 175 And hew triumphal arches to the ground. What wonder then, fair nymph ! thy hairs should feel. The conquering force of unresisted steel?" Canto IV But anxious cares the pensive nymph op- pressed. And secret passions laboured in her breast. Not youthful kings in battle seized alive, Not scornful virgins who their charms survive. Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss, 5 Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss, Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinned awry. E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair. As thou, sad virgin, for thy ravished hair. 10 ^ [For, that sad moment, when the sylphs with- drew And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite. As ever sullied the fair face of light, 14 Down to the central earth, his proper scene, Repaired to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. - Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome, And in a vapour reached the dismal dome. No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air, 21 And screened in shades from day's detested glare, She sighs forever on her pensive bed, Pain at her side, and Megrim ^ at her head. Two handmaids wait the throne, alike in place. But differing far' in figure and in face. 26 Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid, Her wrinkled form in black and white ar- rayed ; With store of prayers, for mornings, nights, and noons Her hand is fiUed ; her bosom with lampoons. There Affectation, with a sickly mien, 31 Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen, Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside. Faints into airs, and languishes with pride. On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, 35 Wrapped in a gown, for sickness, and for show. ^ Here begins the sixth addition. ^ headache hysteria The fair ones feel such maladies as these, When each new night-dress gives a new dis- ease. A constant vapour o'er the palace flies ; 39 Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise ; Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted shades, Or bright, as visions of expiring maids. Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires. Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires ; Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, 45 And crystal domes, and angels in machines.^ Unnumbered throngs on every side are seen. Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen. Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held out, One bent ; the handle this, and that the spout. A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod,- walks ; 51 Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks ; ]Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works. And maids, turned bottles, call aloud for corks. Safe passed the gnome through this fantastic band, _ _ _ 55 A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. Then thus addressed the power : "Hail, way- ward queen ! Who rule the sex, to fifty from fifteen : Parent of vapours ^ and of female wit ; Who give th' hysteric, or poetic fit ; 60 On various tempers act by various ways. Make some take physic, others scribble plays ; Who cause the proud their visits to delay, And send the godly in a pet to pray. 64 A nymph there is, that all thy power disdains, And thousands more in equal mirth main- tains, But oh ! if e'er thy gnome could spoU a grace, Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face. Like citron-waters ■* matrons' cheeks inflame, Or change complexions at a losing game ; 70 If e'er with airy horns I planted heads. Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds. Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude, Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude, Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease, 75 Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease : ^ stage devices for lowering gods or angels from the sky ^ In the Iliad, xviii, 373 ff., Hephaistos is represented as making tripods that could walk. ^ hypochondria * a liquor distilled from citron rinds. 282 ALEXANDER POPE Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin, That single act gives half the world the spleen." The goddess with a discontented air Seems to reject him, though she grants his prayer. 80 A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds. Like that where once Ulysses held the winds ; ^ There she collects the force of female lungs. Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues. A vial next she fills with faintmg fears, 85 Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away. Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day. Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found, Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound. 90 Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent. And all the furies issued at the vent.] ^ Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. ''O wretched maid!" she spread her hands, and cried, 95 (While Hampton's echoes, "Wretched maid ! " replied) "Was it for this yovi took such constant care The bodkin,^ comb, and essence to prepare? For this your locks in paper durance bound. For this with torturing irons wreathed aroimd? 100 For this with fillets strained your tender head. And Ijravely bore the double loads of lead ? ^ Gods ! shall the ravishcr display your hair, While the fops envy, and the ladies stare ! Honour forbid ! at wliose unrivalled shrine Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. 106 Mcthinks already I your tears survey, iVlready hear the horrid things they say, Already see you a degraded toast. And all your honour in a wliisper lost! no How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend? 'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend ! And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes, And heightened by the diamond's circlmg rays, On that rapacious hand forever blaze? 116 Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus ^ grow, ^ Cf. the Odyssey, x, 20. ^ Here ends the sixth addition. ^ Cf. v, 95. ^ for curling the hair * the Ring, cf. i, 44 And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow ; 1 Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!" 120 She said ; then raging to Sir Plume repairs. And bids her beau demand the precious hairs (Sir Plume, of amber snuif-box justly vain. And the nice conduct of a clouded ^ cane) . With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, He first the snuff-box opened, then the case, And thus broke out — "My lord, why, what the devil? 127 Zounds ! damn the lock ! 'fore Gad, you must be civil ! Plague on't ! 'tis past a jest — nay, prithee pox ! Give her the hair," he spoke, and rapped his box. 130 "It grieves me much," replied the peer again, "Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain. But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear. (Which never more shall join its parted hair ; Which never more its honours shall renew, 135 Clipped from the lovely head where late it grew) That while my nostrils draw the vital air, This hand, which won it, shall forever wear." He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread The long-contended honours of her head. 140 ^ [But Umbriel, hateful gnome ! forbears not so ; He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow.] •'' Then see ! the nymph in beauteous grief ajv pears, Her eyes half languishing, half drowned in tears ; On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, Which, with a sigh, she raised ; and thus she said: 146 "Forever curs'd be this detested day. Which snatched my best, my favourite curl away ! Happy ! ah, ten times happy had I been. If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen 1 Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, 151 By love of courts to numerous ills betrayed. Oh, had I rather unadmired remained In some lone isle or distant northern land ; Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, 1 the bells of St. Mary-le-bow, in the older and unfashionable part of London ^ mottled, cf. Tatler, No. 103. ^"^ The seventh addition. THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 283 Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea!^ 156 There kept my charms concealed from mortal eye, Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam? 159 Oh, had I stayed, and said my prayers at home ! 'Twas this, the morning omens seemed to tell : Thrice from my trembhng hand the patch- box ^ fell ; The tottering china shook without a wind ; Nay, Poll ^ sat mute, and Shock * was most un- kind ! A sylph, too, warned me of the threats of fate, In mystic visions, now believed too late ! 166 See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs ! IMy hands shall rend what e'en thy rapine spares ; These in two sable ringlets taught to break. Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck ; The sister lock now sits uncouth, alone, 171 And in its fellow's fate foresees its own ; Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands. And tempts once more, thy sacrilegious hands. Canto V She said : the pitying audience melt in tears. But Fate and Jove had stopped the baron's ears. In vain Thalestris with reproach assails. For who can move when fair Belinda fails? Not half so fixed the Trojan ^ could remain, 5 While Anna begged and Dido raged in vain. ^ [Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan ; Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began : "Say, why are beauties praiised and hon- oured most, The mse man's passion, and the vain man's toast? 10 Why decked with all that land and sea afford. Why angels called, and angel-like adored? Why round our coaches crowd the white- gloved beaux, Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows ? How vain are all these glories, all our pains, 15 Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains ; ^ a kind of tea ^ for patches see the Spectator, No. 81. ^ the parrot * the lap-dog ^ yEneas, cf. /Eneid, iv, 296-440 ^ Bracketed lines were not in the original version. That men may say, when we the front-box grace, 'Behold the first in virtue as in face !' Oh ! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age away. Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce, 21 Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. But since, alas ! frail beauty must decay ; 25 Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to grey ; Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade. And she who scorns a man must die a maid; What then remains but well our power to use, And keep good humour still, whate'er we lose? And trust me, dear ! good humour can prevail. When airs, and flights, and screams, and scold- ing fail. 32 Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll ; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul." So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued ; Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her prude.] "To arms, to arms !" the fierce virago^ cries, And swift as lightning to the combat flies. 38 All side in parties, and begin th' attack ; Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack ; 40 Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus'dly rise, And bass and treble voices strike the skies. No common weapons in their hands are foimd, Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. So when bold Homer makes the gods en- gage, _ _ 45 And heavenly breasts with human passions rage; 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; And all Olympus rings with loud alarms : Jove's thunder roars, Heaven trembles all around. Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps re- soimd : 5° Earth shakes her nodding towers, the groimd gives way. And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day ! 2 [Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's^ height Clapped his glad wings, and sat to view the fight; 1 Thalestris ^ Bracketed lines were not in the original version. ^ candlestick 284 ALEXANDER POPE Propped on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey _ 55 The growing combat, or assist the fray.] While through the press enraged Thalestris flies. And scatters death around from both her eyes, A beau and witling perished in the throng, One died in metaphor, and one in song. 60 "O cruel nymph ! a living death I bear,"^ Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, "Those eyes are made so killing" ^ — was his last. Thus on JNIieander's^ flowery margin lies 65 Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepped in and killed him with a frown ; She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, But, at her smile, the beau revived again. 70 Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair ; The doubtful beam long nods from side to side ; At length the wits mount up, the hairs sub- side. See, fierce Belinda on the Baron flies, 75 With more than usual lightning in her eyes ; Nor feared the chief th' unequal fight to try, Who sought no more than on his foe to die. But this bold lord with manly strength endued. She with one finger and a thumb subdued : 80 Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw ; * [The gnomes direct, to every atom just, The pungent grains of titillating dust.] Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'er- flows, 85 And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. "Now meet thy fate," incensed Belinda cried, And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. ^[(The same, his ancient personage to deck, 89 Her great great grandsire wore about his neck. In three seal-rings ; which after, melted down, Formed a vast l^uckle for his widow's gown ; Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew ; * This is the "metaphor." ^ From a song in the opera Camilla. ^ a winding river in Asia Minor, frequented by swans, cf. Ovid, Epist. vii, i, 2 * Bracketed lines were not in the original version. Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs. Which long she wore, and now Behnda wears.)] "Boast not my fall," he cried, "insulting foe ! 97 Thou by some other shaft be laid as low ; Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind : All that I dread is leaving you behind ! 100 Rather than so, ah, let me still survive, And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn alive." "Restore the lock!" she cries; and all around ' ' Restore the lock ! " the vaulted roofs rebound. Not fierce OtheUo in so loud a strain 105 Roared for the handkerchief that caused his pain. But see how oft ambitious aims are crossed, And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost ! The lock, obtained with guUt, and kept with pain. In every place is sought, but sought in vain : With such a prize no mortal must be blessed, So Heaven decrees ! with Heaven who can contest? 112 Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere. Since all things lost on earth are treasured there. There heroes' vvits are kept in ponderous vases, And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer cases ; There broken vows and death-bed alms are found, 117 And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound, The courtier's promises, and sick man's prayers. The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, 121 Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistiy. But trust the Aluse — she saw it upward rise, Though marked by none but quick, poetic eyes: (So Rome's great founder to the heavens with- drew, 125 To Proculus ^ alone confessed in vievv) A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. Not Berenice's locks ^ first rose so bright, The heavens bespangling with dishevelled light. ^ Cf. Livy, 1,6 ^ The wife of Ptolemy Euergeles dedicated her hair for the safe return of her hus- band ; upon Us disappearance the astronomer Conon reported that it had been changed to the constellation Coma Berenices. ELOISA TO ■ ABELARD 285 ^[The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, 131 And pleased pursue its progress through the skies.] This the beau monde shall from the Mall ^ survey, And hail with music its propitious ray. ^ [This the blest lover shall for Venus take, 135 And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake.^] This Partridge ^ soon shall view in cloudless skies, When next he looks through Galileo's eyes ; * And hence th' egregious wizard shall fore- doom The fate of Louis and the fall of Rome. 140 Then cease, bright nymph ! to mourn thy ravished hair, Which adds new glory to the shining sphere ! Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. For, after all the murders of your eye, 145 When, after millions slain, yourself shall die ; When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, And all those tresses shall be laid in dust : 148 This lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame. And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. From ELOISA TO ABELARD In these deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heavenly-pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns, What means this tumult in a vestal's veins? Why rove my thoughts beyond this last re- treat ? S Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat ? Yet, yet I love ! — from Abelard it came. And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. Dear fatal name ! rest ever unrevealed. Nor pass these lips in holy silence sealed ! 10 Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise. Where mixed with God's, his loved idea lies ! Oh, write it not, my hand — the name appears Already written — wash it out, my tears ! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays ; 1 5 Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. Relentless walls ! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains : ^ Bracketed lines were not in ike original ver- sion. ^ in St. James' Park. ^ an almanac maker ridiculed by Swift ^ a telescope, cf. Par. Lost, I, 288 Ye rugged rocks ! which holy knees have worn ; \e grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn ! 20 Shrines ! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep, And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep ! Though cold Uke you, unmoved and silent grown, I have not yet forgot myself to stone. All is not Heaven's while Abelard has part, 25 Still rebel nature holds out half my heart ; Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse re- strain, Nor tears, for ages taught to flow in vain. Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose. That well-known name awakens all my woes. Oh, name forever sad ! forever dear ! 31 Still breathed in sighs, still ushered with a tear. I tremble too, where'er my own I find ; Some dire misfortune follows close behind. Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow, 35 Led through a sad variety of woe : Now warm in love, now withering in my bloom. Lost in a convent's solitary gloom ! There stern religion quenched th' unwilling flame, 39 There died the best of passions, love and fame. Yet write, oh ! write me all, that I may join Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. Nor foes nor fortune take this power away ; And is my Abelard less kind than they ? Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare, 45 Love but demands what else were shed in prayer ; No happier task these faded eyes pursue ; To read and weep is all they now can do. Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief ; Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief. Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid, _ _ 51 Some banished lover, or some captive maid ; They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires. Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires. The virgin's wish without her fears im- part, 55 Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart. Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul. And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole. Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame, 286 ALEXANt)ER POPE When love approached me under friendship's name ; 60 My fancy formed thee of angehc kind, Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind. Those smiling eyes, attempering every ray, Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day. Guiltless I gazed ; Heaven listened while you sung; 65 And truths divine came mended^ from that tongue. From lips like those what precept failed to move ? Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love ; Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran, Nor wished an angel whom I loved a man. 70 Dim and remote the joys of saints I see ; Nor envy them that Heaven I lose for thee. How happy is the blameless vestal's lot ! The world forgetting, by the world forgot : Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind ! Each prayer accepted, and each wish resigned ; Labour and rest, that equal periods keep ; 211 "Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep ;"^ Desires composed, affegtions ever even ; Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heaven. Grace shines around her with serehest beams, And whispering angels prompt her golden dreams. For her th' vmfading rose of Eden blooms, 217 And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes ; For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring ; For her white virgins hymenaeals sing ; 220 To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away, And melts in visions of eternal day. Far other dreams my erring soul employ, Far other raptures, of unholy joy. 224 When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day. Fancy restores what vengeance snatched away, Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee. curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night ! How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight ! 230 Provoking demons all restraint remove. And stir within me every source of love. 1 hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms, ^ improved ^ Quoted frotn Crashaw. And round thy phantom glue my claspiiig arms. I wake : — no more I hear, no more I view ; The phantom flies me, as unkind as you. 2,36 I call aloud ; it hears not what I say : I stretch my empty arms ; it glides away. To dream once more I close my willing eyes ; Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise ! 240 Alas, no more ! methinks we wandering go Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe. Where round some mouldering tower pale ivy creeps, And low-browed rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps. I 244 Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies ; Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise. I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find, And wake to all the griefs I left behind. From AN ESSAY ON MAN BOOK I Awake, my St. John ! leave ail meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of kings. Let us (since life can little more supply Than just to look about us and to die) Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man ; 5 A mighty maze ! but not without a plan ; A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot ; Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. Together let us beat this ample field, Try what the open, what the covert yield ; 10 The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar ; Eye nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies, And catch the manners living as they rise ; Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; 15 But vindicate the ways of God to man. I. Say first, of God above, or man below, What can we reason, but from what we know ? Of man, what see we but his station here From which to reason or to which refer? 20 Through worlds unnumbered though the God be known, 'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. He, who through vast immensity can pierce. See worlds on worlds compose one universe. Observe how system into system runs, 25 What other planets circle other suns, What varied being peoples every star, AN ESSAY ON MAN 287 May tell why Heaven has made us as we are. But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, The strong connections, nice dependencies, 30 Gradations just, has thy pervading soul Looked through? or can a part contain the whole ? Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee? II. Presumptuous man ! the reason wouldst thou find, 35 \Miy formed so weak, so little, and so blind? First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess. Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less ? Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade ? Or ask of yonder argent fields above, 41 Why Jove's satellites^ are less than Jove. Of systems possible, if 'tis confessed That wisdom infinite must form the best, WTiere all must fuU or not coherent be, 45 And all that rises, rise in due degree ; Then, in the scale of reasoning life, 'tis plain. There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man : And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) Is only this, if God has placed him wTong? 50 Respecting man, whatever wrong we call, IVIay, must be right, as relative to all. In human works, though laboured on with pain, A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain ; In God's, one single can its end produce ; 55 Yet serves to second too some other use. So man, who here seems principal alone. Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal ; 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. 60 Then say not man's imperfect. Heaven in fault ; Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought : 70 His knowledge measured to his state and place. His time a moment, and a point his space. If to be perfect in a certain sphere. What matter, soon or late, or here or there? The blest to-day is as completely so, 75 As who began a thousand j^ears ago. III. Heaven from all creatures hides the book of f^te. All but the page prescribed, their present state : From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer being here below ? 80 The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day. Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. Oh, blindness to the future ! kindly given, 85 That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven : WTio sees ■with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall. Atoms or systems into ruin hurled. And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 90 Flope himibiy then ; with trembling pinions soar ; Wait the great teacher Death ; and God adore. W^hat future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eterpal in the human breast : 95 ]Man never is, but always to be blest. The sold, uneasy and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; His soul, proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way ; 102 Yet simple nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topped hill, an hiunbler Heaven ; Some safer world in depths of woods em- braced, 105 Some happier island in the watery waste, WTiere slaves once more their native land be- hold. No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To be, contents his natural desire. He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; no But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. VH. Far as creation's ample range extends, The scale of sensual,^ mental power ascends. INlark how it mounts, to man's imperial race. From the green myriads in the peopled grass : What modes of sight betwixt each wide ex- treme, 211 The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam : Of smell, the headlong lioness between And hound sagacious on the tainted green : ^ Pronounced sa-tel'-li-tes. ^ belonging to the senses 288 ALEXANDER POPE Of hearing, from the life that fills the Hood, To that which warbles through the vernal wood: 216 The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine ! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line : In the nice ^ bee, what sense so subtly true From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew? 220 How instinct varies in the grovelling swine, Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine ! 'Twixt that and reason, what a nice barrier, Forever separate, yet forever near ! Remembrance and reflection how allied ; 225 What thin partitions sense from thought divide : And middle natures, how they long to join, Yet never pass th' insuperable line ! Without this just gradation, could they be Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 230 The powers of all subdued by thee alone. Is not thy reason all these powers in one? All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body nature is, and God the soul ; That, changed through all, and yet in all the same; Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame ; ^ Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 271 Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives through all life, extends through all ex- tent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part. As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 276 As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns. As the rapt seraph ^ that adores and burns : To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. X. Cease then, nor order imperfection name: 281 Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point : this kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness. Heaven bestows on thee. Submit. — In this, or any other sphere, 285 Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All nature is but art, unknown to thee ; ^ discriminating ^ the heavens ^ angels of flame All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; All discord, harmony not understood ; 291 AU partial evil, universal good : And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite. One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right. EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT P. Shut, shut the door, good John ! ^ fatigued, I said ? Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The Dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt. All Bedlam, 2 or Parnassus,^ is let out : Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5 They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide ; By land, by water, they renew the charge. They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. i o No place is sacred, not the church is free ; E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me : Then from the Mint ^ walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner-time. Is there a parson, much bemused in beer, 15 A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross. Who pens a stanza, when he should engross ? Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls ? All fly to Twit'nam ^ and in humble strain 21 Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws. Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause : Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, 25 And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. Friend to my life ! '' (which did not you pro- long, The world had wanted many an idle song) ^ Pope's servant ^ a hosi)ital for lunatics ^ figuratively the abode of poets '^ a place in which insolvent debtors lived, free from arrest; on Sundays they could go anywh^e without. fear of arrest ^ Pope's villa at Twickenham, famous for its romantic garden and grotto "^ Dr. Ar- buthnot EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT 289 What drop or nostrum can this plague re- move? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? A dire dilemma ! either way I'm sped : 3 1 If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I! Who can't be silent, and who will not lie. Why did I write ? what sin to me unknown Dipped me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 127 I lisped in numbers,^ for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade. No duty broke, no father disobeyed. 130 The Muse ^ but served to case some friend, not wife, To help me through this long disease, my life. To second, Arbuthnot ! thy art and care. And teach the being you preserved, to bear. But why then publish ? Granville the polite. And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write ; 136 Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise, And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read; E'en mitred Rochester would nod the head. And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before) 141 With open arms received one poet more. Happy my studies, when by these approved ! Happier their author, when by these beloved ! From these the world will judge of men and books, 145 Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cookes. Soft were my numbers; who could take offence Wnile pure description held the place of sense ? Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream. 150 Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill ; — I wished the man a dinner, and sat still. Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret ; I never answered — I was not in debt. If want provoked, or madness made them print, 155 I waged no war. with Bedlam or the Mint. Did some more sober critic come aboard ; ^ verses ^ poetry If wrong, I smiled ; if right, I kissed the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Commas and points they set exactly right, i6i And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite ; Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds, From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds. Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, 165 Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables. E'en such small critics some regard may claim, Preserved in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name. Pretty ! in amber to observe the forms 169 Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms ! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare. But wonder how the devil they got there. Were others angry : I excused them too ; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find ; 175 But each man's secret standard in his mind, — That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, — This, who can gratify? for who can guess? The bard whom pilfered Pastorals renown, WTio turns a Persian tale for half a crown, 180 Just writes to make his barrenness appear. And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year ; He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left; And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, 185 Means not, but blunders round about a mean- ing; And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, It is not poetry, but prose run mad : All these, my modest satire bade translate, 189 And owned that nine such poets made a Tate. How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe ! And swear, not Addison himself was safe. Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires ; Blessed with each talent and each art to please, 195 And born to write, converse, and live with ease : Should such a man, too fond to rule alone. Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, 198 290 ALEXANDER POPE View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes And hate for arts that caused himself to rise ; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer ; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike ; Ahke reserved to blame, or to commend, 205 A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend ; Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged ; Like Cato, give his little senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause ; 210 While wits and Templars every sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise — Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would .not weep, if Atticus were he ! THE DUNCIAD From BOOK IV Muse ! relate (for you can tell alone ; Wits have short memories, and dvmces none) Relate, who first, who last resigned to rest, Whose heads she partly, whose completely, blest ; 622 What charms could faction, what ambition lull, The venal quiet, and entrance the dull ; Till drowned was sense, and shame, and right, and wrong — 625 O sing, and hush the nations with thy song ! In vain, in vain — the all-composing hour Resistless falls : the Muse obeys the power. She comes ! she comes ! the sable throne behold Of Night primeval and of Chaos old ! 630 Before her, Fancy's gilded clouds decay, And all its varying rainbows die away. Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, The meteor drops, and in a flash expires. As one by one, at dread Medea's strain,^ 635 Tlie sickening stars fade off th' ethereal plain ; \s Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand oppressed. Closed one by one to everlasting rest :^ 'Unis at her felt approach, and secret might, Art after art goes out, and all is night. 640 See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, IVIountains of casuistry heaped o'er her head ! Philosophy, thtit leaned on Heaven before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. ^ Cf. the incantations of Medea, as told by Gower. ^ See the story in Gayiey, pp. 92-94. Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, 645 And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense ! See Mystery to Mathematics fly 1 In vain ! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. Religion blushing veils her sacred fires. And unawares Morality expires. 650 Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine ; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine ! Lo 1 thy dread empire. Chaos ! is restored ; Light dies before thy uncreating word : Thy hand, great Anarch ! lets the curtain fall; 655 And universal darkness buries all. THE ILIAD From BOOK VI The chief replied: "That post shall be my care, 560 Not that alone, but all the works of war. How would the sons of Troy, in arms re- nown 'd. And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground. Attaint the lustre of my former name, Should Hector basely quit the field of fame? My early youth was bred to martial pains, My soul impels me to th' embattled plains : Let me be foremost to defend the throne, And guard my father's glories and my own. Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates, (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates!) 571 The day when thou, imperial Troy ! must bend, And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, My mother's death, the ruin of my kind. Not Priam's hoary hairs defil'd with gore. Not all my brothers gasping on the shore. As thine, Andromache ! Thy griefs I dread : I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led, In Argive^ looms our battles to design, 580 And woes of which so large a part was thine ! To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring ! There, while you groan beneath the load of life. They cry, 'Behold the mighty Hector's wife !' Some haughty Greek, who hves thy tears to see. Embitters all thy woes by naming me. ^ Grecian JOHN GAY 291 The thoughts of glory past and present shame, A thousand griefs, shall waken at the name ! May I lie cold before that dreadful day, 590 Press'd with a load of monumental clay ! Thy Hector, wrapp'd in everlasting sleep, Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep." Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy Stretch 'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, Scar'd at the dazzling helm and nodding crest. With secret pleasure each fond parent smil'd, And Hector hasted to reheve his child ; 599 The glittr'ing terrors from his brows unboimd, And plac'd the beaming helmet on the ground. Then kiss'd the child, and, lifting high in air, Thus to the gods preferr'd a father's pray'r : "O thou! whose glory fills th' ethereal throne, And all ye deathless pow'rs ! protect my son ! Grant him, Uke me, to purchase just renown, To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, Against his country's foes the war to wage, And rise the Hector of the future age ! So when, triumphant from successful toils, 610 Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, Whole hosts may hail him with deserv'd acclaim. And say, "This chief transcends his father's fame ' : While pleas'd, amidst the gen'ral shouts of Troy, His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy." He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms, Restor'd the pleasing burthen to her arms ; Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, Hush'd to repose, and with a smile survey 'd. The troubled pleasure soon chastis'd by fear, She mingled with the smile a tender tear. 621 The soften'd chief with kind compassion view'd. And dried the falling drops, and thus pur- sued : "Andromache ! my soul's far better part, WTiy with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart ? No hostile hand can antedate my doom. Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. Fix'd is the term to all the race of earth. And such the hard condition of our birth. No force can then resist, no flight can save ; All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. 631 No more — but hasten to thy tasks at home, There guide tTie spindle, and direct the loom ; Me glory summons to the martial scene. The field of combat is the sphere for men. Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, The first in danger as the first in fame." JOHN GAY (1685-1732) THE HARE WITH ]VL\NY FRIENDS Friendship, like love, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care. 'Tis thus in friendship ; who depend On many rarely find a friend. 6 A Hare, who, in a civil way, Complied with ever>'thing, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train. Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain. Her care was, never to offend, And every creature was her friend. 1 2 As forth she went at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the himter's cries, And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies. She starts, she stops, she pants for breath ; She hears the near advance of death ; 18 She doubles, |o mislead the hound. And measures back her mazy round : Tfll, fainting in the pubhc way. Half dead with fear she gasping lay. What transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appeared in view ! 24 "Let me," says she, "your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight ; To friendship every burden's hght." The Horse replied : " Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus ; Be comforted ; relief is near, For aU your friends are in the rear." 32 She ne.xt the stately Bifll implored ; And thus replied the mighty lord, " Since every beast alive can teU That I sincerely wish you weU, I may, v/ithout offence, pretend, To take the freedom of a friend ; 38 Love calls me hence ; a favourite cow Expects me near yon barley-mow : And when a lady's in the case. You know, all other things give place. 292 EDWARD YOUNG To leave you thus might seem unkind ; But see, the Goat is just behind." The Goat remarked her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye ; "My back," says he, "may do you harm ; The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." 48 The Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained : Said he was slow, confessed his fears, For hounds eat sheep as well as hares. 52 She now the trotting Calf addressed, To save from death a friend distressed. "Shall I," says he, "of tender age, In this important care engage ? Older and abler passed you by ; How strong are those, how weak am I ! Should I presume to bear you hence. Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then. You know my heart. But dearest friends, alas, must part ! 62 How shall we all lament ! Adieu ! For see, the hounds are just in view." BLACK-EYED SUSAN All in the Downs ^ the fleet was moored, The streamers waving in the wind. When Black-eyed Susan came aboard, "Oh ! where shall I my true love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, 5 If my sweet William sails among the crew?" William, v/ho high upon the yard Rocked with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard He sighed, and cast his eyes below : 10 The cord shdes swiftly through his glowing hands And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands. So the sweet lark, high poised in air. Shuts close his pinions to his breast — If chance his mate's shrill call he hear — 15 And drops at once into her nest. The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy WiUiam's lips those kisses sweet. "O Susan, Susan, lovely dear. My vows shall ever true remain ; 20 Let me kiss off that falHng tear ; We only part to meet again. ^ Cf. above, p. 260 b, note 2. Change as ye list, ye winds ! my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. "Believe not what the landsmen say, 25 Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind ; They'll tell thee, sailors, when away. In every port a mistress find ; Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 30 "If to fair India's coast we sail. Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright ; Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale. Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view, 35 Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. "Though battle call me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms, William shall to his dear return. 40 Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." The boatswain gave the dreadful word ; The sails their swelling bosom spread ; No longer must she stay aboard ; 45 They kissed — • she sighed — he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwflling rows to land, "Adieu !" she cries, and waved her lily hand. EDWARD YOUNG (1683-1765) From THE COMPLAINT, OR NIGHT THOUGHTS NIGHT I Man How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man ! How passing wonder He who made him such ! Who centred in our make such strange ex- tremes, 70 From different natures marvellously mixed! Connection exquisite of distant worlds ! Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! Midway from nothing to the Deity ! A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt ! Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine ! Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! PROCRASTINATION 29: An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! A worm ! a god ! — I tremble at myself, 80 And in myself am lost! At home a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own. How reason reels ! O, what a miracle to man is man ! Triumphantly distressed ! What joy ! what dread ! Alternately transported and alarmed ! What can preserve my life ? or what destroy ? An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave ; Legions of angels can't confine me there. Procrastination By nature's law, what may be, may be now ; There's no prerogative in human hours. 371 In human hearts what bolder thought can rise Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn? Where is to-morrow ? In another world. For numbers this is certain ; the reverse Is sure to none; and yet on this 'perhaps,' This 'peradventure,' infainous for lies, As on a rock of adamant, we build Our mountain hopes, spin our eternal schemes, As ^ we the fatal sisters - could out-spin, 380 And big with life's futurities, expire. Not e'en Philander ^ had bespoke his shroud, Nor had he cause ; a warning was denied : How many fall as sudden, not as safe ; As sudden, though for years admonish'd home ! Of hum.an ills the last extreme beware ; Beware, Lorenzo,^ a slow sudden death. How dreadful that deliberate surprise ! Be wise to-day ; 'tis madness to defer ; Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; 390 Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time ; Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. If not so frequent, would not this be strange? That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still. Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live. Forever on the brink of being born." 400 All pay themselves the compliment to think They one day shall not drivel : and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise ; At least, their own ; their future selves ap- plaud ; How excellent that life they ne'er will lead. Time lodg'd in their own hands is folly's vails ; ^ That lodg'd in fate's to wisdom they consign. The thing they can't but purpose, they post- pone. 'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool, And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 410 All promise is poor dilatory man. And that through every stage : when young, indeed. In full content we sometimes nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish, As duteous sons our fathers were more wise. At thirty man suspects himself a fool, Knows it at forty and reforms his plan ; At fifty chides his infamous delay. Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; In all the magninimity of thought 420 Resolves ; and re-resoives ; then dies the same. ^ as if 2 the Fates ^ Young's son-in-law, Mr. Temple, who had died two years before 1 probably the Duke of Wharton - folly's perquisite THE TRANSITION LADY WINCHILSEA (1661-1720) A NOCTURNAL REVERIE In such a night, when every louder wind Is to its distant cavern safe confin'd, And only gentle zephyr fans his wings, And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings ; Or from some tree, fam'd for the owl's delight. She, hollowing clear, directs the wand'rer right ; In such a night, when passing clouds give place. Or thinly vail the Heav'ns mysterious face ; When in some river, overhung with green, The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen ; 10 When freshen'd grass now bears itself upright. And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite. Whence springs the woodbind and the bramble-rose, And where the sleepy cowslip shelter'd grows ; Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes, Yet chequers stiU with red the dusky brakes ; When scatter'd glow-worms, but in twilight fine. Show trivial beauties watch their hour to shine. Whilst Salisb'ry ^ stands the test of every light In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright ; 20 When odours which declin'd repelling day Thro' temp'rate air uninterrupted stray ; When darken'd groves their softest shadows wear, And falling waters we distinctly hear ; When thro' the gloom more venerable shows Some ancient fabric, awful in repose, While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks con- ceal And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale ; When the loos'd horse now, as his pasture leads. Comes slowly grazing thro' th' adjoining meads, 30 ^ the Countess of Salisbury Whose stealing pace, and lengthen'd shade we fear. Till torn up forage in his teeth we hear ; When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food, And unmolested kine re-chew the cud ; When curlews cry beneath the village-walls, And to her straggling brood the partridge calls ; Their shortliv'd jubilee the creatures keep. Which but endures whilst tyrant-man does sleep ; When a sedate content the spirit feels, And no fierce light disturb, whUst it reveals ; But silent musings urge the mind to seek 41 Something too high for syllables to speak ; Till the free soul to a compos'dness charm'd,- Finding the elements of rage disarm'd, O'er all below a solemn quiet grown, Joys in th' inferior world and thinks it like her own : In such a night let me abroad remain Till morning breaks and all's confus'd again ; Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renew'd, Or pleasures, seldom reach'd, again pursu'd. 50 ROBERT BLAIR (1699-1746) From THE GRAVE While some affect the sun, and some the shade, Some flee the city, some the hermitage. Their aims as various as the roads they take In journeying through life ; the task be mine To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb ; Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all These travellers meet. Thy succours I im- plore. Eternal King ! whose potent arm sustains The keys of hell and death. — The Grave, ■ dread thing ! 9 Men shiver when thou'rt nam'd : Nature, appall'd. Shakes off her wonted firmness. — Ah ! how dark 294 THE GRAVE 295 Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes ! WTiere nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night. Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams Athwart the gloom profound. — The sickly taper By glimmering through thy low-brow'd misty vaults, (Furr'd round with mouldy damps and ropy slime) Lets fall a supernumerary horror, And only serves to make thy night more irksome. 20 Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew. Cheerless, unsocial plant ! that loves to dwell Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms : Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades. Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports) Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds. No other merriment, dull tree ! is thine. See yonder hallow'd fane ; — the pious work Of names once fam'd, now dubious or forgot. And buried midst the wreck of things which were ; 30 There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. The wind is up : hark ! how it howls ! Me- thinks Till now I never heard a, sound so dreary : Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, Rook'd ^ in the spire, screams loud : the gloomy aisles, Black-plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults. The mansions of the dead. — Rous'd from their sliunbers. In grim array the grisly spectres rise, 40 Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen, Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night. Again the screech-owl shrieks : imgracious sound ! I'll hear no more ; it makes one's blood run chill. Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms, (Coeval near with that) all ragged show. Long lash'd by the rude winds. Some rift half down Their branchless trunks ; others so thin a-top, That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree. Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen'd here : 50 Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs : Dead men have come again, and walk'd about ; And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, un- touch'd. (Such tales their cheer, at wake or gossiping. When it draws near the witching time of night.) Oft in the lone church-yard at night I've seen. By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees. The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand. Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones, (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'er- 'gro^^^l,) 61 That tell in homely phrase who lie below. Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears, The sound of something purring at his heels ; Fidl fast he ihes, and dares not look behind him. Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows ; Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand O'er some new-open 'd grave ; and (strange to tell !) 70 Evanishes at crowing of the cock. The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes 'spied. Sad sight ! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead: Listless, she crawls along in doleful black. Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either eye, Fast falling down her now untasted cheek : Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man She drops ; whilst busy, meddling memory, In barbarous succession musters up 79 The past endearments of their softer hours, Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks She sees him, and indulging the fond thought, Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf. Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way.. ^ perched, as roosting 296 JAMES THOMSON JAMES THOMSON (i 700-1 748) THE SEASONS A SNOW SCENE From Winter The keener tempests come : and fuming dun From all the livid east, or piercing north, Thick clouds ascend — in whose capacious womb A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congealed. Heavy they roll their fleecy world along ; And the sky saddens with the gathered storm. Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, At first thin wavering ; tUl at last the flakes Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day 231 With a continual flow. The cherished fields Put on their winter-robe of purest white. " 'Tis brightness all ; save where the new snow melts Along the mazy current. Low, the woods Bow their hoar head ; and, ere the languid sun Faint from the west emits his evening ray, Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill, Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide The works of man. Drooping, the labourer- ox 240 Stands covered o'er with snow, and then de- mands The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven. Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around The winnowing store, and claim the little boon Which Providence assigns them. One alone, The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first 250 Against the window beats ; then, brisk, alights On the warm hearth ; then, hopping o'er the floor. Eyes all the smiling family askance. And pecks, a»fl starts, and wonders where he is — Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare. Though timorous of heart, and hard beset By death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs. And more unpitying men, the garden seeks. Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind 261 Eye the black heaven, and next the glistening earth With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dis- persed, Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. THE SHEEP-WASHING From Summer Or rushing thence, in one diffusive band, They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog Compelled, to where the mazy-running brook Forms a deep pool ; this bank abrupt and high. And that, fair-spreading in a pebbled shore. Urged to the giddy brink, much is the toil. The clamour much, of men, and boys, and dogs. Ere the soft, fearfiil people to the flood Commit their woolly sides. And oft the swain. On some impatient seizing, hurls them in : 380 Emboldened then, nor hesitating more. Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing wave, And panting labour to the farther shore. Repeated this, till deep the well-washed fleece Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt The trout is banished by the sordid stream ; Heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow Slow move the harmless race ; where, as they spread Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray, Inly disturbed, and wondering what this wild Outrageous tumult means, their loud com- plaints 391 The country fill — and, tossed from rock to rock. Incessant bleatings run around the hills. At last, of snowy white, the gathered flocks Are in the wattled pen innumerous pressed, Head above head ; and ranged in lusty rows The shepherds sil, and whet the sounding shears. The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores. With all her gay-drest maids attending round. One, chief, in gracious dignity enthroned, 400 THE SEASONS 297 Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherd- king ; While the glad circle round them yield their souls To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall. Meantime, their joyous task goes on apace : Some mingling stir the melted tar, and some, Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side, To stamp his master's cypher ready stand ; Others the unwilling wether drag along ; 409 And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy Holds by the twisted horns the indignant ram. Behold where bound, and of its robe bereft. By needy man, that all-depending lord. How meek, how patient, the mild creature lies ! What softness in its melaijcholy face, What dumb complaining innocence appears ! Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the knife Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved ; No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears, Who having now, to pay his annual care, 420 Borrowed your fleece, to you a cumbrous load, Will send you bounding to yovir hills again. THE COMING OF THE RAIN From Spring At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, Scarce staining ether ; but by fast degrees, In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep, 150 Sits on the horizon round, a settled gloom : Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed. Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind. And full of every hope and every joy. The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze Into a perfect calm ; that not a breath Is heard to quiver through the closing woods. Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods, diffused In glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, 161 And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye The fallen verdure. Hushed in short suspense The plumy people streak their wings with oil. To throw the lucid moisture trickling off ; And wait the approaching sign to strike, at once, Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales. And forests seem, impatient, to demand The promised sweetness. Man superior walks 1 70 Amid the glad creation, musing praise. And looking lively gratitude. At last, The clouds consign their treasures to the fields ; And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow, In large effusion, o'er the freshened world. STORM IN HARVEST From AuxtnaN Defeating oft the labours of the year, The sultry south collects a potent blast. At first, the groves are scarcely seen to stir Their trembling tops, and a still murmur runs Along the soft-inclining fields of corn ; But as the aerial tempest fuller swells, And in one mighty stream, invisible, Immense, the whole excited atmosphere Impetuous rushes o'er the sounding world, Strained to the root, the stooping forest pours A rustling shower of yet untimely leaves. 321 High-beat, the circling mountains eddy in. From the bare wfld, the dissipated storm, And send it in a torrent down the vale. Exposed, and naked, to its utmost rage. Through all the sea of harvest rolling round, The billowy plain floats wide ; nor can evade, Though pliant to the blast, its seizing force — Or whirled in air, or into vacant chaff 329 Shook waste. And sometimes too a burst of rain, Swept from the black horizon, broad, descends In one continuous flood. Stfll over head The mingling tempest weaves its gloom, and stfll The deluge deepens ; till the fields around Lie sunk, and flatted, in the sordid wave. Sudden, the ditches swell ; the meadows swim. Red, from the hills, innumerable streams Tumultuous roar ; and high above its banks The river lift ; before whose rushing tide. Herds, flocks, and harvests, cottages, and swains. Roll mingled down spared. In one wild moment ruined ; the big hopes. And well-earned treasures of the painful year 340 all that the winds had 298 JAMES THOMSON Fled to some eminence, the husbandman, eelpless, beholds the miserable wreck riving along ; his drowning ox at once Descending, with his labours scattered round. He sees ; and instant o'er his shivering thought Comes Winter unprovided, and a train Of clamant children dear. Ye masters, then, Be mindful of the rough laborious hand 351 That sinks you soft in elegance and ease ; Be mindful of those limbs, in russet ^ clad, Whose toil to yours is warmth and graceful pride ; And, oh, be mindful of that sparing board Which covers yours with luxury profuse. Makes your glass sparkle, and your sense rejoice ! Nor cruelly demand what the deep rains And all-involving winds have swept away. From THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE In lowly dale, fast by a river's side 10 With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, A most enchanting wizard did abide. Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; And there a season atween June and May, Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned, A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, No living wight could work, ne cared for play. Was nought around but images of rest : Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns be- tween ; 20 And flowery beds, that slumbrous influence kest,^ From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleas- ant green, Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played. And hurled everywhere tlieir waters sheen ; That, as they bickered through the sunny glade. Though restless still themselves, a lulling mur- mur made. Joined to the prattle of the purling rills. Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills, 30 And vacant shepherds piping in the dale : And now and then sweet Philomel would wail. Or stock-doves plain ^ amid the forest deep, That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; And still a coil ^ the grasshopper did keep : Yet all the sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. Full in the passage of the vale, above, A sable, silent, solemn forest stood ; Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to move. As Idless ^ fancied in her dreaming mood : And up the hills, on either side, a wood 41 Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro, Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood ; And where this valley winded out below, The m.urmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was : Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer-sky. There eke the soft delights, that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, 51 And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh ; But whate'er smackt of noyance, or iinrest, Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease, Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees, That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright. And made a kind of checkered day and night. Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, 60 Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight Was placed ; and to his lute, of cruel fate And labour harsh, complained, lamenting man's estate. Thither continual pilgrims crowded still. From all the roads of earth that pass there by: ^ undyed homespun ^ cast ^ complain " disturbance ^ Idleness THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE 299 For, as they chanced to breathe on neigh- bouring hill. The freshness of this valley smote their eye, And drew them ever and anon more nigh ; Till clustering round the enchanter false they hung, Ymolten with his syren melody ; 70 While o'er the enfeebling lute his hand he flung, And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung : "Behold ! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold ! See all but man with unearned pleasure gay : See her bright robes the butterfly unfold. Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May! What youthful bride can equal her array? Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, 80 Is aU she has to do beneath the radiant sky. "Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, The swarming songsters of the careless^ grove ; Ten thousand throats that, from the flower- ing thorn. Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, Such grateful kindly raptures them emove ! - Thev neither plough, nor sow ; ne,^ fit for flail. E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they drove ; Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale. 90 "Outcast of Nature, man! the wretched thraU Of bitter-dropping sweat, of sweltry pain, Of cares that eat away the heart with gall. And of the vices, an inhuman train. That all proceed from savage thirst of gain : For when hard-hearted Interest first began To poison earth, Astraea '^ left the plain ; Guile, Violence, and Murder, seized on man, And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers ran. 99 ^ care-free ^ move ^ nor * the goddess of jus- tice, who in the Golden Age dwelt among men "Come, ye who still the cumbrous load of life Push hard up-hill ; but as the farthest steep You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep, And hurls your labours to the valley deep, Forever vain : come, and, withouten fee, I in oblivion wiU your sorrows steep. Your cares, your toils ; wiU steep you in a sea Of fuU delight : O come, ye weary wights, to me ! "With me, you need not rise at early dawn, To pass the joyless day in various stounds;> Or louting^ low, on upstart Fortune fawn, And sell fair Honour for some paltry pomids; ' 112 Or through the city take your dirty rounds. To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visit pay, Now flattering base, now giving secret wounds ; Or prowl in courts of law for human prey. In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad high- way. "No cocks, with me, to rustic labour call, From village on to village sounding clear; To tardy swain no shrill-voiced matrons squall; 120 No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your ear; No hammers thump ; no horrid blacksmith sear; Ne noisy tradesman your sweet slumbers start With sounds that are a misery to hear ; But aU is calm, — as would delight the heart Of Sybarite of old, — aU Nature, and all Art. "The best of men have ever loved repose : They hate to mingle in the filthy fray ; Where the soul sours, and gradual rancour grows. Embittered more from peevish day to day, Even those whom Fame has lent her fairest ray. The most renowned of worthy wights of yore, 150 ^ griefs 2 bowing 300 JOHN DYER From a base world at last have stolen away : So Scipio, to the soft Cumaean shore ' Retiring, tasted joy he never knew before. "But if a little exercise you choose, Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here. Amid the groves you may indulge the Muse, Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal year; Or, softly stealing, with your watery gear,^ Along the brooks, the crimson-spotted fry You may delude ; the whilst, amused, you hear i6o Now the hoarse stream, and now the Zephyr's sigh. Attuned to the birds, and woodland melody. "O grievous folly ! to heap up estate. Losing the days you see beneath the sun ; When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting Fate, And gives the untasted portion you have won, With ruthless toil and many a wretch un- done. To those who mock you gone to Pluto's reign. There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows dun ; But sure it is of vanities most vain, 170 To toil for what you here untoiling may obtain." RULE, BRITANNIA From ALFRED, A MASQUE When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main. This was the charter of the land. And guardian angels sang this strain: Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ! Britons never will be slaves ! The nations not so blest as thee, Must in their turns to tyrants fall. Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. 10 Rule, Britannia, etc. ^ Scipio Airicanus, the elder, retired from the intrigues of Rome to his country jilacc near Cumie on the Italian coast. ^ Ashing tackle Stm more majestic shalt thou rise. More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; As the loud blast that tears the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak. Rule, Britannia, etc. Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; All their attempts to bend thee down WUl but arouse thy generous flame. But work their woe and thy renown. 20 Rule, Britannia, etc. To thee belongs the rural reign ; Thy cities shall with commerce shine ; All thine shall be the subject main,"^ And every shore it circles thine. Rule, Britannia, etc. The Muses, still ^ with freedom found. Shall to thy happy coast repair ; Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair ! 30 Rule, Britannia, etc. JOHN DYER (i7oo?-i758) From GRONGAR HILL^ Silent Nymph, with curious eye, Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van,^ Beyond the noise of busy man, Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings ; Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale ; Come with all thy various hues. Come, and aid thy sister Muse ; 10 Now while Phoebus riding high Gives lustre to the land and sky ! Grongar Hill invites my song. Draw the landskip ^ bright and strong ; Grongar, in whose mossy cells Sweetly musing (^uiet dwells ; Grongar, in whose silent shade. For the modest Muses made. So oft I have, the evening still, At the fountain of a rill, 20 Sate upon a flowery bed. With my hand beneath my head ; ^ ocean ^ always ' a hill in southwest Wales ^ peak ^ of. L' Allegro, 1. 70 DAVID MALLET 301 While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's '■ flood, Over mead, and over wood, From house to house, from hill to hUl, 'Till Contemplation had her fill. About his chequered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind, And groves, and grottoes where I lay, And vistas shooting beams of day : 30 Wide and wider spreads the vale ; As circles on a smooth canal : The mountains round, unhappy fate ! Sooner or later, of all height. Withdraw their summits from the skies. And lessen as the others rise : Still the prospect wider spreads, Adds a thousand woods and meads, Still it widens, widens still. And sinks the newly-risen hill. 40 Now, I gain the mountain's brow, What a landskip lies below ! No clouds, no vapours intervene. But the gay, the open scene Does the face of nature show. In all the hues of heaven's bow ! And, swelling to embrace the light, Spreads around beneath the sight. Old castles on the cliffs arise. Proudly towering in the skies ; 50 Rushing from the woods, the spires Seem from hence ascending fires ; Half his beams Apollo sheds On the yellow mountain-heads, Gilds the fleeces of the flocks. And glitters on the broken rocks. Below me trees unnumbered rise, Beautiful in various dyes : The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, The yellow beach, the sable yew, 60 The slender fir, that taper grows. The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs ; And beyond the purple grove, Haunt of Phfllis, queen of love, Gaudy as the opening dawn, Lies a long and level lawn On which a dark hill, steep and high, Holds and charms the wandering eye. Deep are his feet in Towy's flood. His sides are cloth'd with waving wood, 70 And ancient towers crown his brow. That cast an aweful look below ; Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, And with her arms from falling keeps ; ^ a river that flows into Carmarthen Bay in southwest Wales So both a safety from the wind On mutual dependence find. DAVID MALLET (1705-1765) WILLIAM AND MARGARET 'Twas at the silent solemn hour. When night and morning meet ; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet. 4 Her face was like an April morn Clad in a wintry cloud ; And clay-cold was her lily hand That held her sable shroud. 8 So shall the fairest face appear, When youth and years are flown : Such is the robe that kings must wear. When death has reft their crown. 12 Her bloom was like the springing flower. That sips the silver dew ; The rose was budded in her cheek, Just opening to the view. 16 But love had, like the canker-worm, Consumed her early prime ; The rose grew pale, and left her cheek, She died before her time. 20 "Awake !" she cried, "thy true love calls, Come from her midnight grave : Now let thy pity hear the maid Thy love refused to save. 24 "This is the dark and dreary hour When injured ghosts complain ; When yawning graves give up their dead, To haunt the faithless swain. 28 "Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath ! And give me back my maiden vow. And give me back my troth. 32 "Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep? Why did you swear my eyes w^ere bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep ? 36 "How could you say my face was fair. And yet that face forsake ? 302 SAMUEL JOHNSON How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break ? 40 "WTiy did you say my lip was sweet. And make the scarlet pale ? And why did I, young, witless maid ! Believe the flattering tale ? 44 "That face, alas ! no more is fair, Those lips no longer red : Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every claarm is fled. 48 "The hungry worm my sister is ; This winding-sheet I wear : And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear. 52 "But hark ! the cock has warned me hence ; A long and last adieu ! Come see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you." 56 The lark sung loud ; the morning smiled With beams of rosy red : Pale William quaked in every limb, And raving left his bed. 60 He hied him to the fatal place Where INIargaret's body lay ; And stretched him on the green-grass turf That wrapt her breathless clay. 64 And thrice he called on Margaret's name. And thrice he wept full sore ; Then laid his cheek to her cold grave. And word spake never more ! 68 SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784) CONGREVE William Congreve descended from a family in Staffordshire, of so great antiquity that it claims a place among the few that extend their line beyond the Norman Conquest ; and was the son of William Congreve, second son of Richard Congreve, of Congreve and Stratton. He visited, once at least, the residence of his ancestors ; and, I believe, more places than one arc still shown, in groves and .gardens, where he is related to have written his "Old Bachelor." Neither the time nor place of his birth arc certainly known ; if the inscription upon his monument be true, he was born in 1672. For the place ; it was said by himself, that he owed his nativity to England, and by every body else that he was born in Ireland. Southern mentioned him with sharp censure, as a man that meanly disowned his native country. The biographers assign his nativity to Bardsa, near Leeds in Yorkshire, from the account given by himself, as they suppose, to Jacob.^ To doubt whether a man of eminence has told the truth about his own birth, is, in ap- pearance, to be very deficient in candour ; yet nobody can live long without knowing that falsehoods of convenience or vanity, false- hoods from which no evfl immediately visible ensues, except the general degradation of hu- man testimony, are very lightly uttered, and once uttered are sullenly supported. BoUeau, who desired to be thought a rigorous and steady moralist, having told a petty lie to Lewis XIV, continued it afterwards by false dates; "thinking himself obliged in honouyj" says his admirer, "to maintain what, when he said it, was so well received." Wherever Congreve was bom, he was edu- cated first at Kilkenny, and afterwards at Dublin, his father having some military em- ployment that stationed him in Ireland : but, after having passed through the usual pre- paratory studies, as may be reasonably sup- posed, with great celerity and success, his father thought it proper to assign him a pro- fession, by which something might be gotten ; and about the time of the Revolution sent him, at the age of sixteen, to study law in the Middle Temple,^ where he lived for several years, but with very little attention to Statutes or Reports. His disposition to become an author ap- peared very early, as he very early felt that force" of imagination, and possessed that copiousness of sentiment, by which intellec- tual pleasure can be given. His first per- formance was a novel, ca,lled "Incognita, or Love and Duty reconciled:" it is praised by the biographers, who quote some part of the Preface, that is, indeed, for such a time of life, uncommonly judicious. I would rather praise it than read it. His first dramatic labour was "The Old Bachelor;" of which he says, in his defence ^ Giles Jacob, compiler of the Poclical Register, an account of poets ^ in London CONGREVE 303 against Collier/ "that the comedy was written, as several know, some years before it was acted. WTien I wrote it, I had little thoughts of the stage ; but did it to am.use myself in a slow recovery from a fit of sickness. After- wards, through my indiscretion, it was seen, and in some little time more it was acted; and I, through the remainder of my indis- cretion, suffered myself to be drawn into the prosecution of a difficult and thankless study, and to be involved m a perpetual war with knaves and fools." There seems to be a strange affectation in authors of appearing to have done every thing by chance. "The Old Bachelor" was written for amusement in the languor of convales- cence. Yet it is apparently composed with great elaborateness of dialogue, and incessant ambition of wit. The age of the writer con- sidered, it is mdeed a very wonderful per- formance ; for, whenever written, it was acted (1693) when he was not more than twenty- one years old ; and was then recommended by ilr. Dryden, INIr. Southern,- and Mr. Mayn- waring.^ Dryden said that he never had seen such a first play ; but they found it deficient in some things requisite to the success of its exhibition, and by their greater experience fitted it for the stage. Southern used to relate of one comedy, probably of this, that, when Congreve read it to the players, he pronoimced it so wretchedly, that they had almost rejected it ; but they were afterv\'ards so well per- suaded of its excellence, that, for half a year before it was acted, the m.anager allowed its author the privilege of the house. Few plays have ever been so beneficial to the writer ; for it procured him the patronage of Halifax,"' who immediately made him one of the commissioners for licensing coaches, and soon after gave him a place in the pipe-office,^ and another in the customs of six hundred pounds a year. Congreve's conversation must surely have been at least equally pleas- ing with his Avritings. Such a comedy, written at such an age, re- quires some consideration. As the lighter species of dramatic poetry professes the imi- tation of common life, of real manners, and ^ Jeremy Collier ; see below ^ a well-known dramatist ' a Templar and influential man of letters ^ George Savile, Marquis of Halifax * a government office in which records called pipe- rolls were kept daily incidents, it apparently presupposes a familiar knowledge of many characters, and exact observation of the passing world ; the difficulty therefore is, to conceive how this knowledge can be obtained by a boy. But if "The Old Bachelor" be more nearly examined, it wiU be found to be one of those comedies which may be made by a mind vigor- ous and acute, and furnished with comic char- acters by the perusal of other poets, without much actual commerce with mankind. The dialogue is one constant reciprocation of con- ceits, or clash of wit, in which nothing flov,-s necessarily from the occasion or is dictated by nature. The characters both of men and women are either fictitious and artificial, as those of HeartweU and the Ladies ; or easy and common, as Wittol a tame idiot. Bluff a swaggering cov>^ard, and Fondlewife a jealous puritan; and the catastrophe arises from a mistake not very probably produced, by marrying a woman in a mask. Yet this gay comedy, when all these deduc- tions are made, will still remain the work of very powerful and fertile faculties ; the dia- logue is quick and sparkling, the incidents such as seize the attention, and the wit so exuberant that it " o'er-informs its tenement." ^ Next year he gave another specimen of his abilities in "The Double Dealer," which was not received with equal kindness. He writes to his patron the lord Halifax a dedication, in which he endeavours to reconcile the reader to that which found few friends among the audience. These apologies are always use- less: "de gustibus non est disputandum ; " ^ men may be convinced, but they cannot be pleased, against their will. But, though taste is obstinate, it is very variable : and time often prevails when arguments have failed. Queen Mary conferred upon both those plays the honour of her presence ; and when she died soon after, Congreve testified his gratitude by a despicable effusion of elegiac pastoral ; a composition in which aU is im- natural, and yet nothing is new. In another year (1695) his prolific pen pro- duced "Love for Love ;" a comedy of nearer alliance to life, and exhibiting more real manners than either of the former. The char- acter of Foresight ^ was then common. Dry- den calculated nativities ; both Cromwell and ^ cf. Absalom and Ackitopliel, 1. 74 ^ tastes are not a subject for argument ^ an astrologer 304 SAMUEL JOHNSON King William had their lucky days; and Shaftesbury himself, though he had no reli- gion, was said to regard predictions. The Sailor is not accounted very natural, but he is very pleasant. With this play was opened the New Thea- tre, under the direction of Betterton the trage- dian ; where he exhibited two years after- wards (1687) "The Mourning Bride," a tragedy, so written as to show him sufficiently qualified for either kind of dramatic poetry. In this play, of which, when he afterwards revised it, he reduced the versification to greater regularity, there is more bustle than sentiment ; the plot is busy and intricate, and the events take hold on the attention ; but, except a very few passages, we are rather amused with noise, and perplexed with strata- gem, than entertained with any true delinea- tion of natural characters. This, however, was received wdth more benevolence than any other of his works, and still continues to be acted and applauded. But whatever objections may be made either to his comic or tragic excellence, they are lost at once in the blaze of admiration, when it is remembered that he had produced these four plays before he had passed his twenty-fifth year, before other men, even such as are some- time to shine in eminence, have passed their probation of literature, or presume to hope for any other notice than such as is bestowed on diligence and inquiry. Among all the efforts of early genius which literary history records, I doubt whether any one can be produced that more surpasses the common limits of nature than the plays of Congreve. About this time began the long-continued controversy between Collier and the poets. In the reign of Charles the First the Puritans had raised a violent clamour against the drama, which they considered as an entertainment not lawful to Christians, an opinion held by them in common with the church of Rome ; and Prynne published "Histriomastix," a huge volume, in which stage-plays were censured. The outrages and crimes of the Puritans brought afterwards their whole system of doc- trine into disrepute, and from the Restoration the poets and players were left at quiet ; for to have molested them would have had the appearance of tendency to puritanical malig- nity. This danger, however, was worn away by time ; and Collier, a fierce and implacable Nonjuror,^ knew that an attack upon the thea- tre would never make him suspected for a Puritan; he therefore (1698) published "A short View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage," I believe with no other motiv6 than religious zeal and honest indig- nation. He was formed for a controvertist ; with sufficient learning ; with diction vehe- ment and pointed, though often vulgar and incorrect ; with unconquerable pertinacity ; with wit in the highest degree keen and sar- castic ; and with all those powers, exalted and invigorated by just confidence in his cause. Thus qualified, and thus incited, he walked out to battle, and assailed at once most of the living writers, from Dryden to D'Urfey.^ His onset was violent ; those passages, which, while they stood single had passed with little, notice, when they were accumulated and ex- posed together, excited horror ; the wise and the pious caught the alarm ; and the nation wondered why it had so long suffered irre- ligion and licentiousness to be openly taught at the public charge. Nothing now remained for the poets but to resist or fly. Dryden's conscience, or his prudence, angry as he was, withlield him from the conflict : Congreve and Vanbrugh at- tempted answers. Congreve, a very young man, elated with success, and impatient of censure, assumed an air of confidence and se- curity. His chief artifice of controversy is to retort upon his adversary his own words ; he is very angry, and, hoping to conquer Collier with his own weapons, allows himself in the use of every term of contumely and contempt ; but he has the sword without the arm of Scanderbeg ; he has his antagonist's coarse- ness, but not his strength. Collier replied; for contest was his delight, he was not to be frighted from his purpose or his prey. The cause of Congreve was not tenable; whatever glosses he might use for the defence or palliation of single passages, the general tenor and tendency of his plays must always be condemned. It is acknowledged, with uni- versal conviction, that the perusal of his works will make no man better ; and that their ulti- mate effect is to represent pleasure in aUiance with vice, and to relax those obligations by which life ought to be regulated. ' one who in 1689 refused to swear allegiance to William and Mary as king and queen ^ Tom D'Urfey, a disreputable writer CONGREVE 305 The stage found other advocates, and the dispute was protracted through ten years : but at last Comedy grew more modest ; and Col- Her lived to see the reward of his labour in the reformation of the theatre. Of the powers by which this important vic- tory was achieved, a quotation from "Love for Love," and the remark upon it, may afford a specimen : ' ' Sir Samps. Sampson's a very good name ; for your Sampsons were strong dogs from the beginning. "Angel. Have a care — If you remember, the strongest Sampson of your name pull'd an old house over his head at last." Here you have the Sacred History bur- lesqued ; and Sampson once more brought into the house of Dagon, to make sport for the Philistines. Congreve's last play was "The Way of the World;" which, though as he hints in his dedication it was written with great labour and much thought, was received with so little favour, that, being in a high degree offended and disgusted, he resolved to commit his quiet and his fame no more to the caprices of an audience. From this time his life ceased to the public ; he lived for himself and for his friends ; and among his friends was able to name every man of his time whom wit and elegance had raised to reputation. It may be therefore reasonably supposed that his manners were polite, and his conversation pleasing. He seems not to have taken much pleasure in writing, as he contributed nothing to the Spectator, and only one paper to the Tatl'er, though published by men with whom he might be supposed willing to associate ; and though he lived many years after the publication of his "Miscellaneous Poems," yet he added nothing to them, but hved on in literary indo- lence ; engaged in no controversy, contending with no rival, neither soliciting flattery by public commendations, nor provoking enmity by malignant criticism, but passing his time among the great and splendid, in the placid enjoyment of his fame and fortune. Having owed his fortune to Halifax, he con- tinued always of his patron's party, but, as it seems, without violence or acrimony ; and his firmness was naturally esteemed, as his abilities were reverenced. His security there- fore was never violated ; and when, upon the e.xtrusion of the Whigs, some intercession was used lest Congreve should be displaced, the earl of Oxford made this answer : "Non obtusa adeo gestamus pectora Poeni, Nee tarn aversus equosTyria sol jungit ab urbe." ^ He that was thus honoured by the adverse party might naturally expect to be advanced when his friends returned to power, and he was accordingly made secretary for the island of Jamaica ; a place, I suppose, without trust or care, but which, with his post in the cus- toms, is said to have afforded him twelve him- dred pounds a year. His honours were yet far greater than his profits. Every writer mentioned him with respect ; and, among other testimonies to his merit, Steele made him the patron of his Mis- cellany, and Pope inscribed to him his trans- lation of the Iliad. But he treated the Muses with ingratitude ; for, having long conversed familiarly with the great, he wished to be considered rather as a man of fashion than of wit ; and, when he received a visit from \'oltaire, disgusted him by the despicable foppery of desiring to be considered not as an author but a gentleman ; to which the Frenchman rephed, "that, if he 'had been only a gentleman, he should not have come to visit him." In his retirement he may be supposed to have applied himself to books ; for he dis- covers more literature than the poets have commonly attamed. But his studies were in his latter days obstructed by cataracts in his eyes, which at last terminated in blindness. This melancholy state was aggravated by the gout, for which he sought relief by a journey to Bath ; but, being overturned in his chariot, complained from that time of a pain in his side, and died at his house in Surrey-street in the Strand, Jan. 29, 1728-9. Having lain in state in the Jerusalem-chamber,- he was buried in Westminster-abbey, where a m.onu- ment is erected to his memor>^ by Henrietta, duchess of IMarlborough, to whom, for reasons either not known or not mentioned, he be- queathed a legacy of about ten thousand pounds ; the accumulation of attentive parsi- mony, which though to her superfluous and useless, might have given great assistance to the ancient family from which he descended, 1 We Carthaginians bear not such blunted souls, nor does the sun averse from our city yoke his steeds. ^ Cf. 2 Henry IV, Act iv, sc. v. 3o6 SAMUEL JOHNSON at tha't time, by the imprudence of his relation, reduced to difficulties and distress. Congreve has merit of the highest kind ; he is an original writer, who borrowed neither the models of his plot nor the manner of his dialogue. Of his plays I cannot speak dis- tinctly ; for since I inspected them many years have passed ; but what remains upon my memory is, that his characters are com- monly fictitious and artificial, with very little of nature, and not much of life. He formed a peculiar idea of comic excellence, which he supposed to consist in gay remarks and un- expected answers ; but that which he en- deavoured, he seldom failed of performing. His scenes exhibit not much of humour, imager}^, or passion ; his personages are a kind of intellectual gladiators ; every sentence is to ward or strike; the contest of smartness is never intermitted; his wit is a meteor play- ing to and fro with alternate coruscations. His comedies have therefore, in some degree, the operation of tragedies; they surprise rather than divert, and raise admiration oftener than merriment. But they are the works of a mind replete with images, and quick in combination. Of his miscellaneous poetry I cannot say any thing very favourable. The powers of Congreve seem to desert him when he leaves the stage, as Antaeus^ was no longer strong than when he could touch the ground. It cannot be observed without wonder, that a mind so vigorous and fertile in dramatic com- positions should on any other occasion dis- cover nothing but impotence and poverty. He has in these little pieces neither elevation of fancy, selection of language, nor skill in ver- sification ; yet, if I were required to select from the whole mass of English poetry the most poetical paragraph, I know not what I could prefer to an exclamation in "The Mourning Bride" : Aim. It was a fancy'd noise ; for all is hush'd. Leo. It bore the accent of a human voice. Aim. It was thy fear, or else some transient wind Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle: We'll listen — Leo. Hark ! Aim. No, all is hush'd and still as death. — 'Tis drcjulful ! How reverend is the face of this tall pile, Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, ^ Cf. Gaylcy, p. 238. To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof. By its own weight made steadfast and immoveable, Looking tranquillity ! It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice ; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice — my own ailriglits me with its echoes. He who reads these lines enjoys for a moment the pov/ers of a poet ; he feels what he remembers to have felt before ; but he feels it with great increase of sensibility ; he recognizes a familiar image, but meets it again amplified and expanded, embellished with beauty, and enlarged with majesty. Yet could the author, who appears here to have enjoyed the confidence of Nature, lament the death of queen Mary in lines like these : The rocks are cleft, and new-descending rills Furrow the brows of all the impending hills. The water-gods to floods their rivulets turn, And each, with streaming eyes, supplies his want- ing urn. The Fauns forsake the woods, the Nymphs the grove. And round the plain in sad distractions rove : In prickly brakes their tender limbs they tear, And leave on thorns their locks of golden hair. With their sharp nails, themselves the Satyrs wound, And tug their shagg}^ beards, and bite with grief the ground. Lo Pan himself, beneath a blasted oak, Dejected lies, his pipe in pieces broke. See Pales ^ weeping too, in wild despair, And to the piercing winds her bosom bare. And see yon fading myrtle, where appears The Queen of Love, all bath'd in flowing tears; See how she wrings her hands, and beats her breast. And tears her useless girdle from her waist ! Hear the sad murmurs of her sighing doves ! For grief they sigh, forgetful of their loves. And, many j'ears after, he gave no proof that time had improved his wisdom or his wit ; for, on the death of the marquis of Blandford, this was his song : And now the winds, which had so long been stfll, Began the swelling air with sighs to fill ! The water nymphs, who motionless remain'd, Like images of ice, while she complain'd, Now loos'd their streams; as when descending rains ^ goddess of pasturage and cattle CONGREVE 307 Roll the steep torrents headlong o'er the plains. The prone creation, who so long had gaz'd, Charm'd with her cries, and at her griefs amaz'd, Began to roar and howl with horrid yell, Dismal to hear, and terrible to tell ! Nothing but groans and sighs were heard around, And Echo multiplied each mournful sound. In both these ftmeral poems, when he has yelled out many syllables of senseless dolour, he dismisses his reader with senseless conso- lation : from the grave of Pastora^ rises a light that forms a star ; and where Amaryllis - wept for Amyntas,^ from every tear sprung up a violet. But William is his hero, and of William he will sing : The hovering winds on downy wangs shall wait arovmd. And catch, and waft to foreign lands, the flying sound. It cannot but be proper to show what they shall have to catch and carry : 'Twas now when flowery lawns the prospect made, And flowing brooks beneath a forest shade, A lowing heifer, loveliest of the herd, Stood feeding b}^ ; while two fierce bulls prepar'd Their armed heads for fight, b}' fate of war to prove The victor worthy of the fair-one's love ; Unthought presage of what met next my view ; For soon the shady scene withdrew. And now, for woods and fields, and springing flowers. Behold a town arise, bulwark'd with walls and lofty towers ; Two rival armies all the plain o'erspread. Each in battalia rang'd, and shining arms array'd; With eager eyes beholding both from far Namur, the prize and mistress of the war. The "Birth of the JNIuse" is a miserable fiction. One good line it has, which was bor- rowed from Dryden. The concluding verses are these : This said, no more remain'd. Th' etherial host Again impatient crowd the crystal coast. The Father, now, within his spacious hands Encompass'd all the mingled mass of seas and lands ; And, having heav'd aloft the ponderous sphere. He launch'd the world to float in ambient air. ^ Queen Mary ^ the Marchioness of Blandford ' the Marquis of Blandford Of his irregular poems, that to Mrs. Ara- bella Hunt seems to be the best : his ode for St. Cecilia's Day, however, has some lines which Pope had in his mind when he wrote his own. His imitations of Horace are feebly para- phrastical, and the additions w'hich he makes are of httle value. He sometimes -retains what were more properly omitted, as when he talks of vervain and gums to propitiate Venus. Of his translations, the satire of Juvenal was written very early, and may therefore be forgiven though it have not the massi- ness and vigour of the original. In aU his versions strength and sprightliness are want- ing : his Hymn to Venus, from Homer, is perhaps the best. His lines are weakened with expletives, and his rhymes are frequently imperfect. His petty poems are seldom worth the cost of criticism ; sometimes the thoughts are false, and sometimes common. In his verses on Lady Gethin, the latter part is in imitati6n of Dryden's ode on Mrs. Killigrew ; and Doris, that has been so lavishly flattered by Steele, has indeed some lively stanzas, but the expres- sion might be mended ; and the most striking part of the character had been already shown in ''Love for Love." His "Art of Pleasing" is founded on a vulgar, but perhaps imprac- ticable principle, and the staleness of the sense is not concealed by any novelty of illus- tration or elegance of diction. This tissue of poetry, from which he seems to have hoped a lasting name, is totally neg- lected, and known only as appended to his plays. While comedy or while tragedy is regarded, his plays are likely to be read; but, except what relates to the stage, I know not that he has ever written a stanza that is sung, or a couplet that is quoted. The general character of his "Miscellanies" is, that they show httle wit, and little virtue. Yet to him it must be confessed, that we are indebted for the correction of a national error, and for the cure of our Pindaric mad- ness. He first taught the English writers that Pindar's odes were regular ; and though cer- tainly he had not the fire requisite for the higher species of lyric poetry, he has shown us, that enthusiasm has its rules, and that in mere confusion there is neither grace nor greatness. 3o8 SAMUEL JOHNSON ESSAY FROM THE RAMBLER NO. 69. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1750 Flet quoque, td in speciilo rugas adspexit aniles, Tyndaris ; et sccum, cur sit bis rapta, reqidrit. Tern pus edax rerum, tuque invidiosa vetustas Omnia destruitis; vitiataque dentibus aevi Paulatim lenta consumitis o?miia morte} — Ovid. An old Greek epigrammatist, intending to show the miseries that attend the last stage of man, imprecates upon those who are so foolish as to wish for long life, the calamity of continuing to grow old from century to century. lie thought that no adventitious or foreign pain was requisite; that decrepi- tude itself was an epitome of whatever is dreadful ; and nothing could be added to the curse of age, but that it should be extended beyond its natural limits. The most indifferent or negligent spectator can indeed scarcely retire without heaviness of heart, from a view of the last scenes of the tragedy of life, in which he finds those, who in the former parts of the drama, were distin- guished by opposition of conduct, contrariety of designs, and dissimilitude of personal quali- ties, all involved in one common distress, and all strugghng with affliction which they can- not hope to overcome. The other miseries, which waylay our pas- sage through the world, wisdom may escape, and fortitude may conquer: by caution and circumspection we may steal along with very little to obstruct or incommode us ; by spirit and vigour we may force a way, and reward the vexation of contest by the pleasures of victory. But a time must come when our policy and bravery shall be equally useless ; when we shall all sink into helplessness and sadness, without any power of receiving solace from the pleasures that have formerly de- lighted us, or any prospect of emerging into a second possession of the blessings that we have lost. ^The dreadful wrinkles when poor Helen spy'd, Ah! why this second rape? — with tears she cry'd. Time, thou devourcr, and tliou envious age, Who all destroy with keen corroding rage. Beneath your jaws, whate'cr have plcas'd or please, Must sink, consum'd by swift or slow degrees. — Elphinston. The industry of man has, indeed, not been wanting in endeavours to procure comforts for these hours of dejection and melancholy, and to gild the dreadful gloom with artificial light. The most usual support of old age is wealth. He whose possessions are large, and whose chests are full, imagines himself always forti- fied against invasions on his authority. If he has lost all other means of government, if his strength and his reason fail him, he can at last alter his will ; and therefore all that have hopes must Ukewise have fears, and he may still continue to give laws to such as have not ceased to regard their own interest. This is, indeed, too frequently the citadel of the dotard, the last fortress to which age re- tires, and in which he makes the stand against the upstart race that seizes his domains, dis- putes his commands, and cancels his prescrip- tions. But here, though there may be safety, there is no pleasure ; and what remains is but a proof that more was once possessed. Nothing seems to have been more univer- sally dreaded by the ancients than orbity, or want of children ; and, indeed, to a man who has survived all the companions of his youth, all who have participated his pleasures and his cares, have been engaged in the same events, and filled their minds with the same conceptions, this full-peopled world is a dismal solitude. He stands forlorn and silent, neg- lected or insulted, in the midst of multitudes animated with hopes which he cannot share and employed in business which he is no longer able to forward or retard; nor can he find any to whom his life or his death are of im- portance, unless he has secured some dom.estic gratifications, some tender employments, and endeared himself to some whose interest and gratitude may unite them to him. So different are the colours of life as we look forward to the future, or backward to the past ; and so different the opinions and senti- ments which this contrariety of appearance naturally produces, that the conversation of the old and young ends generally with con- tempt or pity on either side. To a young man entering the world with fulness of hope, and ardour of pursuit, nothing is so unplcasing as the cold caution, the faint expectations, the scrupulous diffidence, which experience and disappointments certainly infuse ; and the old wonders in his turn that the world never can grow wiser, that neither precepts, nor testi- monies can cure boys of their credulity and LONDON 309 sufficiency ; and that no one can be convinced that snares are laid for him, till he finds him- self entangled. Thus one generation is always the scorn and wonder of the other, and the notions of the old and young are hke liquors of different gravity and texture which never can unite. The spirits of youth sublimed by health, and vola- tilised by passion, soon leave behind them the phlegmatic sediment of weariness and de- liberation, and burst out in temerity and enterprise. The tenderness therefore which nature infuses, and which long habits of be- neficence confirm, is necessary to reconcile such opposition ; and an old man must be a father to bear with patience those follies and absurdities which he will perpetually imagine himself to find in the schemes and expectations, the pleasures and the sorrows, of those who have not yet been hardened by time, and chilled by frustration. Yet it may be doubted, whether the pleasure of seeing children ripening into strength, be not overbalanced by the pain of seeing some fall in their blossom, and others blasted in their growth ; some shaken down with storms, some tainted with cankers, and some shrivelled in the shade ; and whether he that extends his care beyond himself, does not multiply his anxieties more than his pleasures, and weary himself to no purpose, by superintending what he cannot regulate. But, though age be to every order of human beings sufficiently terrible, it is particularly to be dreaded by fine ladies, who have had no other end or ambition than to fill up the day and the night with dress, diversions, and flattery, and who, having made no acquaint- ance with knowledge, or with business, have constantly caught all their ideas from the current prattle of the hour, and been indebted for all their happiness to compliments and treats. With these ladies, age begins early, and very often lasts long ; it begins when their beauty fades, when their mirth loses its sprightliness, and their motion its ease. From that time aU which gave them joy vanishes from about them ; they hear the praises be- stowed on others, which used to swell their bosoms with exultation. They visit the seats of felicity, and endeavour to continue the habit of being delighted. But pleasure is only received when we believe that we give it in return. Neglect and petulance inform them that their power and their value are past ; and what then remains but a tedious and com- fortless uniformity of time, without any motion of the heart, or exercise of the reason? Yet, however age may discourage us by its appearance from considering it in prospect, we shall all by degrees certainly be old ; and therefore we ought to inquire what provision can be made against that time of distress? what happiness can be stored up against the winter of life? and how we may pass our latter years with serenity and cheerfulness? If it has been found by the experience of mankind, that not even the best seasons of life are able to supply sufficient gratifications, without anticipating uncertain felicities, it cannot surely be supposed that old age, worn with labours, harassed with anxieties, and" tortured with diseases, should have any glad- ness of its own, or feel any satisfaction from the contemplation of the present. ^\11 the comfort that can now be expected must be re- called from the past, or borrowed from the future; the past is very soon exhausted, all the events or actions of which the memory can afford pleasure are quickly recollected ; and the future lies beyond the grave, where it can be reached only by virtue and devotion. Piety is the only proper and adequate relief of decaying man. He that grows old without religious hopes, as he declines into imbecility, and feels pains and sorrows incessantly crowd- ing upon him, falls into a gulf of bottomless misery, in which every reflection must plunge him deeper, and where he finds only new gradations of anguish, and precipices of horror. From LONDON By numbers here from shame or censure free All crimes are safe, but hated poverty. 155 This, only this, the rigid law pursues ; This, only this, provokes the snarling muse. The sober trader at a tatter'd cloak Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke ; With brisker air the silken courtiers, gaze, 160 And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd. Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest ; Fate never wovmds more deep the gen'rous heart, Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart. 165 Has heaven reserv'd, in pity to the poor, No pathless waste, or undiscover'd shore? No secret island in the boundless main ? 3IO SAMUEL JOHNSON No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain ? Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore, 1 70 And bear oppression's insolence no more. This mournful truth is ev'ry where confess'd : Slovv' rises worth, by poverty depress'd ; But here more slow, where aU are slaves to gold, Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold; 175 Where won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd, The groom retails the favours of his lord. But hark ! th' affrighted crowd's tumultu- ous cries Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies. Rais'd from some pleasing dream of wealth and pow'r, 180 Some pompous palace, or some blissful bow'r, Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight Sustain the approaching tire's tremendous light ; Swift from pursuing horrors take your way, And leave your little AU to flames a prey ; 185 Then thro' the world a wretched vagrant roam. For where can starving merit find a home ? In vam your mournful narrative disclose. While all neglect, and most insult your woes. From THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES Let observation, with extensive view, Survey mankind, from China to Peru ; Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, And watch the busy scenes of crowded life : Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate, 5 O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate, Where wav'ring man, betray'd by vent'rous pride To tread the dreary paths without a guide, As treach'rous i)hantoms in the mist delude, Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good ; 10 How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice ; How nations sink, by darling schemes op- press'd. When Vengeance listens to the fool's request. Fate wings with ev'ry wish Ih' afflictive dart. Each gift of nature and each grace of art ; 16 Wilh fatal heat impetuous courage glows, With fatal sweetness elocution flows, Impeachment stops the speaker's pow'rful breath. And restless fire precipitates on death. 20 But scarce observ'd, the knowing and the bold Fall in the gen'ral massacre of gold ; Wide-wasting pest ! that rages unconfin'd. And crowds with crimes the records of man- kind ; For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws, For gold the hirehng judge distorts the laws : 26 Wealth heap'd on wealth nor truth nor safety buys ; The dangers gather as the treasures rise. On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles ^ de- cide : A frame of adamant, a soul of fi.re. No dangers fright him, and no labours tire; O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ; 196 No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, — War sounds the trump, he rushes to tlie field ; Behold surrounding kings their pow'rs com- bine, And one capitulate, and one resign : 200 Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain ; "Think nothing gain'd," he cries, "till naught remain, On Moscow's walls tiU Gothic^ standards fly, And all be mine beneath the polar sky." The march begins in military state, 205 And nations on his eye suspended wait ; Stern Famine guards the solitary coast. And Winter barricades the realms of Frost : He comes; nor want nor cold his course delay ; — Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day : 210 The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands, And shows his miseries in distant lands; Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait. While ladies interpose and slaves debate. But did not Chance at length her error mend? Did no subverted empire mark his end? 216 Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound? Or hostile millions press him to the ground? His fall was destin'd to a barren strand, A petty fortress, and a dubious hand. 220 ^ Charles XII ^ here = Swedish WILLIAM SHENSTONE 311 He left the name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adoni a tale. But grant, the virtues of a temp'rate prime ^ Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime ; An age that melts with unperceiv'd decay, And glides in modest innocence away ; Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears, 295 Whose night congratulating Conscience cheers ; The gen'ral fav'rite as the gen'ral friend : Such age there is, and who shall wish its end ? Yet ev'n on this her load Misfortune flings. To press the weary minutes' flagging wings ; New sorrow rises as the day returns, 301 A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns. Now kindred JMerit fills the sable bier. Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear. Year chases j^ear, decay pursues decay, 305 Still drops some joy from with 'ring hfe away ; New forms arise, and diff'rent views engage, Superfluous lags the vet 'ran on the stage, Till pitying Nature signs the last release. And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. 310 But few there are whom hours hke these await. Who set unclouded in the gulphs of Fate. From Lydia's monarch^ should the search descend. By Solon caution'd to regard his end, 314 In life's last scene what prodigies surprise — Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise ! From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of do- tage flow, And Swift expires a driv'ler and a show. Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find ? Must dull Suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, 345 RoU darkling down the torrent of his fate? Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise.- No cries invoke the mercies of the skies ? — Enquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain, Which heav'n may hear ; nor deem religion vain. _ _ 350 Still raise for good the suppUcating voice. But leave to heav'n the measure and the choice ; ^ j-outh ^ Croesus Safe in his pow'r, whose eyes discern afar The secret ambush of a specious pray'r. Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, 355 Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best. Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires, And strong devotion to the skies aspires, Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind. Obedient passions, and a will resign'd; 360 For love, which scarce collective man can fill; For patience, sov'reign o'er transmuted ill ; For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat : These goods for man the laws of heav'n ordain ; 365 These goods He grants, who grants the pow'r to gain ; With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind. And makes the happiness she does not find. WILLIAM SHENSTONE (1714-1763) WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENT.EY To thee, fair freedom ! I retire From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; Nor art thou found in mansions higher Than the low cot, or humble mn. 4 'Tis here with boundless pow'r I reign ; And every health which I begin, Converts dull port to bright champagne ; Such freedom crowns it, at an inn. 8 I fly from pomp, I fly from plate ! I fly from falsehood's specious grin ! Freedom I love, and form I hate. And choose my lodgings at an inn. 12 Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore. Which lacqueys else might hope to win ; It buys, what courts have not in store ; It buys me freedom at an inn. 16 Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round. Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome, at an inn. 20 312 WILLIAM SHENSTONE From THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS IN IMITATION OF SPENSER Ah me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn, To think how modest worth neglected lies ; While partial fame doth with her blasts adorn Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp dis- guise ; Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize : Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies; Such as I oft have chaunced to espy. Lost in the dreary shades of duU obscurity. 9 In ev'ry village mark'd with httle spire, Embow'r'd in trees, and hardly known to fame. There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean attire, A matron old, whom we school-mistress name ; Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame; They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Aw'd by the pow'r of this relentless dame ; And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent. For unkempt hair, or talk unconn'd, are sorely shent.i 18 And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree. Which learning near her little dome did stow ; Whilom a twig of small regard to see, Tho' now so wide its waving branches flow ; And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew. But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat low ; And as they look'd they found their horror grew. And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view. 27 A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ; A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air ; 'Twas simple russet,^ but it was her own ; 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair; 'Twas her own labour did the fleece pre- pare ; ^ put to shame undyed homespun And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang'd around, Thro' pious awe, did term it passing rare ; For they in gaping wonderment abound. And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. 72 Albeit ne flatt'ry did corrupt her truth, Ne pompous title did debauch her ear ; Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt,^ for- sooth. Or dame, the sole additions ^ she did hear ; Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right dear : Ne would esteem him act as mought behove, Who should not honour 'd eld with these revere : For never title yet so mean could prove, But there was eke a mind which did that title love. 81 One ancient hen she took delight to feed. The plodding pattern of the busy dame ; Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need. Into her school, begirt with chickens, came ; Such favour did her past deportment claim : And, if neglect had lavish'd on the ground Fragment of bread, she^ would collect the same ; For well she ^ knew, and quaintly could ex- pound. What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found. 90 In elbow chair, like that of Scottish stem By the sharp tooth of cank'ring eld defac'd, In which, when he receives his diadem. Our sov'reign prince and liefest liege is plac'd. The matron sate ; and some with rank she grac'd, (The source of children's and of courtier's pride !) Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd ; And -warn'd them not the fretful to deride. But love each other dear, whatever them be- tide. 144 Right well she knew each temper to descry ; To thwart the proud, and the submiss •* to raise ; ^ mine aunt; cf. nuncle in King Lear, I, iv, 117 ^ titles ' the hen ■• submissive THOMAS GRAY 313 Some with vile copper prize ' exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of praise ; And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays : Ev'n absent, she the reins of pow'r doth hold, _ While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways ; 151 Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks be- hold, _ 'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. 153 Lo, now with state she utters the command ! Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ; Their books of stature small they take in hand. Which with pellucid horn secured are,^ To save from finger wet the letters fair : The work so gay, that on their back is seen, St. George's high atchievements does de- clare ; On which thilk wight ^ that has y-gazingbeen Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween ! 162 Ah, luckless he, and bom beneath the beam Of evil star ! it irks me whilst I write ! As erst the bard * by Muila's silver stream, Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite. For brandishing the rod, she doth begin To loose the brogues,^ the stripling's late delight ! And down they drop ; appears his dainty skin. Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermUin. 171 O ruthful scene ! when from a nook obscure, His little sister doth his peril see : All playful as she sate, she grows demure; She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee ; She meditates a pray'r to set him free : Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, (If gentle pardon could with dames agree) To her sad grief that swells in either eye, And wrings her so that all for pity she could die. 180 No longer can she now her shrieks com- mand ; And hardly she forbears thro' aweful fear, ^ a penny ^ hornbooks ' that person * Ed- mund Spenser ° breeches To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand, To stay harsh justice in its mid career. On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear ! (Ah ! too remote to ward the shameful blow !) She sees no kind domestic visage near, And soon a flood of tears begins to flow ; And gives a loose at last to unavaihng woe. The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay. Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care: 191 By turns, astony'd, ev'ry twig survey, And, from their fellow's hateful wounds, beware ; Knowing, I wist,i how each the same may share ; 'Till fear has taught them a performance meet, And to the well-known chest the dame re- pair ; WTience oft with sugar'd cates she doth 'em greet, And ginger-bread y-rare ; now, certes, doubly sweet ! 207 THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) AN ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the watry glade. Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's^ holy Shade; And ye, that from the stately brow 5 Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey. Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver- winding way. 10 Ah, happy hiUs, ah, pleasing shade, Ah, fields belov'd in vain, W^here once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain ! ^ certainly ^ Henry VI, the founder of Eton 314 THOMAS GRAY I feel the gales, that from ye blow, 15 A momentary bliss bestow. As waving fresh their gladsome wing, 'My weary soul they seem to sooth, And, redolent of joy and youth. To breathe a second spring. 20 Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen FuU many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green The paths of pleasure trace, Who foremost now delight to cleave 25 With pliant arm thy glassy wave? The captive linnet which enthrall? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball? 30 While some on earnest business bent Their murm'ring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty : Some bold adventurers disdain 35 The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry: Still as they run they look behind. They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy. 40 Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest ; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast : Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, 45 Wild wit, invention ever-new. And lively cheer of vigour born ; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th' approach of morn. 50 Alas, regardless of their doom. The little victims play ! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day : Yet see how all around 'em wait 55 The Ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune's baleful train ! Ah, shew them where in ambush stand To seize their prey the murth'rous band ! Ah, tell them, they are men ! 60 These ' shall the fury ^ Passions tear. The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 65 Or Jealousy with rankling tooth, That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart. 70 Ambition this ^ shall tempt to rise. Then whirl the wretch from high. To bitter Scorn a sacrifice. And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 75 And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye. That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow ; And keen Remorse with blood defil'd. And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe. 80 Lo, m the vale of years beneath A griesly troop are seen. The pain fill family of Death, More hideous than their Queen : This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 85 That every labouring sinew strains. Those in the deeper vitals rage : Lo, Poverty, to fill the band. That numbs the soul with icy hand. And slow-consuming Age. 90 To each his suff 'rings : aU are men, Condemn'd aUke to groan. The tender for another's pain ; Th' unfeeUng for his own. Yet ah ! why should they know their fate? 95 Since sorrow never comes too late. And happiness too swiftly flies. Thought would destroy their paradise. No more ; where ignorance is bliss, ' 'Tis folly to be wise. 100 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- Y.\RD The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea. The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. ^ dir. obj. a noun epithet this one AN ELEGY 315 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 And all the air ' a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droningilight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; " Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, 11 Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those .rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 15 The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built ' shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, * No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care : No children nm to hsp their sire's return. Or chmb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 30 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, aU that wealth e'er gave. Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.^ 35 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault. If Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise, ^ dir. obj. - sheep folds * thatched ■* of the hunters * subject Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust 41 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke ^ the sUent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth ^ the dull cold ear of Death ? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd. Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre. But Kjiowledge to their ej-es her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; ChUl Penur}'' repress 'd their noble rage, 51 And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little Tyrant of his fields withstood ; Some mute inglorious INIilton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 60 Th' applause of Hst'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade : nor circumscrib'd alone 65 Their growing virtues, but their crimes con- fin'd; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 71 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never leam'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 75 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. ^ to call forth to action - humor by assenting 3i6 THOMAS GRAY Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply : And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 85 This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd. Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies. Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 91 Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay, IIS Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth. A nd Melancholy mark 'd him for her own . 120 Large was his bounty, and his soid sincere, Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to MisWy all he had, a tear, He gained from Heaven {'twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, {There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God. For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; If chance,^ by lonely contemplation led, 95 Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100 "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. His listless length at noontide would he stretch. And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, 106 Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn. Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill. Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree. Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 1 1 1 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; " The next, v/ith dirges due in sad array Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. ^ if perchance THE PROGRESS OF POESY A PINDARIC ODE The Strophe Awake, ^olian ^ lyre, awake. And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's - harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take : The laughing flowers, that round them blow. Drink life and fragrance as they flow. 6 Now the rich stream of music winds along Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong. Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign : ' Now rolling down the steep amain, 10 Headlong, impetuous, see it pour : The rocks, and nodding groves rebellow to the The Antistrophe Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! ■* the sullen Cares, 15 And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. ^ Pindaric, for so Pindar called his poetry ^ Aganippe and Hippocrene, the fountains of the Muses at the foot of Mt. Helicon ^ fields of grain * the lyre THE PROGRESS OF POESY 317 On Thracia's hills the Lord of War,i Has curb'd the fury of his car. And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command. Perching on the scept'red hand 20 Of Jove, thy magic lidls the feather'd king^ With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing : Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and light 'nings of his eye. The Epode Thee the voice, the dance, obey, 25 Temper'd to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's ^ velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 30 Fj-isking light in frolic measures ; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet : To brisk notes in cadence beating Glance their many-twinkling feet. 35 Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare : Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay. With arms sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way : O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of yoimg Desire, and purple light of Love. 41 II The Strophe Man's feeble race what Ills await, Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train. And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! 45 The fond complaint, my Song, disprove. And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse ? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her Spectres wan, and Birds of boding cry, 50 He gives to range the dreary sky : Till down the eastern cliffs" afar Hyperion's^ march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war. ' Mars, who was especially worshipped in Thrace ^ Jove's eagle ^ a town in Cyprus con- taining a temple of Venus ^ the sun's The Antistrophe In climes beyond the solar road,^ Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built movmtains roam. 55 The ]Muse has broke the twilight -gloom To cheer the shiv'ring Native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid. She deigns to hear the savage Youth repeat In loose numbers wildly sweet 61 Their feather-cinctured Chiefs, and dusky Loves. Her track, where'er the Goddess roves. Glory pursue, and generous Shame. Th' imconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame. 65 The Epode Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, - Isles, that cro-yra th' ^Egean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves. Or where Mieander's amber waves In lingering Lab'rinths creep, 70 How do your tuneful Echoes languish, Mu.te, but to the voice of Anguish ? Where each old poetic IMountain Inspiration breath'd around : Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain 75 INIurmur'd deep a solemn sound : Till the sad Nine * in Greece's evil hour Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.* Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant-Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, 8i They sought, O Albion ! ^ next thy sea-encircled coast. Ill The Strophe Far from the sim and summer-gale. In thv^ green lap was Nature's Darling^ laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, 85 To Him the mighty jMother did unveil Her awful face : The dauntless Child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year : 90 ^ the path of the sun - This and the following are places celebrated in Greek poetry. ^ the Muses * Italy ^ England ^ i.e. England's ~ Shakespeare 3i8 THOMAS GRAY Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy ; Of Horror that, and thrilUng Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears. The Antistrophe 95 Nor second He,^ that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th' Abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time : The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where Angels tremble, while they gaze, loo He saw ; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car. Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear Two Coursers^ of ethereal race, 105 With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long- resounding pace. The Epode Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that bum. But ah! 'tis heard no more ' iii O Lyre divine, what daring Spirit Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion. That the Theban Eagle ^ bear 115 Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air : Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun : 120 Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate. Beneath the Good how far — but far above the Great. THE FATAL SISTERS AN ODE (From the Norse Tongue) Now the storm begins to lower, (Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) Iron-sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darken'd air. ^ Milton ^ the heroic couplet ' Pindar Glitt'ring lances are the loom, 5 Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a soldier's doom, Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.^ See the griesly texture grow, ('Tis of human entrails made,) 10 And the weights,- that play below, Each a gasping warrior's head. Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore. Shoot the trembling cords along. Sword, that once a monarch bore, 15' Keep the tissue -close and strong. Mista black, terrific maid, Sangrida, and Hilda ^ see, Join the wayward work to aid : 'Tis the woof of victory. 20 Ere the ruddy sun be set, Pikes must shiver, javelms sing. Blade with clattering buckler meet, Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. (Weave the crimson web of war) 25 Let us go, and let us fly, Where our friends the conflict share. Where they triumph, where they die. As the paths of fate we tread. Wading thro' th' ensanguin'd field : 30 Gondula, and Geira,* spread O'er the youthful king your shield. We the reins to slaughter give. Ours to kill, and ours to spare : Spite of danger he shall live. 35 (Weave the crimson web of war.) They, whom once the desert-beach Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample sway shall stretch O'er the plenty of the plain. 40 Low the dauntless earl is laid, Gor'd with many a gaping wound : Fate demands a nobler head ; Soon a king shall bite the ground. * death ^ weights of the loom ^ These three are Valkyries, i.e. goddesses of battle. * These two are Valkyries. WILLIAM COLLINS 319 Long his loss shall Eirin^ weep, 45 Ne'er again his likeness see ; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strams of immortality. Horror covers all the heath, Clouds of carnage blot the sun. 50 Sisters, weave the web of death ; Sisters, cease, the work is done, Hail the task, and hail the hands! Songs of joy and triumph sing! Joy to the victorious bands ; 55 Triimiph to the younger king. Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Learn the tenor of our song. Scotland, thro' each ^\^nding vale Far and wide the notes prolong. 60 Sisters, hence with spurs of speed : Each her thundering falchion wield ; Each bestride her sable steed. Hurry, hurry to the field. WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) A SONG FROM SHAKESPEARE'S CYMBELYNE Sung by Giiiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, Supposed to be Dead ^ To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each op'ning sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear, 5 To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love. No wdther'd witch shall here be seen. No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 10 The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew. The redbreast oft at ev'ning hours Shall kindly lend his little aid. With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs, 15 To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain. In tempests shake the sylvan cell. Or midst the chase on ev'ry plain. The tender thought on thee shall dwell, 20 Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed : Belov'd, till life could charm no more ; And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead. ODE WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE YEAR 1746 How sleep the brave who sink to rest By aU their country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mold. She there shall dress a sweeter sod 5 Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung. By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey. To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 10 And Freedom shall awhile repair. To dweU a weeping hermit there ! ODE TO EVENING If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song. May hope, chaste Eve,^ to sooth thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs and dying gales, O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright- hair'd sun 5 Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed : Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat. With short shrill shriek, fhts by on leathern wing, 10 Or where the beetle wmds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path. Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum : Ireland ^ Cf. Cymbeline, IV, ii, 215-29 Evening 320 WILLIAM COLLINS Now teach me, maid ^ compos'd To breathe some soften'd strain, 15 Whose numbers, stealing thro'- thy dark'ning vale May not unseenaly with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I haU Thy genial lov'd return ! 20 For when thy folding-star ^ arising shews His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and elves Who slept in flow'rs the day, And many a nymph who wreaths her brows with sedge, 25 And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and, lovelier still. The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car. Then lead, calm vot'ress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile 30 Or upland fallows grey Reflect its last cool gleam. But when chill blust'ring winds, or driving rain. Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut That from the mountain's side 35 Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires. And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. 40 While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont. And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve; While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy ling'ring light ; While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; Or Winter, yelling thro' the troublous air, 46 Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes ; * Evening ^ ^^g evening star, the signal for folding flocks So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp'd Health, 50 Thy gentlest influence own, And hymn thy fav'rite name ! THE PASSIONS AN ODE TO MUSIC When Music, heav'nly maid, was young, WhUe yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell,^ Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 5 Possest beyond the Muse's painting ; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd : Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd, 10 From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound ; And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art. Each, for madness rul'd the hour, 15 Would prove his own expressive pow'r. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid. And back recoil'd, he knew not why, Ev'n at the sound himself had made. 20 Next Anger rush'd ; his eyes, on fire. In lightnings own'd his secret stings ; In one rude clash he struck the lyre. And swept v/ith hurried hand the strings. With woful measures wan Despair 25 Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd ; A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair. What was thy delightful measure? 30 Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure. And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong. And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. She call'd on Echo still thro' all the song; 35 And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at ev'ry close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair. ^ the lyre, cf. Progress of Poesy, 11. 13-15 THE PASSIONS 321 And longer had she sung, — but with a frown Revenge impatient rose ; 40 He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down And with a with'ring look The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, ^^'ere ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. 45 And ever and anon he beat The doubling drxmi with furious heat ; And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause be- tween, Dejected Pity, at his side. Her soul-subduing voice applied, 50 Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien. While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd burst- ing from his head. Thy numbers, Jealqusy, to nought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state ; Of diff'ring themes the veering song was mix'd, And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. 56 . With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale IVIelancholy sate retir'd, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, 60 Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her pensive soul: And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ; Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay 65 Rovmd an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hoUow murmurs died away. But oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone, WTien Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue. Her bow across her shoulder flung, 71 Her buskins ^ gemm'd with morning dew. Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to faun and dryad known ! The oak-crown'd sisters,^ and their chaste- ey'd queen, 75 ^ boots ^ nymphs of the "chaste-eyed queen" Diana Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green ; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, And Sport leapt up and seiz'd his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial. 80 He, with viny crown advancing. First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; But soon he saw the brisk awak'ning viol, WTiose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, 85 They saw in Tempe's vale^ her native maids Amidst the vestal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings. Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round ; 90 Loose were her tresses seen, her zone un- bound. And he, amidst his frolic play. As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. O Music, sphere-descended- maid, 95 Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid, Why, goddess, why, to us denied, Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? As in that lov'd Athenian bow'r You learn'd an all-commanding pow'r, 100 Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd, Can well recall what then it heard. WTiere is thy native simple heart, Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art ? Arise as in that elder time, 105 Warm, energic, chaste, sublime ! Thy wonders, in that godlike age. Fill thy recording sister's ^ page. — 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy humblest reed could more prevail, no Had more of strength, diviner rage. Than all which charms this laggard age, Ev'n all at once together found, Caecilia's mingled world of sound. O bid our vain endeavours cease, 115 Revive the just designs of Greece, Return in all thy simple state. Confirm the tales her sons relate ! ^ Cf., below, note on Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn, 1. 7 - heaven-descended ' Clio, the Muse of history 322 OLIVER GOLDSMITH THOMAS WARTON (17 2 8-1790) SONNET IV WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle ! Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore, To Amber's fatal plain ^ Pendragon ^ bore, Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile, T'entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's' guUe: Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore, Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mystic lore : Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil. To Victory's idol vast, an imhewn shrine, P^.ear'd the rude heap: or, in thy hallow'd round, 10 Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line ; Or here those kings m solemn, state were crown'd : Studious to trace thy wondrous origine. We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd. OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774) LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD TO HIS FRIENDS IN THE EAST LETTER XXI The Chinese goes to see a Play The English are as fond of seeing plays acted as the Chinese ; but there is a vast difference in the manner of conducting them. We play our pieces in the open air, the English theirs under cover ; we act by daylight, they by the blaze of torches. One of our plays continues eight or ten days successively ; an English piece seldom takes up above four hours in the representation; My companion in black, with whom I am now beginning to contract an intimacy, intro- duced me a few nights ago to the playhouse, where wc placed ourselves conveniently at the foot of the stage. As the curtain was not ^ near Salisbury ^ Uther Pendragon, father of King Arthur ^ leader of the Saxons drawn before my arrival, I had an opportunity of observing the behaviour of the spectators, and indulging those reflections which novelty generally inspires. The rich in general were placed in the lowest seats, and the poor rose above them in degrees proportioned to their poverty. The order of precedence seemed here inverted ; those who were undermost all the day, now enjoyed a temporary eminence, and became masters of the ceremonies. It was they who called for the music, indulging every noisy freedom, and testifying all the insolence of beggary in exaltation. They who held the middle region seemed not so riotous as those above them, nor yet so tame as those below : to judge by their looks, many of them seemed, strangers there as well as myself. They were chiefly employed, during this period of expectation, in eating oranges, reading the story of the play, or making assignations. Those who sat in the lowest rows, which are called the pit, seemed to consider themselves as judges of the merit of the poet and the performers ; they were assembled partly to be amused, and partly to show their taste ; ap- pearing to labour under that restraint which an affectation of superior discernment gen- erally produces. My companion, however, informed me, that not one in a hundred of them knew even the first principles of criti- cism ; that they assumed the right of being censors because there was none to contradict their pretensions; and that every man who now called himself a connoisseur, became such to all intents and purposes. Those who sat in the boxes appeared in the most unhappy situation of all. The rest of the audience came merely for their own amusement; these, rather to furnish out a part of the entertainment themselves. I could not avoid considering them as acting parts in dumb show — not a courtesy or nod, that was not all the result of art ; not a look nor a smile that was not designed for murder. Gentlemen and ladies ogled each other through spectacles; for, my companion observed, that Ijlindness was of late become fashionable; all affected indifference and ease, while their hearts at the same time burned for conquest. Upon the whole, the lights, the music, the ladies in their gayest dresses, the men with cheerfulness and expectation in their looks, all conspired to make a most agreeable pic' LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD 323 ture, and to fiU a heart that sympathises at human happiness with inexpressible serenity. The expected time for the play to begin at last arrived ; the curtain was drawn, and the actors came on. A woman, who personated a queen, came in curtseying to tlae audience, who clapped their hands upon her appear- ance. Clapping of hands is, it seems, the manner of applauding in England ; the man- ner is absurd, but every covmtry, you know, has its pecuUar absurdities. I was equally surprised, however, at the submission of the actress, who should have considered herself as a queen, as at the little discernment of the audience who gave her such marks of applause before she attempted to deserve them. Pre- liminaries between her and the audience being thus adjusted, the dialogue was sup- ported between her and a most hopeful youth, who acted the part of her confidant. They both appeared in extreme distress, for it seems the queen had lost a child some fifteen years before, and stiU kept its dear resem- blance next her heart, while her kind compan- ion bore a part in her sorrows. Her lamentations grew loud ; comfort is offered, but she detests the very soimd : she bids them preach comfort to the winds. Upon this her husband comes in, who, seeing the queen so much afflicted, can himself hardly refrain from tears, or avoid partaking in the soft distress. After thus grieving through three scenes, the curtain dropped for the first act. "Truly," said I to my companion, "these kings and queens are very much disturbed at no very great misfortune : certain I am, were people of humbler stations to act in this man- ner, they would be thought divested of com- mon sense." I had scarcely finished this observation, when the curtain rose, and the king came on in a violent passion. His wife had, it seems, refused his proffered tenderness, had spurned his royal embrace, and he seemed resolved not to survive her fierce disdain. After he had thus fretted, and the queen had fretted through the second act, the curtain was let down once more. "Now," says my companion, "you perceive the king to be a man of spirit ; he feels at every pore : one of your phlegmatic sons of clay would have given the queen her own way, and let her come to herself by. degrees ; but the king is for immediate tenderness, or instant death : death and tenderness are leading passions of every modern buskined hero; this moment they embrace, and the next stab, mixing daggers and kisses in every period." I was going to second his remarks, when my attention was engrossed by a new object ; a man came in balancing a straw upon his nose, and the audience were clapping their hands, in all the raptures of applause. "To what purpose," cried I, "does this unmeaning figure make his appearance? is he a part of the plot?" — "Unmeaning do you call him?" replied my friend in black; "this is one of the most important characters of the whole play ; nothing pleases the people more than seeing a straw balanced : there is a good deal of meaning in the straw : there is some- thing suited to every apprehension in the sight ; and a feUow possessed of talents like these is sure of making his fortune." The third act now began with an actor who came to inform us that he was the villain of the play, and intended to show strange things before all was over. He was joined by another who seemed as much disposed for mischief as he: their intrigues continued through this whole division. "If that be a villain," said I, "he must be a very stupid one to teU his secrets without being asked ; such soliloquies of late are never admitted in China." The noise of clapping interrupted me once more; a child of six years old was learning to dance on the stage, which gave the ladies and mandarines infinite satisfaction. "I am sorry," said I, "to see the pretty creature so early learning so very bad a trade ; dancing being, I presume, as contemptible here as in China." — "Quite the reverse," interrupted my companion ; " dancing is a very reputable and genteel employment here; men have a greater chance for encouragement from the merit of their heels than their heads. One who jumps up and flourishes his toes three times before he comes to the ground, may have three himdred a year ; he who flourishes them four times, gets four hundred; but he who arrives at five is inestimable, and may demand what salary he thinks proper. The fpmale dancers, too, are valued for this sort of jump-f mg and crossing; and it is a cant word amongst them, that she deserves most who shows highest. But the fourth act is begun ; let us be attentive." In the fourth act the queen finds her long 324 OLIVER GOLDSMITH lost child, now grown up into a youth of smart parts and great qualifications ; where- fore she wisely considers that the crown will fit his head better than that of her husband, whom she knows to be a driveller. The king discovers her design, and here comes on the deep distress : he loves the queen, and he loves the kingdom ; he resolves, therefore, in order to possess both, that her son must die. The queen exclaims at his barbarity, is frantic with rage, and at length, overcome with sorrow, falls into a fit ; upon which the cur- tain drops, and the act is concluded. "Observe the art of the poet," cries my companion. "When the queen can say no more, she falls into a fit. While thus her eyes are shut, while she is supported in the arms of Abigail,^ what horrors do we not fancy ! We feel it in every nerve : take my word for it, that fits are the true aposiopesis^ of modern tragedy." The fifth act began, and a busy piece it was. Scenes shifting, trumpets sounding, mobs hal- looing, carpets spreading, guards busthng from one door to another ; gods, demons, daggers, racks, and ratsbane. But whether the king was killed, or the queen was drowned, or the son was poisoned, I have absolutely forgotten. When the play was over, I could not avoid observing, that the persons of the drama ap- peared in as much distress in the first act as the last. "How is it possible," said I, "to sympathise with them through five long acts ? Pity is but a short lived passion. I hate to hear an actor mouthing trifles. Neither startings, strainings, nor attitudes, affect me, unless there be cause : after I have been once or twice deceived by those unmeaning alarms, my heart sleeps in peace, probably unaffected by the principal distress. There should be one great passion aimed at by the actor as well as the poet ; all the rest should be subor- dinate, and only contribute to make that the greater ; if the actor, therefore, exclaims upon every occasion, in the tones of despair, he attempts to move us too soon ; he antici- pates the blow, he ceases to affect, though he gains our applause." I scarce perceived that the audience were almost all departed ; wherefore, mixing with the crowd, my companion and I got into the ^ her maid ^ as a figure of rhetoric, a sudden termination before a speech is really completed street, where, essaying a hundred obstacles from coach-wheels and palanquin poles, like birds in their flight through the branches of a forest, after various turnings, we both at length got home in safety. Adieu. THE DESERTED VILLAGE Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain ; Where health and plenty cheered the labour- ing swain. Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. And parting summer's lingering blooms de- layed : Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please. How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! How often have I paused on every charm, The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 10 The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade For talking age and whispering lovers made ! How often have I blest the coming day, 15 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free. Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, While many a pastime circled in the shade, 19 The young contending as the old surveyed ; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. And sleights of art, and feats of strength went round. And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down ; 26 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face. While secret laughter tittered round the place ; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love. The matron's glance that would those looks reprove: 30 These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these. With sweet succession, taught even toil to please : These round thy bowers their cheerful influ- ence shed : THE DESERTED VILLAGE 325 These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- drawn ; 36 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen And desolation saddens all thy green : One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 40 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; Along the glades, a solitary guest, • • The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest ; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 45 And tires their echoes with mivaried cries ; Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering waU ; And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy chUdren leave the land. 50 lU fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 54 But a bold peasantry, their comitry's pride. When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man ; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what Ufe required, but gave no more : 60 His best companions, innocence and health ; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ; 64 Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, And every want to opulence allied. And every pang that folly pays to pride. These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that asked but httle room, Those healthful sports that graced the peace- ful scene, • 71 Lived in each look, and brightened all the green ; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn ! parent of the bHssful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds 77 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 80 Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In aU my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 84 I stifl had hopes, my latest hours to crown. Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out hfe's taper at the close. And keep the flame from wasting by repose : I stiU had hopes, for pride attends us stiU, Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 90 Around my fire an evening group to draw, And teU of aU I felt, and aU I saw ; And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I StiU had hopes, my long vexations past, 95 Here to return — and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to hfe's decline. Retreats from care, that never must be mine. How happy he who crowns in shades hke these A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 100 Who quits a world where strong temptations try. And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! For him no wretches, born to work and weep. Explore the mine or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guflty state, 105 To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; But on he moves to meet his latter end. Angels aroimd befriending Virtue's friend ; Bends to the grave with unperceived decay. While resignation gently slopes the way ; no And, aU his prospects brightening to the last. His heaven commences ere the world be past ! Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close Up yonder hfll the vfllage murmur rose. 114 There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came softened from below ; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, 326 OLIVER GOLDSMITH The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whis- permg wind, 121 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant ^ mind ; — These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. And filled each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, 125 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grov/n foot-way tread, For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon wddowed, solitary thing. That feebly bends beside the plashy spring : She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 131 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn. To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; She only left of all the harmless train, 135 The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis- close. The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to aU the country dear, 141 And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race. Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place ; Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, 145 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train ; He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain: 150 The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 155 Sat by the fire, and talked the night away. Wept o'er his wounds or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. ^ unoccupied by care Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow. And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 160 Careless their merits or their faults to scan. His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side ; But in his duty prompt at every call, 165 He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dis- mayed, 172 The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 175 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 180 The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; Even children followed with endearing wile, And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. 184 His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest ; Their welfare pleased him, and their cares dis- trest : To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. But aU his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall chff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 1 00 Tho' round its breast the roUing clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view; 197 I knew him well, and every truant knew ; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; 200 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 327 Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; Full well the busy whisper circling round Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 205 The love he bore to learning was in fault ; The village all declared how much he knew : 'Twas certain he coiild write, and cipher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides pre- sage, 209 And even the story ran that he could gauge ; Li arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For, even tho' vanquished, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thunder- ing sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 215 That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that Hfts its head on high. Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 220 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired. Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil re- tired, Where yiUage statesmen talked with looks pro- found, And news much older than their ale went round. Imaguaation fondly stoops to trace 225 The parlour splendotu-s of that festive place : The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; The pictures placed for ornament and use. The twelve good rules, ^ the ro3'al game of goose;- 232 The hearth, except when winter chiU'd the day, With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel .gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show. Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. \'ain transitory splendours ! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its faU? ^ a card containing maxims of conduct attrib- uted to Charles I ' a game much like Parchesi Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. Thither no more the peasant shall repair 241 To sweet obUvion of his di^ily care ; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale. No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 246 The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss ^ go round; Nor the coy maid, half wflling to be prest. Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250 Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train ; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art. Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first bom sway; 256 Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconiined. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. With all the freaks of wanton wealth ar- rayed — 260 In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasvu-e sickens mto pain ; And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 265 The rich man's joy increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and an happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 269 And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet coimt our gains ! This wealth is but a name 2 74 That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds. Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : The robe that wraps his Hnibs in silken sloth Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth ; 280 His seat,^ where sohtar>^ sports are seen. Indignant spurns the cottage from the green : ^ i.e., foaming ale ^ great house 328 OLIVER GOLDSMITH Around the world each needful product flies, For aU the luxuries the world supplies ; ^ While thus the land adorned for pleasure all In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 286 As some fair female unadorned and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. Slights every borrowed charm that dress sup- plies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 291 \¥hen time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed : 295 In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed, But verging to decline, its splendours rise. Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; While, scourged by famine from the smiling land 299 The mournful peasant leads his humble band. And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms — a garden and a grave. Wliere then, ah ! where, shall poverty reside. To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits strayed He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. And even the bare-worn common ^ is denied. If to the city sped — what waits him there ? To see profusion that he must not share ; 310 To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; To see those joys the sons of pleasure know Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 314 Here while the courtier glitters in brocade. There the pale artist ^ plies the sickly trade ; Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign 319 Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train : Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'en annoy ! Sure these denote one universal joy ! Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah, turn thine eyes 325 ^ i.e., useful products are exchanged for luxu- ries ^ a field in which all villagers were entitled to pasture their cattle free ' artisan Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 330 Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. And, pinch 'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower. With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, 335 She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, — thine, the love- liest train, — Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene, WTiere half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama^ murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charm'd before, _ 345 The various terrors of that horrid shore ; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray. And fiercely shed intolerable day ; Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 350 Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned. Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, _ 355 And savage men more murderous still than they ; \Vhile oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 361 That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day. That called them from their native walks away; ^ the Altamaha river, in Georgia RETALIATION 329 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, 366 And took a long farewell, and wished in vain For seats like these beyond the western main. And shuddering stUl to face the distant deep, Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. The good old sire the first prepared to go 371 To new found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 375 The fond companion of his helpless years. Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. And blest the cot where every pleasure rose. And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear 381 And claspt them close, in sorrow dbubly dear. Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, How iU exchanged are things like these for thee ! 386 How do thy potions, with insidious joy. Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy ! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness groT\Ti, Boast of a florid vigour, not their own. 390 At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank imwieldy woe ; Till sapped their strength, and every part un- sound, Down, dowTi, they smk, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun, 395 And half the business of destruction done ; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail. That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 400 Downward they move, a melancholy band. Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care. And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; And piety with wishes placed above, 405 And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 409 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 414 Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! Farewell, and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs,^ or Pambamarca's side,- Whether where equinoctial fervours glow. Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 420 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. Redress the rigours of the inclement clime ; Aid shghted truth wdth thy persuasive strain ; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; Teach him, that states of native strength possest, Tho' very poor, may still be very blest ; 426 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away ; Wlaile self-dependent power can time defy. As rocks resist the biUows and the sky.^ 430 From RETALIATION At a dinner so various, at such a repast, WTio'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able. Till aU my companions sink under the table; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 21 Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. Here lies the good Dean,^ reunited to earth, Who mLx'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth. If he had any favflts, he has left us in doubt, At least in six weeks I could not find them out; Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied them. That Slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide them. Here lies our good Edmund,^ whose genius was such, 29 We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; ^ on the boundary between Russia and Sweden - a mountain in Ecuador ^ Lines 427-30 were added by Dr. Johnson. * Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry ° Edmund Burke 33° OLIVER GOLDSMITH Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind : Though fraught with all learning, yet strain- ing his throat To persuade Tommy Townshend ^ to lend him a vote ; Who, too deep for his hearers, stUl went on refining. And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining ; Tho' equal to all things, for all things \mfit ; Too nice ^ for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge diso- bedient ; And too fond of the right to pursue the expe- dient. 40 In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, Sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here Cumberland * lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine. And Comedy wonders at being so fine ; Like a tragedy-queen he has dizen'd her out, Or rather like tragedy giAdng a rout. His fools have their folhes so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; 70 And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone. Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? Say, was it, that vainly directing his \dcw To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? ^ a member of Parliament - fastidious ^ Richard Cumberland, dramatist Here lies David Garrick,^ describe him who can? An abridgment of aU that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ; Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart. The man had his failings, a dupe to his art ; Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he spread. And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. ICO On the stage he was natviral, simple, affecting, 'Twas only that when he was off he was act- ing; With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day : Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick If they wAe not his own by finessing and trick ; He cast off his friends as a himtsman his pack, For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swaUow'd what came, 109 And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; Till his rehsh grown callous, almost to disease. Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind : If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye KeUys, and Woodfalls so grave,^ What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ! How did Grub Street ^ re-echo the shouts that you raised, When he was be-Roscius'd,^ and you were be- praised ! But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel, and mix with the skies ! Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, 121 Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love. And Beaumonts and Bens'' be his Kellys above. ^ the greatest actor of his day ^ dramatists and critics of the time ^ where hack-writers lived "* Roscius was the greatest comic actor of ancient Rome. ^ Ben Jonson and the Uke EDMUND BURKE 331 Here Reynolds ^ is laid, and to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind. His pencU was striking, resistless, and grand ; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; Still born to improve us in every part, 141 His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill he was still ^ hard of hearing ; When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correg- gios and stuff, He shifted his trumpet,^ and only took snuflE. EDMUND BURKE (1729-1797) From SPEECH ON THE NABOB OF ARGOT'S DEBTS The great fortunes made in India, in the beginnings of conquest, naturally excited an emulation in all the parts and through the whole succession of the Company's ser\'ice. But in the Company it gave rise to other sen- timents. They did not find the new channels of acquisition flow with equal riches to them. On the contrary, the high flood-tide of private emolument was generally in the lowest ebb of their affairs. They began also to fear that the fortune of war might take away what the for- tune of war had given. W^ars were accord- ingly discouraged by repeated injunctions and menaces : and that the servants might not be bribed into them by the native princes, they were strictly forbidden to take any money whatsoever from their hands. But vehement passion is ingenious in resources. The Com- pany's servants were not only stimulated, but better instructed by the prohibition. They soon fell upon a contrivance which answered their purposes far better than the methods which were forbidden: though in this also they violated an ancient, but they thought, an abrogated order. They reversed their pro- ceedings. Instead of receivmg presents, they made loans. Instead of carrying on wars in their own name, they contrived an authority, ^ Sir Joshua Reynolds, the most famous Eng- lish painter of the time ^ alwa)^ ^ ear-trumpet at once irresistible and irresponsible, in whose name they might ravage at pleaisure ; and being thus freed from all restraint, they in- dvdged themselves in the most extravagant speculations of plunder. The cabal ^ of cred- itors who have been the object of the late bountiful grant from his Majesty's ministers, in order to possess themselves, under the name of creditors and assignees, of every country in India, as fast as it should be conquered, inspired mto the mind of the Nabob of Arcot ^ (then a dependent on the Company of the humblest order) a scheme of the most vvild and desperate ambition that I beUeve ever was admitted into the thoughts of a man so situated. First, they persuaded him to con- sider him^self as a principal member in the political system of Europe. In the next place, they held out to him, and he readily imbibed, the idea of the general empire of Hindostan. As a preliminary to this under- taking, they prevailed on him to propose a tripartite division of that vast country : one part to the Company ; another to the Mahrat- tas ; ^ and the third to himself. To himself he reserved all the southern part of the great peninsula, comprehended under the general name of the Deccan. On this scheme of their servants, the Com- -pany was to appear in the Carnatic^ in no other light than, as a contractor for the provision of armies, and the hire of mercenaries for his use and under his direction. This disposition was to be secured by the Nabob's putting himself vmder the guaranty of France, and, by the means of that rival nation, preventing the English forever from assuming an equality, much l^s a superiority, in the Carnatic. In pursuance of this treasonable project, (trea- sonable on the part of the English,) they extinguished the Company as a sovereign power in that part of India ; they withdrew the Company's garrisons out of aU the forts and strongholds of the Carnatic; they de- clined to receive the ambassadors from foreign courts, and remitted them to the Nabob of Arcot ; they fell upon, and totally destroyed, the oldest ally of the Company, the king of Tanjore,* and plimdered the coimtrj^ to the ^ conspiracy ^ a city west and a little south of Madras * a warlike race of western and central India * a district on the eastern coast of India, now a part of the province of ^Madras " a state southwest of Madras 332 EDMUND BURKE amount of near five millions sterling; one after another, in the Nabob's name, but with English force, they brought into a miserable servitude all the princes and great independent nobihty of a vast country. In proportion to these treasons and violences, which ruined the people, the fund of the Nabob's debt grew and flourished. Among the victims to this magnificent plan of universal plunder, worthy of the heroic avarice of the projectors, you have all heard (and he has made himself to be well remem- bered) of an Indian chief called Hyder Ali Khan. This man possessed the western, as the Company, under the name of the Nabob of Arcot, does the eastern division of the Carnatic. It was among the leading measures in the design of this cabal (according to their own emphatic language) to extirpate this Hyder Ali. They declared the Nabob of Arcot to be his sovereign, and himself to be a rebel, and publicly invested their instrument with the sovereignty of the kingdom of My- sore.^ But their victim was not of the passive kind. They were soon obliged' to conclude a treaty of peace and close alliance with this rebel, at the gates of Madras. Both before and since that treaty, every principle of policy pointed out this power as a natural alliance ; and on his part it was courted by every sort of amicable office. But the cabinet council of English creditors would not suffer their Nabob of Arcot to sign the treaty, nor even to give to a prince at least his equal the ordinary titles of respect and courtesy. From that time for- ward, a continued plot was carried on within the divan,2 black and white, of the Nabob of Arcot, for the destruction of Hyder Ali. As to the outward members of the double, or rather treble government of Madras, which had signed the treaty, they were always pre- vented by some overruling influence (which they do not describe, but which cannot be misunderstood) from performing what jus- tice and interest combined so evidently to enforce. When at length Hyder Ali found that he had to do with men who either would sign no con- vention, or whom no treaty and no signature could bind, and who were the determined enemies of human intercourse itself, he decreed to make the country possessed by these in- ' a state west of Madras ^ council of govern- ment corrigible and predestinated criminals a mem- orable example to mankind. He resolved, in the gloomy recesses of a mind capacious of such things, to leave the whole Carnatic an everlasting monument of vengeance, and to put perpetual desolation as a barrier between him. and those against whom the faith which holds the moral elements of the world together was no protection. He became at length so confident of his force, so coUected in his might, that he made no secret whatsoever of his dreadful resolution. Having terminated his disputes with every enemy and every rival, who buried their mutual animosities in their common detestation against the creditors of the Nabob of Arcot, he drew from every quarter whatever a savage ferocity could add to his new rudiments in the arts of destruction ; and compounding aU the materials of fury, havoc, and desolation into one black cloud, he hung for a while on the declivities of the mountains. Whilst the authors of all these evils were idly and stupidly gazing on this menacing meteor, which blackened aU their horizon, it suddenly burst, and poured down the whole of its contents upon the plains of the Carnatic. Then ensued a scene' of woe, the like of which no eye had seen, no heart con- ceived, and which no tongue can adequately tell. All the horrors of war before known or heard of were mercy to that new havoc. A storm of universal fire blasted every field, con- sumed every house, destroyed every temple. The miserable inhabitants, flying from their flaming viUages, in part were slaughtered; others, without regard to sex, to age, to the respect of rank or sacredness of function, fathers torn from children, husbands from wives, enveloped in a whirlwind of cavalry, and amidst the goading spears of drivers, and the trampling of pursuing horses, were swept into captivity in an unknown and hostile land. Those who were able to evade this tempest fled to the walled cities; but escaping from fire, sword, and exile, they fell into the jaws of famine. The alms of the settlement, in this dreadful exigency, were certainly liberal ; and all was done by charity that private charity could do : but it was a people in beggary ; it was a nation which stretched out its hands for food. For months together, these creatures of sufferance, whose ver}' excess and luxury in their most plenteous days had faflcn short of the allow- ance of our austerest fasts, silent, patient, SPEECH ON THE NABOB OF ARGOT'S DEBTS 333 resigned, without sedition or disturbance, almost without complaint, perished by an hun- dred a day in the streets of Madras ; every day seventy at least laid their bodies in the streets or on the glacis ^ of Tanjore, and expired of famine in the granary of India. I was going to awake your justice towards this unhappy part of our fellow-citizens, by bringing before you some of the circumstances of this plague of hunger : of all the calamities which beset and waylay the life of man, this comes the nearest to our heart, and is that wherein the proudest of us all feels himself to be nothing more than he is : but I find myself unable to manage it with decorum ; these details are of a species of horror so nauseous and disgusting, they are so degrading to the sufferers and to the hearers, they are so hvmiiliating to human nature itself, that, on better thoughts, I find it more advisable to throw a pall over this hideous object, and to leave it to your general conceptions. For eighteen months, without intermission, this destruction raged from the gates of Madras to the gates of Tanjore ; and so com- pletely did these masters in their art, Hyder Ali and his more ferocious son, absolve them- selves of their impious vow, that, when the British armies traversed, as they did, the Carnatic for hundreds of miles in all directions, through the whole line of their march they did not see one man, not one woman, not one child, not one four-footed beast of any de- scription whatever. One dead, uniform silence reigned over the whole region. With the inconsiderable exceptions of the narrow vicinage of some few forts, I wish to be understood as speaking literally. I mean to produce to you more than three witnesses, above all exception, who will support this assertion in its fuU extent. That hurricane of war passed through every part of the central provinces of the Carnatic. Six or seven districts to the north and to the south (and these not wholly untouched) escaped the general ravage. The Carnatic is a country not much infe- rior in extent to England. Figure to yourself, Mr. Speaker, the land in whose representative chair you sit ; figure to yourself the form and fashion of your sweet and cheerful country from Thames to Trent, north and south, and from the Irish to the German Sea, east and west, emptied and embowelled (may God avert the omen of our crimes !) by so accom- plished a desolation. Extend your imagina- tion a little further, and then suppose your ministers taking a survey of these scenes of waste and desolation. What would be your thoughts, if you should be informed that they were computing how much had been the amount of the excises, how much the customs, how much the land and malt tax, in order that they should charge (take it in the most favour- able light) for public service, upon the relics of the satiated vengeance of relentless enemies, the whole of what England had yielded in the most exuberant seasons of peace and abun- dance? What would you call it? To call it tyranny sublimed into madness would be too faint an image; yet this very madness is the principle upon which the ministers at your right hand have proceeded in their estimate of the revenues of the Carnatic, Avhen they were providing, not supply for the establish- ments of its protection, but rewards for the authors of its ruin. Every day you are fatigued and disgusted with this cant, "The Carnatic is a country that will soon recover, and become instantly as prosperous as ever." They think they are talking to innocents, who wiU believe, that, by sowing of dragons' teeth, men may come up ready grown and ready armed. '^ They who will give themselves the trouble of considering (for it requires no great reach of thought, no very profound knowledge) the manner in which mankind are increased, and countries cultivated, will regard all this raving as it ought to be regarded. In order that the people, after a long period of vexation and plunder, may be in a condition to maintain government, government must begin by main- taining them. Here the road to economy lies not through receipt, but through expense ; I and in that country Nature has given no I short cut to your object. Men must propa- gate, Hke other animals, by the mouth. Never did oppression light the nuptial torch ; never did extortion and usury spread out the genial bed. Does any of you think that England, so wasted, would, under such a nursing attendance, so rapidly and cheaply recover? But he is meanly acquainted with either England or India who does not know that England w^ould a thousand times sooner * a sloping bank in a fortification ^ Cf. footnote on p. 210, above 334 EDMUND BURKE resume population, fertility, and what ought to be the ultimate secretion from both, revenue, than such a country as the Carnatic. The Carnatic is not by the boLmty of Nature a fertile soil. The general size of its cattle is proof enough that it is much otherwise. It is some days since I moved that a curious and interesting map, kept in the India house, should be laid before you. The India House is not yet in readiness to send it ; I have there- fore brought down my own copy, and there it lies for the use of any gentleman who may think such a matter worthy of his attention. It is, indeed, a noble map, and of noble things ; but it is decisive against the golden dreams and sanguine speculations of avarice run mad. In addition to what you know must be the case in every part of the world, -(the necessity of a previous provision of habitation, seed, stock, capital,) that map will show you that the uses of the influences of Heaven itself are in that country a work of art. The Car- natic is refreshed by few or no living brooks or running streams, and it has rain only at a season ; but its product of rice exacts the use of water subject . to perpetual command. This is the national bank of the Carnatic, on which it must have a perpetual credit, or it perishes irretrievably. For that reason, in the happier times of India, a number, almost incredible, of reservoirs have been made in chosen places throughout the whole country : they are formed, for the greater part, of moimds of earth and stones, with sluices of solid masonry ; the whole constructed with admirable skill and labour, and maintained at a mighty charge. In the territory contained in that map alone,- 1 have been at the trouble of reckoning the reservoirs, and they amount to upwards of eleven hundred, from the extent of two or three acres to five miles in circuit. From these reservoirs currents are occasionally drawn over the iields, and these watercourses again call for a considerable expense to keep them properly scoured and duly levelled. Tak- ing the district in that map as a measure, there cannot be in the Carnatic and Tanjore fewer than ten thousand of these reservoirs of the larger and middling dimensions, to say nothing of those for domestic services, and the use of religious purification. These are not the enterprises of your power, nor in a style of magnificence suited to the taste of your minis- ter. These are the monuments of real kings, who were the fathers of their people, — testa- tors to a posterity which they embraced as their own. These are the grand sepulchres buUt by ambition, — but by the ambition of an insatiable benevolence, which, not con- tented with reigning in the dispensation of happiness during the contracted term of human life, had strained, with all the reach- ings and graspings of a vivacious mind, to extend the dominion of their bounty beyond the limits of Nature, and to perpetuate them- selves through generations of generations, the guardians, the protectors, the nourishers of mankind. Long before the late invasion, the persons who are objects of the grant of public money now before you had so diverted the supply of the pious funds of culture and population, that everywhere the reservoirs v/ere fallen into a miserable decay. But after those domestic enemies had provoked the entry of a cruel foreign foe into the covmtry, he did not leave it, until his revenge had completed the de- struction begun by their avarice. Few, very few indeed, of these magazines of water that are not either totally destroyed, or cut through with such gaps as to require a serious atten- tion and much cost to reestablish them, as the means of present subsistence to the people and of future revenue to the state. What, Sir, would a virtuous and enlightened ministry do, on the view of the ruins of such works before them ? — on the view of such a chasm of desolation as that which yawned in the midst of those countries, to the north and south, which still bore some vestiges of culti- vation? They would have reduced all their most necessary establishments; they would have suspended the justest payments ; they would have employed every shilling derived from the producing to reanimate the powers of the unproductive parts. While they were performing this fundamental duty, whilst they were celebrating these mysteries of jus- tice and humanity, they would have told the corps of fictitious creditors, whose crimes were their claims, that they must keep an awful dis- tance, — that they must silence their inau- spicious tongues, — that they must hold off their profane, unhaUowed paws from this holy work ; they would have proclaimed, with a voice that should make itself heard, that on every country the first creditor is the plough, — that this original, indefeasible claim supersedes every other demand. This is what a wise and virtuous ministry REFLECTIONS ON THE REVOLUTION IN FRANCE 335 would have done and said. This, therefore, is what our minister' could never think of saying or doing. A ministry of another kind would have first improved the countn,-, and have thus laid a solid foundation for future opulence ajid future force. But on this grand point of the restoration of the country there is not one syllable to be foimd in the correspon- dence of our ministers, from the first to the last ; they felt nothing for a land desolated by fire, sword, and famine : their s>Tnpathies took another direction ; they were touched with pity for briber}', so long tormented with a fruitless itching of its pahns; their bowels yearned for usury, that had long missed the harvest of its returnmg months ; they felt for peculation, which had been for so many years raking in the dust of an empty treasury ; they were melted into compassion for rapine and oppression, licking their dry, parched, unbloody jaws. These were the objects of their solicitude. These were the necessities for which they were studious to provide. . . . From REFLECTIONS ON THE REVOLU- TION IN FRANCE It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of France, then the Dauphin- ess,"^ at Versailles ; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more dehghtful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheer- ing the elevated sphere she just began to move in, — ghttering like the morning-star, fidl of life and splendour and joy. Oh ! what a revo- Ivition! and what an heart must I have, to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall ! Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthu- siastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against, disgrace concealed in that bosom ! Uttle did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, ia a nation of men of honour, and of cavaUers ! I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scab- bards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, economists, and ^ wife of the crown prince calculators has succeeded ; and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more, shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom ! The tmbought grace of Hfe, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone ! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost haK its evil by los- ing aU its grossness ! The mixed system of opinion and sentiment had its origin in the ancient chivalry ; and the principle, though varied in its appearance by the varying state of human affairs, subsisted and influenced through a long succession of generations, even to the time we five in. If it should ever be totally extinguished, the loss, I fear, will be great. It is this which has given its character to modern Europe. It is this which has distinguished it under aU its forms of government, and distinguished it to its ad- vantage, from the states of Asia, and possibly from those states v.hich flourished in the most brilliant periods of the antique world. It was this, which, without confounding ranks, had produced a noble equahty, and handed it do^^^l through all the gradations of social life. It was this opinion which mitigated kings into companions, and raised private men to be feUows with kings. Without force or opposi- tion, it subdued the fierceness of pride and power ; it obhged sovereigns to submit to the soft collar of social esteem, compelled stern authority to submit to elegance, and gave a domination, vanquisher of laws, to be sub- dued by manners. But now ail is to be changed. All the pleas- ing illusions which made power gentle and obedience hberal, which harmonised the dif- .ferent shades of life, and which b)' a bland assimflation incorporated into politics the sentiments which beautify and soften private society, are to be dissolved by this new con- quering empire of light and reason. AU the decent drapery of life is to be rudely torn oft". All the superadded ideas, furnished from the wardrobe of a moral imagination, which the heart owns and the understanding ratifies, as necessary to cover the defects of our naked. 33^ WILLIAM COWPER shivering nature, and to raise it to dignity in our own estimation, are to be exploded as a ridiculous, absurd, and antiquated fashion. WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800) THE TASK From BOOK I There often wanders one, whom better days Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed 535 With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound. A serving-maid was she, and fell in love With one who left her, went to sea, ^nd died. Her fancy followed him through foaming waves To distant shores, and she would sit and weep At what a sailor suffers ; fancy too, 541 Delusive most where warmest wishes are, Would oft anticipate his glad return. And dream of transports she was not to know. She heard the doleful tidings of his death, 545 And never smiled again. And now she roams The dreary waste ; there spends the livelong day. And there, unless when charity forbids, The livelong night. A tattered apron hides. Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown 550 More tattered still ; and both but iU conceal A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. She begs an idle pin of aU she meets. And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food. Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, 555 Though pinched with cold, asks never. — Kate is crazed. I see a column of slow-rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung 560 Between two poles upon a stick transverse, Receives the morsel ; llesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race ! They pick their fuel out of every hedge, 565 Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un- qucnched The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide Their fluttering, rags, and shows a tawny skin. The vellum of the pedigree they claim. Great skill have they in palmistry, and more To conjure clean away the gold they touch, Conveying worthless dross into its place; 572 Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal. Strange! that a creature rational, and cast In human mould, should brutalize by choice His nature, and, though capable of arts 576 By which the world might profit and himself, Self banished from society, prefer Such squalid sloth to honourable toil! Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft, They swathe the forehead, drag the limping Hmb, 581 And vex their flesh with artificial sores. Can change their whine into a mirthful note When safe occasion offers; and with dance, And music of the bladder and the bag,^ 585 Beguile their woes, and make the woods re- sound. Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy The houseless rovers of the sylvan world ; And breathing wholesome air, and wandering much. Need other physic none to heal the effects 590 Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. From BOOK II Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, ^ Some boundless contiguity of shade. Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war. Might never reach me more 1 My ear is . pained, 5 My soul is sick with every day's report Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart. It does not feel for man ; the natural bond Of brotherhood is severed as the flax 10 That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not coloured like his own, and, having power To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey, i s Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And worse than all, and most to be deplored. As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 22 ' bagpipe ^ Cf. Jeremiah, ix : 2 THE TASK 337 Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding heart. Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 25 Then what is man ? And what man seeing this. And having human feelmgs, does not blush And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to tiU my ground. To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 30 And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave 35 And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home. — Then why abroad ? And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England ; ^ if their lungs 40 Receive our air, that moment they are free. They touch our country, and their shackles faU. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through every vein Of all your empire; that where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 47 From BOOK V 'Tis morning ; and the sun with ruddy orb Ascending, fires the horizon : while the clouds That crowd away before the driving wind. More ardent as the disk emerges more. Resemble most some city in a blaze, 5 Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, And tinging aU with his own rosy hue, From every herb and every spiry blade Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. 10 Mine, spindling into longitude immense, In spite of gravity, and sage remark That I myself am but a fleeting shade, ^ the decision of Chief Justice Lord Mansfield, June 22, 1772 Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance I view the muscular proportioned limb 15 Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair. As they designed to mock me, at my side Take step for step ; and as I near approach The cottage, walk along the plastered wall. Preposterous sight ! the legs without the man. The verdure of the plain lies buried deep 21 Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents ^ And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest, Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad, 25- And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. The cattle mourn in corners where the fence Screens them, and seem half-petrified to sleep In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder, not like himgering man, Fretfid if unsuppHed, but silent, meek, 31 And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. He from the stack carves out the accustomed load. Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft. His broad keen knife into the solid mass; 35 Smooth as a waU the upright remnant stands, With such undeviating and even force He severs it away : no needless care Lest storms shoiild overset the leaning pile Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. 40 Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear. From morn to eve his solitary task. Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears 45 And tail cropped short, half lurcher ^ and half cur, His dog attends him. Close behind his heel Now creeps he slow; and now with many a frisk Wide scampering, snatches up the drifted snow With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout ; Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy. SI Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl Moves right toward the mark ; nor stops for aught. But now and then with pressure of his thumb To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube That fumes beneath his nose: the trailing cloud 56 Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. ^ wiry grass ^ a cross between greyhound and sheep-dog, keen both of sight and of scent 338 WILLIAM COWPER Now from the roost, or from the neighbouruig pale, Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, 60 Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing, And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge. The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves 65 To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye The scattered grain, and thievishly resolved To escape the impending famine, often scared As oft return, a pert voracious kind. 69 Clean riddance quickly made, one only care Remains to each, the search of sunny nook. Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned To sad necessity, the cock foregoes His wonted strut, and wading at their head With weU-considered steps, seems to resent 75 His altered gait and stateliness retrenched. His sword was in its sheath ; His fingers held the pen. When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, 25 Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup The tears that England owes. Her timbers are yet sound, And she may float again 30 Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone. His victories are o'er ; And he and his eight himdred Shall plough the wave no more. 35 ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE Toll for the brave ! The brave that are no more ! AH sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore ! Eight hundred of the brave. Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel. And laid her on her side. A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset ; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave ! Brave Kempenfelt ' is gone; His last sea-fight is fought ; His work of glory done. It was not in the battle ; No tempest gave the shock ; She sprang no fatal leak ; She ran upon no rock. ^ rear-admiral of the fleet IS Oh that those lips had language ! Life has passed With me but roughly smce I heard thee last. Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see. The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, " Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Bless'd be the art that can immortalise, The art that bafiles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me stiU the same. Faithf id remembrancer of one so dear, 1 1 welcome guest, though unexpected here ! Who bidst me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long,^ 1 will obey, not willingly alone. But gladly, as the precept were her own : And, whUe that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream that thou art she. 20 My mother ! when I learnt that thou wast dead ^ Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? ' fifty-two years ^ He was only six when she died. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 339 Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss : Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bhss — Ah, that maternal smile ! It answers — Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I sav/ the hearse that bore thee slow away, And turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 31 But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my con- cern , Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished I long beUeved, And, disappointed stiU, was stiU deceived. By expectation ever>^ day beguiled, 40 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, TiU; all my stock of mfant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot ; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; And where the gardener Robin, day by day. Drew me to school along the pubUc way. Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'Tis now become a history Httle known, 52 That once we called the pastoral house ^ our own. Short-Hved possession ! but the record fair That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 60 The biscuit, or confectionary plum ; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, tiU fresh they shone and glowed ; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes That humour interposed too often makes ; AU this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age. Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 70 Such honours to thee as my mimbers may ; ^ the rectory Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours. When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jassamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? 81 I would not trust my heart — the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — But no — • what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should iU requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 90 Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore, " Where tempests never beat nor billows roar." And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchored by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 100 Always from port withheld, always dis- tressed — Me howHng blasts 'drive devious, tempest tost. Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and com- pass lost,' And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not, that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth ; But higher far my proud pretensions rise — The son of parents passed into the skies ! in And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. 34° JAMES MACPHERSON By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; To have renewed the joys that once were mine. Without the sin of violating thine : And, while the wings of Fancy still are free. And I can view this mimic show of thee, 119 Time has but half succeeded in his theft — Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left: JAMES MACPHERSON (?) (1736-1796) THE POEMS OF OSSIAN From CATH-LODAi DUAN III Whence is the stream of years? Whither do they roll along? Where have they hid, in mist, their many coloured sides? I look unto the times of old, but they seem dim to Ossian's eyes, like reflected moonbeams on a distant lake. Here rise the red beams of wa'r ! There, silent, dwells a feeble race ! They mark no years with their deeds, as slow they pass along. Dweller between the shields ! thou that awakest the failing soul ! descend from thy wall, harp of Cona,- with thy voices three ! Come with that which kindles the past : rear the forms of old, on their own dark-brown years ! U-thorno, hill of storms, I behold my race on thy side. Fingal is bending in night over Duth-maruno's tomb. Near him are the steps of his heroes, hunters of the boar. By Tur- thor's stream the host of Lochlin ^ is deep in shades. The wrathful kin'gs'* stood on two hills : they looked forward from their bossy shields. They looked forward' to the stars of night, red wandering in the west. Cruth- loda^ bends from high, like a formless meteor in clouds. He sends abroad the winds, and marks them with his signs. Starno foresaw that Morven's king*^ was not to yield in war. He twice struck the tree in wrath. He rushed before his son. He hummed a surly song, and heard his hair in wind. Turned ^ the Battle of Loda ^ the home of Ossian ' Norway "* Starno, king of Lochlin, or Norway, and Swaran, his son and heir ^ Odin, chief god of the Norsemen '' Fingal (of Scotland) from one another, they stood, like two oaks, which different winds had bent ; each hangs over his own loud rill, and shakes his boughs in the course of blasts. "Annir,"! said Starno of lakes, "was a fire that consumed of old. He poured death from his eyes along the striving fields. His joy was in the fall of men. Blood to him was a sum- mer stream, that brings joy to the withered vales, from its own mossy rock. He came forth to the lake Luth-cormo, to meet the tall Corman-trunar, he from Urlor of streams, dweller of battle's wing. " The chief of Urlor had come to Gormal with his dark-bosomed ships. He saw the daughter of Annir, white-armed Foina-bragal. He saw her ! Nor careless rolled her eyes on the rider of stormy waves. She fled to his ship in darkness, like a moonbeam through a nightly veil. Annir pursued along the deep ; he called the winds of heaven. Nor alone was the king ! Starno was by his side. Like U-thorno's young eagle, I turned my eyes on my father. " We rushed into roaring ^ Urlor. With his people came tall Corman-trunar. We fought ; but the foe prevailed. In his wrath my father stood. He lopped the young trees with his sword. His eyes rolled red in his rage. I marked the soul of the king, and I retired in night. From the field I took a broken hel- met ; a shield that was pierced with steel ; pointless was the spear in my hand. I went to find the foe. " On a rock sat tall Corman-trunar beside his burning oak ; and near him beneath a tree, sat deep-bosomed Foina-bragal. I threw my broken shield before her. I spoke the words of peace. ' Beside his rolling sea lies Annir of many lakes. The king was pierced in battle ; and Starno is to raise his tomb.^ Me, a son of Loda,'' he sends to white-handed Foina, to bid her send a lock from her hair, to rest with her father in earth. And thou, king of roaring Urlor, let the battle cease, till Annir receive the shell ^ from fiery-eyed Cruth-loda.' ^ " Bursting into tears, she rose, and tore a lock from her hair ; a lock, which wandered in the blast, along her heaving breast. Corman- trunar gave the shell,'' and bade me rejoice ' father of Starno ' because of its many streams ^ This was untrue. ""He was disguised. * Shells were used as drinking-cups. ^ i.e., in Val- halla, the heaven of heroes ^ offered drink JAMES BOSWELL 341 before him. I rested in the shade of night, and hid my face in my helmet deep. Sleep de- scended on the foe. I rose, like a stalking ghost. I pierced the side of Corman-trunar. Nor did Foina-brugal escape. She rolled her white bosom in blood. " Why, then, daughter of heroes, didst thou wake my rage? " Morning rose. The foe were fled, like the departure of mist. Annir struck his bossy shield. He called his dark-haired son. I came, streaked with wandering blood : thrice rose the shout of the king, like the bursting forth of a squall of wind from a cloud by night. We rejoiced three days above the dead, and called the hawks of heaven. They came from all their winds to feast on Annir's foes. " Swaran, Fingal is alone in his hill of night. Let thy spear pierce the king in secret ; like Annir, my soul shall rejoice." "Son of Annir," said Swaran, "I shall not slay in shades : I move forth in light : the hawks rush from all their winds. They are wont to trace my course : it is not harmless through war." Burning rose the rage of the king.^ He thrice raised his gleaming spear. But, start- ing, he spared his son, and rushed into the night. By Turthor's stream, a cave is dark, the dwelling of Corban-cargla.^ There he laid the helmet of kings, and called the maid of Lulan ; but she was distant far in Loda's re- sounding hall.^ Swelling in his rage, he strode to where Fingal lay alone. The king was laid on his shield, on his own secret hill. Stern hunter of shaggy boars ! no feeble maid is laid before thee. No boy on his ferny bed, by Turthor's murmuring stream. Here is spread the couch of the mighty, from which they rise to deeds of death ! Hunter of shaggy boars, awaken not the terrible ! Starno came murmuring on. Fingal ^rose in arms. "WTio art thou, son of night!" Silent he threw the spear. They mixed their gloomy strife. The shield of Starno fell, cleft in twain. He is bound to an oak. The early beam arose. It was then Fingal beheld the king. He rolled awhile his silent eyes. He thought of other days, when white-bosomed * Starno ^ the maid of Lulan, beloved by Starno, but in love with Swaran ^ i.e., she was dead AE Agandecca^ moved like the music of songs. He loosed the thong from his hands. " Son of Annir," he said, "retire. Retire to Gormal of shells ; ^ a beam that was set returns. I re- member thy white-bosomed daughter ; dread- ful king, away ! Go to thy troubled dwelling, cloudy foe of the lovely. Let the stranger shun thee, thou gloomy in the hall ! " A tale of the times of old ! JAMES BOSWELL (i 740-1 795) THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. FROM CHAPTER XIII (1763) He talked very contemptuously of Church- ill's^ poetry, observing, that "it had a tem- porary currency, only from its audacity of abuse, and being filled with living names, and that it would sink into oblivion." I ven- tured to hint that he was not quite a fair judge, as Churchill had attacked him violently.* Johnson : "Nay, Sir, I am a very fair judge. He did not attack me violently till he found I did not like his poetry ; and his attack on me shall not prevent me from continuing to say what I think of him, from an apprehen- sion that it may be ascribed to resentment. No, Sir, I called the fellow a blockhead at first, and I will call him a blockhead still. However, I will acknowledge that I have a better opinion of him now than I once had; for he has shown more fertility than I ex- pected. To be sure, he is a tree that cannot produce good fruit : he only bears crabs. But, Sir, a tree that produces a great many crabs, is better than a tree which produces only a few." In this depreciation of Churchill's poetry, 1 could not agree with him. It is very true that the greatest part of it is upon the topics of the day, on which account, as it brought him great fame and profit at the time, it must 1 daughter of Starno and sweetheart of Fingal, killed long before by her father for revealing to Fingal a plot against his life ^ the castle of Starno, where drink was dispensed liberally 2 Charles Churchill (1731-64), then in consider- able repute as a poet '*He satirized Johnson as credulous in his poem The Ghost. 342 JAMES BOSWELL proportionably slide out of the public atten- tion, as other occasional objects succeed. But Churchill had extraordinary vigour both of thought and expression. His portraits of the players will ever be valuable to the true lovers of the drama; and his strong caricatures of several eminent men of his age, will not be forgotten by the curious. Let me add, that there are in his works many passages which are of a general nature; and his "Prophecy of Famine" is a poem of no ordinary merit. It is, indeed, falsely injurious to Scotland ; but therefore, may be allowed a greater share of invention. Bonnell Thornton had just published a bur- lesque "Ode on St. Cecilia's day," ^ adapted to the ancient British music, viz., the salt- box, the Jew's-harp, the marrow-bones and cleaver, the hum-strum, or hurdy-gurdy, etc. Johnson praised its humour, and seemed much diverted with it. He repeated the following passage : "In strains more exalted the salt-box shall join, And clattering and battering and clapping com- bine; With a rap and a tap, while the hollow side sounds. Up and down leaps the flap, and with rattling rebounds." On Tuesday, the 5th of July, I again visited Johnson. He told me he had looked into the poems of a pretty voluminous writer, Mr. (now Dr.) John Ogilvie, one of the Presby- terian ministers of Scotland, which had lately come out, but coidd find no thinking in them. Boswell : "Is there not imagination in them, Sir?" Johnson : "Why, Sir, there is in them what was imagination, but it is no more im- agination in him, than sound is sound in the echo. And his diction too is not his own. We have long ago seen white-robed innocence and flower-bespafigled meads." Talking of London, he observed, "Sir, if you wish to have a just notion of the magni- tude of this city, you must not be satisfied with seeing its great streets and squares, but must survey the innumerable little lanes and courts. It is not in the showy evolutions of buildings, but in the multiplicity of human habitations which are crowded together, that ^ It was set to music by Dr. Burney, and per- formed at Ranelagh in masks. the wonderful immensity of London consists." — I have often amused myself with thinking how different a place London is to different people. They, whose narrow minds are con- tracted to the consideration of some one par- ticular pursuit, view it only through that medium. A politician thinks of it merely as the seat of government in its different depart- ments ; a grazier, as a vast market for cattle ; a mercantile man, as a place where a pro- digious deal of business is done upon 'Change ; a dramatic enthusiast, as the grand scene of theatrical entertainments ; a man of pleasure, as an assemblage of taverns, and the great emporium, for ladies of easy virtue. But the intellectual man is struck with it, as compre- hending the whole of human life in all its variety, the contemplation of which is inex- haustible. On Wednesday, July 6, he was engaged to sup with me at my lodgings in Downing-street, Westminster. But on the preceding night my landlord having behaved very rudely to me and some company who were with me, I had resolved not to remain another night in his house. I was exceedingly uneasy at the awk- ward appearance I supposed I should make to Johnson and the other gentlemen whom I had invited, not being able to receive them at home, and being obliged to order supper at the Mitre. I went to Johnson in the morn- ing, and talked of it as of a serious distress. He laughed, and said, "Consider, Sir, how insignificant this will appear a twelvemonth hence." Were this consideration to be applied to most of the little vexatious incidents of life, by which our quiet is too often disturbed, it would prevent many painful sensations. I have tried it frequently with good effect. "There is nothing," continued he, "in this mighty misfortune ; nay, we shall be better at the Mitre." I told him that I had been at Sir John Fielding's office, complaining of my landlord, and had been informed that though I had taken my lodgings for a year, I might, upon proof of his bad behaviour, quit them when I pleased, without being under an obliga- tion to pay rent for any longer time than while I possessed them. The fertility of Johnson's mind could show itself even upon so small a matter as this. "Why, Sir," said he, "I sup- pose this must be the law, since you have been told so in Bow-street.^ But if your landlord ^ police headquarters THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON 343 could hold you to your bargain, and the lodgings should be yours for a year, you may certainly use them as you think lit. So, Sir, you may quarter two life-guardsmen upon him ; or you may send the greatest scoundrel you can find into your apartments ; or you may say that you want to make some experi- ments in natural philosophy, and may burn a large quantity of asafoetida in his house." I had as my guests this evening at the Mitre Tavern, Dr. Johnson, Dr. Goldsmith, Mr. Thomas Da\des, Mr. Eccles, an Irish gentleman, for whose agreeable company I was obliged to Mr. Davies, and the Rev. %lv. John Ogilvie, who was desirous of being in company with my illustrious friend, while I, in my turn, was proud to have the honour of showing one of my countrymen upon what easy terms Johnson permitted me to live with him. Goldsmith, as usual, endeavoured with too much eagerness to shine and disputed very warmly with Johnson against the well-known maxim of the British constitution, "the king can do no wrong ;" affirming, that "what was morally false could not be politically true; and as the king might, in the exercise of his regal power, command and cause the doing of what was wrong, it certainly might be said, in sense and in reason, that he could do wrong." Johnson : " Sir, you are to consider that in our constitution, according to its true principles, the king is the head, he is supreme ; he is above everything, and there is no power by which he can be tried. Therefore, it is, Sir, that we hold the king can do no wrong ; that whatever may happen to be wrong in govern- ment may not be above our reach by being ascribed to majesty. Redress is always to be had against oppression by punishing the immediate agents. The king, though he should command, cannot force a judge to condemn a man unjustly ; therefore it is the judge whom we prosecute and punish. Po- litical mstitutions are formed upon the con- sideration of what will most frequently tend to the good of the whole, although now and then exceptions may occur. Thus it is better in general that a nation should have a supreme legislative power, although it may at times be abused. And then, Sir, there is this considera- tion, that if the abuse be enormous, nature will rise up, aiid claiming her original rights, over- turn a corrupt political system." I mark this animated sentence with peculiar pleasure, as a noble instance of that truly dignified spirit of freedom which ever glowed in his heart, though he was charged \dih. slavish tenets by superficial observers, because he was at all times indignant against that false patriotism, that pretended love of freedom, that unruly restlessness which is inconsistent with the stable authority of any good government. This generous sentiment, which he uttered with great fervour, struck me exceedingly, and stirred my blood to that pitch of fancied re- sistance, the possibility of which I am glad to keep in mind, but to which I trust I never shall be forced. " Great abilities." said he, " are not requisite for an historian ; for in historical composition all the greatest powers of the human mind are quiescent. He has facts ready to his hand, so there is no exercise of invention. Imagina- tion is not required in any high degree ; only about as much as is used in the lower kinds of poetry. Some penetration, acciuracy, and colouring, will fit a man for the task, if he can give the application which is necessary." " ' Bayle's Dictionary ' ^s a very useful work for thosCjto consult who love the biographical part of hterature, which is what I love most." Talking of the eminent writers in Queen Anne's reign, he observed, "I think Dr. Ar- buthnot ^ the first man among them. He was the most universal genius, being an excellent physician, a man of deep learning, and a man of much humour. Mr. Addison was, to be sure, a great man ; his learning was not pro- found, but his morality, his humour, and his elegance of writing set him very high." Mr. Ogilvie was unlucky enough to choose for the topic of his conversation the praises of his native country. He began with saying, that there was very rich land around Edin- burgh. Goldsmith, who had studied physic there, contradicted this, ver>' untruly, with a sneering laugh. Disconcerted a little by this, Mr. Ogilvie then took a new ground, where, I suppose, he thought himself perfectly safe ; for he observed, that Scotland had a great many noble wild prospects. Johnson: "I believe. Sir, you have a great many. Norway, 1 Dictionnaire historique et critique (1696) by Pierre Baj'le, a French philosopher and critic; especially through the English translation of the Dictionary his sceptical views had great influence in England in the eighteenth century. ^ Cf. Pope's £p/stle to Dr. Arbuthnot, p. 288, above 344 JAMES BOSWELL too, has noble wild prospects ; and Lapland is remarkable for prodigious noble wild pros- pects. But, Sir, let me tell you, the noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees, is the high-road that leads him to England !" This unexpected and pointed sally produced a roar of applause. After all, however, those who admire the rude grandeur of nature cannot deny it to Caledonia. On Saturday, July o, I found Johnson sur- rounded with a numerous levee, but have not preserved any part of his conversation. On the 14th we had another evening by ourselves at the Mitre. It happened to be a very rainy night ; I made some commonplace observa- tions on the relaxation of nerves and depres- sion of spirits which such weather occasioned ; adding, however, that it was good for the vegetable creation. Johnson, who, as we have already seen, denied that the temperature of the air had any influence on the human frame, answered, with a smile of ridicule, "Why, yes. Sir, it is good for vegetables, and for the animals who eat those vegetables, and for the animals who eat those animals." This observation of his, aptly enough ijjtroduced a good supper and I soon forgot, in John- son's company, the influence of a moist atmosphere. Feeling myself now quite at ease as his com- panion, though I had all possible reverence for him, I expressed a regret that I could not be so easy with my father, though he was not much older than Johnson, and certainly, how- ever respectable, had not more learning and greater abilities to depress me. I asked him the reason of this. Johnson: "Why, Sir, I am a man of the world. I live in the world, and I take, in some degree, the colour of the world as it moves along. Your father is a judge in a remote part of the island, and all his notions are taken from the old world. Besides, Sir, there must always be a struggle between a father and son, while one aims at power and the other at independence." I said, I was afraid my father would force me to be a lawyer. Johnson : " Sir, you need not be afraid of his forcing you to be a laborious practising lawyer ; that is not in his power. For, as the proverb says, 'One man may lead a horse to the water, but twenty cannot make him drink.' He may be displeased that you are not what he wishes you to be ; but that displeasure will not go far. If he insists only on your having as much law as is necessary for a man of property, and then endeavours to get you into parliament, he is quite in the right." He enlarged very convincingly upon the excellence of rhyme over blank verse in Eng- lish poetry. I mentioned to him that Dr. Adam Smith, ^ in his lectures upon composition, when I studied under him in the College of Glasgow, had maintained the same opinion strenuously, and I repeated some of his argu- ments. Johnson: "Sir, I was once in com- pany with Smith, and we did not take to each other ; but had I known that he loved rhyme as much as you tell me he does, I should have hugged him." Talking of those who denied the truth of Christianity, he said, "It is always easy to be on the negative side. If a man were now to deny that there is salt upon the table, you could not reduce him to an absurdity. Come, let us try this a little further. I deny that Canada is taken, and I can support my denial by pretty good arguments. The French are a much more numerous people than we ; and it is not likely that they would allow us to take it. * But the ministry have assured us, in aU the formality of the Gazette, that it is taken.' — Very true. But the ministry have put us to an enormous expense by the war in America, and it is their interest to persuade us that we have got something for our money. — ' But the fact is confirmed by thousands of men who were at the taking of it.' — Ay, but these men have still more interest in deceiving us. They don't want that you should think the French have beat them, but that they have beat the French. Now suppose you should go over and find that it really is taken, that would only satisfy yourself ; for when you come home we will not believe you. We will say, you have been bribed. — Yet, Sir, not- withstanding all these plausible objections, we have no doubt that Canada is really ours. Such is the weight of common testimony. How much stronger are the evidences of the Christian religion?" "Idleness is a disease which must be com- bated ; but I would not- advise a rigid ad- herence to a particular plan of study. I my- self have never persisted in any plan for two days together. A man ought to read just as inclination leads him ; for what he reads as a task will do him little good. A young man 1 author of the famous Wealth of Nations THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON 345 should read five hours in a day, and so may acquire a great deal of knowledge." To a man of vigorous intellect and ardent curiosity like his own, reading without a regu- lar plan may be beneficial ; though even such a man must submit to it, if he would attain a full understanding of any of the sciences. To such a degree of unrestrained frankness had he now accustomed me that in the course of this evening I talked of the numerous re- flections which had been thrown out against him, on account of his having accepted a pen- sion from his present IMajesty. "WTiy, Sir," said he, with a hearty laugh, "it is a mighty foolish noise that they make. I have accepted of a pension as a reward which has been thought due to my literary merit ; and now that I have this pension, I am the same man in every respect that I have ever been ; I re- tain the same principles. It is true, that I cannot now curse (smiling) the house of Han- over ; nor would it be decent for me to drink King James's health in the wine that King George gives me money to pay for. But, Sir, I think that the pleasure of cursing the house of Hanover, and drinking King James's health, are amply overbalanced by three hundred pounds a year." It will be observed, that when giving me advice as to my travels, Dr. Johnson did not dwell upon cities, and palaces, and pictures, and shows, and Arcadian scenes. He was of Lord Essex's opinion, who advises his kins- man, Roger Earl of Rutland, "rather to go a hundred miles to speak with one wise man, then five miles to see a fair town." ^ I described to him an impudent fellow from Scotland, who affected to be a savage, and railed at all established systems. Johnson : "There is nothing surprising in this. Sir. He wants to make himself conspicuous. He would tumble in a hog-sty, as long as you looked at him and called to him to come out. But let him alone, never mind him, and he'll soon give it over." I added that the same person maintained that there was no distinction between virtue and vice. Johnson: "Why, Sir, if the fellow does not think as he speaks, he is lying ; and I see not what honour he can propose to him- self from having the character of a liar. But ^ in a letter dated Jan. 4, 1596 if he does really think that there is no distinc- tion between virtue and vice, why, Sir, when he leaves our houses let us count our spoons." Sir David Dalrymple, now one of the judges of Scotland by the title of Lord Hailes, had contributed much to increase my high opinion of Johnson, on account of his writings, long before I attained to a personal acquaintance with him ; I, in return, had informed Johnson of Sir David's eminent character for learn- ing and religion; and Johnson was so much pleased, that at one of our evening meetings he gave him for his toast. I at this time kept up a very frequent correspondence with Sir David; and I read to Dr. Johnson to-night the following passage from the letter which I had last received from him : It gives me pleasure to think that you have obtained the friendship of Mr. Samuel Johnson. He is one of the best moral writers which England has produced. At the same time, I envy you the free and undisguised converse with such a man. May I beg you to present my best respects to him, and to assure him of the veneration which I entertain for the author of the 'Rambler' and of 'Rasselas'? Let me recommend this last work to you ; with the ' Rambler ' you certainly are acquainted. In 'Rasselas' you will see a tender- hearted operator, who probes the wound only to heal it. Swift, on the contrary, mangles human nature. He cuts and slashes as if he took pleasure in the operation, Uke the tyrant who said, Ita feri ut se sentiat emori} Johnson seemed to be much gratified by this just and well-turned compliment. He recommended to me to keep a journal of my Ufe, full and unreserved. He said it would be a very good exercise, and would yield me great satisfaction when the particu- lars were faded from my remembrance. I was uncommonly fortunate in having had a previous coincidence of opinion with him upon this subject, for I had kept such a journal for some time; and it was no small pleasure to me to have this to tell him, and to receive his approbation. He counselled me to keep it private, and said I might surely have a friend who would burn it in case of my death. From this habit I have been enabled to give the world so many anecdotes, which would otherwise have been lost to posterity. I men- tioned that I was afraid I put into my journal ^ Strike in such a way that he may feel the pangs of death 346 JAMES BOSWELL too many little incidents. Johnson: "There is nothing, Sir, too little for so little a creature as man. It is by studying little things that we attain the great art of having as little misery and as much happiness as possible." Next morning Mr. Dempster happened to caU on me, and was so much struck even with the imperfect account which I gave him of Dr. Johnson's conversation, that to his honour be it recorded, when 1 complained that drink- ing port and sitting up late with him affected my nerves for some time after, he said, "One had better be palsied at eighteen than not keep company with such a man." On Tuesday, July i8, I found tall Sir Thomas Robinson sitting with Johnson. Sir Thomas said, that the King of Prussia valued himself upon three things ; upon being a hero, a musician, and an author. Johnson : "Pretty well. Sir, for one man. As to his being an author, I have not looked at his poetry; but his prose is poor stuff. He writes just as you may suppose Voltaire's footboy to do, who has been his amanuensis. He has such parts as the valet might have, and about as much of the colouring of the style as might be got by transcribing his works." When I was at Ferney, I repeated this to Voltaire, in order to reconcile him somewhat to Johnson, whom he, in affecting the English mode of expression, had previously characterised as "a superstitious dog" ; but after hearing such a criticism on Frederick the Great, with whom he was then on bad terms, he exclaimed, "An honest fellow !" But I think the criticism much too severe ; for the "Memoirs of the House of Branden- burgh" are written as well as many works of that kind. His poetry, for the style of which he himself makes a frank apology, '^jargonnant un Francois barhare,"^ though fraught with pernicious ravings of infidelity, has in many places, great animation, and in some a pa- thetic tenderness. Upon this contemptuous animadversion on the King of Prussia, I observed to Johnson, "It would seem then, Sir, that much less parts are necessary to make a king, than to make an author: for the King of Prussia is con- fessedly the greatest king now in Europe, yet you think he makes a very poor figure as an author." Mr. Levett this day showed me Dr. John- ^ using a barbarous kind of French son's Hbrary, which was contained in two garrets over his chambers, where Lintot, son of the celebrated bookseller of that name, had formerly his warehouse. I found a number of good books, but very dusty and in great confusion. The floor was strewed with manu- script leaves, in Johnson's own handwriting, which I beheld with a degree of veneration, supposing they perhaps might contain por- tions of the "Rambler," or of "Rasselas." I observed an apparatus for chemical experi- ments, of which Johnson was aU his life very fond. The place seemed to be very favour- able for retirement and meditation. Johnson told me, that he went up thither without men- tioning it to his servant when he wanted to study, secure from interrruption ; for he would not allow his servant to say he was not at home when he really was. "A servant's strict regard for truth," said he, "must be weakened by such a practice. A philosopher may know that it is merely a form of denial ; but few servants are such nice distinguishers. If I accustom a servant to tell a lie for me, have I not reason to apprehend that he will tell many lies for hhnselfi^" I am, however, satisfied that every servant, of any degree of intelli- gence, understands saying his master is not at home, not at aU as the affirmation of a fact, but as customary words, intimating that his master wishes not to be seen ; so that there can be no bad effect from it. Mr. Temple, now vicar of St. Gluvias, Cornwall, who had been my intimate friend for many years, had at this time chambers in Farrar's-buUdings, at the bottom of Inner Temple-lane, which he kindly lent me upon my quilting my lodgings, he being to return to Trinity Hall, Cambridge. I found them particularly convenient for me, as they were so near Dr. Johnson's. On Wednesday, July 20, Dr. Johnson, Mr. Dempster, and my imcle. Dr. Boswell, who happened to be now in London, supped with me at these chambers. Johnson: "Pity is not natural to man. Children are always cruel. Savages are always cruel. Pity is acquired and improved by the cultivation of reason. We may have uneasy sensations from seeing a creature in distress, without pity : for we have not pity unless we wish to relieve them. When I am on my way to dine with a friend, and finding it late, have bid the coach- man make haste, if I happen to attend when he whips his horses, I may feel unpleasantly THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON 347 that the animals are put to pain, but I do not wish him to desist. No, Sir, I wish him to drive on." Mr. Alexander Donaldson, bookseller of Edinburgh, had for some time opened a shop in London, and sold his cheap editions of the most popular English books, in defiance of the supposed common-law right of Literary Property. Johnson, though he concurred in the opinion which was afterwards sanctioned by a judgment of the House of Lords, that there was no such right, was at this time very angry that the booksellers of London, for whom he uniformly professed much regard, should suffer from an invasion of what they had ever considered to be secure ; and he was loud and violent against Mr. Donaldson. "He is a feUow who takes advantage of the law to injure his brethren ; for, notwithstand- ing that the statute secures only fourteen years of exclusive right, it has always been understood by the trade, that he who buys the copyright of a book from the author ob- tains a perpetual property ; and upon that belief, numberless bargains are made to trans- fer that property after the expiration of the statutory term. Now, Donaldson, I say, takes advantage here, of people who have reaUy an equitable title from usage ; and if we consider how few of the books, of which they buy the property, succeed so well as to bring profit, we should be of opinion that the term of fourteen years is too short ; it should be sixty years." Dempster: "Donaldson, Sir, is anxious for the encouragement of litera- ture. He reduces the price of books, so that poor students may buy them." Johnson (laughing): "Well, Sir, allowing that to be his motive, he is no better than Robin Hood, who robbed the rich in order to give to the poor." It is remarkable, that when the great ques- tion concerning Literary Property came to be ultimately tried before the supreme tribunal of this coimtiy, in consequence of the very spirited exertions of IMr. Donaldson, Dr. Johnson was zealous against a perpetuity ; but he thought that the term of the exclusive right of authors should be considerably en- larged. He was then for granting a hundred years. The conversation now turned upon Mr. David Hume's^ style. Johnson: ''Why,'Sir, his style is not English ; the structure of his sentences is French. Now the French struc- ture and the English structure may, in the nature of things, be equally good. But if you allow that the English language is estabUshed, he is wrong. My name might originally have been Nicholson, as well as Johnson ; but were you to call me Nicholson now, you would call me very absurdly." Rousseau's treatise on the inequality of mankind was at this time a fashionable topic. It gave rise to an observ^ation by Mr. Demp- ster, that the advantages of fortune and rank were nothing to a wise man, who ought to value only merit. Johnson : "If man were a savage, living in the woods by himself, this might be true ; but in civUised society we all depend upon each other and our happiness is very much owing to the good opinion of man- kind. Now, Sir, in civilised society, external advantages make us more respected. A man with a good coat upon his back meets with a better reception than he who has a bad one. Sir, you may analyse this and say what is there in it? But that will avail you nothing, for it is part of a general system. Pound St. Paul's church into atoms, and consider any single atom ; it is, to be sure, good for nothing ; but put all these atoms together and you have St. Paul's church. So it is with human felicity, which is made up of many ingredients, each of which may be shown to be very insignifi- cant. In civilised society personal merit wiU not serve you so much as money wUl. Sir, you may make the experiment. Go into the street and give one man a lecture on morality and another a shilling, and see which will respect you most. If you wish only to support nature, Sir William Petty ^ fixes your allow- ance at three poimds a year ; but as times are much altered, let us call it six pounds. This sum, will fill your belly, shelter you from the weather, and even get you a strong lasting coat, supposing it to be made of good bull's hide. Now, Sir, all beyond this is artificial, and is desired in order to obtain a greater degree of respect from our fellow-creatures. And, Sir, if six hundred pounds a year procure a man more consequence, and, of course, more happiness than six pounds a year, the same proportion will hold as to six thousand, and so on, as far as opulence can be carried. Per- haps he who has a large fortune may not be ^ the Scottish philosopher and historian 1 an English writer on economics (1623-S7) 348 JAMES BOSWELL so happy as he who has a small one ; but that must proceed from other causes than from his having the large fortune : for, caeteris paribus,^ he who is rich in a civilised society must be happier than he who is poor ; as riches, if properly used, (and it is a man's own fault if they are not,) must be productive of the highest advantages. Money, to be sure, of itself is of no use : for its only use is to part with it. Rousseau, and all those who deal in paradoxes, are led away by a childish desire of novelty. When I was a boy I used always to choose the wrong side of a debate, because most ingenious things, that is to say, most new things, could be said upon it. Sir, there is nothing for which you may not muster up more plausible arguments than those which are urged against wealth and other external advantages. Why, now, there is stealing : why should it be thought a crime? When we consider by what unjust methods property has been often acquired, and that what was unjustly got it must be mijust to keep, where is the harm in one man's taking the property of another from him? Besides, Sir, when we consider the bad use that many people make of their property, and how much better use the thief may make of it, it may be defended as a very allowable practice. Yet, Sir, the ex- perience of mankind has discovered stealing to be so very bad a thing that they make no scruple to hang a man for it. When I was running about this town a very poor fellow, I was a great arguer for the advantages of poverty; but I was, at the same time, very sorry to be poor. Sir, all the arguments which are brought to represent poverty as no evil, show it to be evidently a great evil. You never find people labouring to convince you that you may live very happily upon a plenti- ful fortune. — • So you hear people talking how miserable a king must be, and yet they all wish to be in his place." It was suggested that kings must be un- happy, because they are deprived of the greatest of all satisfactions, easy and unre- served society. Johnson: "This is an ill- founded notion. Being a king does not ex- clude a man from such society. Great kings have always been social. The King of Prus- sia,^ the only great king at present, is very social. Charles the Second, the last king of England who was a man of parts, was social ; ' other things being equal and our Henrys and Edwards were all social." Mr. Dempster having endeavoured to main- tain that intrinsic merit ought to make the only distinction among mankind, Johnson : "Why, Sir, mankind have found that this cannot be. How shall we determine the pro- portion of intrinsic merit? Were that to be the only distinction amongst mankind, we should soon quarrel about the degrees of it. Were all distinctions abolished, the strongest would not long acquiesce, but would endeav- our to obtain a superiority by their bodily strength. But, Sir, as subordination is very necessary for society, and contentions for su- periority very dangerous, mankind, that is to say, all civilised nations, have settled it upon a plain invariable principle. A man is born to hereditary rank; or his being appointed to certain offices gives him a certain rank. Subordination tends greatly to human happi- ness. Were we all upon an equality, we should have no other enjoyment than mere animal pleasure." I said, I considered distinction or rank to be of so much importance in civilised society, that if I were asked on the same day to dine with the first duke in England, and with the first man in Britain for genius, I should hesi- tate which to prefer. Johnson : " To be sure, Sir, if you were to dine only once, and it were never to be known where you dined, you would choose rather to dine with the first man for genius ; but to gain most respect, you should dine with the first duke in Eng- land. For nine people in ten that you meet with, would have a higher opinion of you for having dined with a duke; and the great genius himself would receive you better, be- cause you had been with the great duke." He took care to guard himself against any possible suspicion that his settled principles of reverence for rank and respect for wealth were at all owing to mean or interested mo- tives ; for he asserted his own independence as a literary man. "No man," said he, "who ever lived by literature, has lived more inde- pendently than I have done." He said he had taken longer time than he needed to have done in composing his Dictionary.' He re- ceived our compliments upon that great work with complacency, and told us that the Acad- * published in 1755; it soon became and long remained the standard for English THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON emy dclla Crusca^ could scarcely believe that it was done by one man. At night, Mr. Johnson and I supped in a private room at the Turk's Head coffee-house, in the Strand. " I encourage this house," said he, "for the mistress of it is a good civil woman, and has not much business." "Sir, I love the acquaintance of young people; because, in the first place, I don't like to think myself growing old. In the next place, young acquaintances must last longest, if they do last ; and then, Sir, young men have more virtue than old men ; they have more generous sentiments in every respect. I love the young dogs of this a:ge ; they have more wit and humour and knowledge of life than we had ; but then the dogs are not so good scholars. Sir, in my early years I read very hard. It is a sad reflection, but a true one, that I knew almost as much at eighteen as I do now. My judgment, to be sure, was not so good, but I had all the facts. I remember very well when I was at Oxford, an old gentle- man said to me, 'Young man, ply your book diligently now, and acquire a stock of knowl- edge ; for when years come upon you, you will find that poring upon books will be but an irksome task.' " This account of his reading, given by him- self in plain words, sufficiently confirms what I have already advanced upon the disputed question as to his application. It reconciles any seeming inconsistency in his way of talk- ing upon it at different times ; and shows that idleness and reading hard were with him rela- tive terms, the import of which, as used by him, must be gathered from a comparison with v.hat scholars of different degrees of ardour and assiduity have been known to do. And let if be remembered that he was now talking spontaneously, and expressing his genuine sen- timents ; whereas at other times he might be induced from his spirit of contradiction, or more properly from his love of argumentative contest, to speak lightly of his own application to study. It is pleasing to consider that the old gentleman's gloomy prophecy as to the irksomeness of books to men of an advanced age, which is too often fulfilled, was so far from being verified in Johnson, that his ardour ^ a Florentine literary society, which published a large dictionary of the Italian language 349 for literature never failed, and his last writings had more ease and vivacity than any of his earUer productions. He mentioned to me now, for the first time, that he had been distressed by melancholy, and for that reason had been obliged to fly from study and meditation, to the dissipating variety of life. Against melancholy he recom- mended constant occupation of mind, a great deal of exercise, moderation in eating and drinking, and especially to shun drinking at night. He said melancholy people were apt to fly to intemperance for relief, but that it sunk them much deeper in misery. He ob- served, that labouring men who work hard, and live sparingly, are seldom or never troubled with low spirits. He said Dr. Joseph Warton was a very agree- able man, and his "Essay on the Genius and Writings of Pope" a very pleasing book. I wondered that he delayed so long to give us the continuation of it. Johnson : "Why, Sir, I suppose he finds himself a little disappointed in not having been able to persuade the world to be of his opinion as to Pope." We have now been favoured with the con- cluding volume, in which, to use a parlia- mentary expression, he has explained, so as not to appear quite so adverse to the opinion of the world, concerning Pope, as was at first thought ; and we must all agree that his work is a most valuable accession to English literature. A writer of deserved eminence being men- tioned, Johnson said, "Why, Sir, he is a man of good parts, but being originally poor, he has got a love of mean company and low jocu- larity; a very bad thing. Sir. To laugh is good, and to talk is good. But you ought no more to think it enough if you laugh, than you are to think it enough if you talk. You may laugh in as many ways as you talk ; and surely every way of talking that is practised cannot be esteemed." I spoke of Sir James Macdonald as a young man of most distinguished merit, w^ho united the highest reputation at Eton and Oxford, with the patriarchal spirit of a great Highland chieftain. I mentioned that Sir James had said to me, that he had never seen Mr. John- son, but he had a great respect for him, though at the same time it was mixed with some degree of terror. Johnson; "Sir, if he were 350 JAMES. BOS WELL to be acquainted with me, it might lessen both." He maintained that a boy at school was the happiest of human beings. I supported a different opinion, from which I have never yet varied, that a man is happier ; and I enlarged upon the anxiety and sufferings which are endured at school. Johnson: "Ah, Sir, a boy's being flogged is not so severe as a man's having the hiss of the world against him. Men have a solicitude about fame ; and the greater share they have of it, the more afraid they are of losing it." I silently asked my- self, "Is it possible that the great Samuel Johnson really entertains any such apprehen- sion, and is not confident that his exalted fame is established upon a foundation never to be shaken?" He this evening drank a bumper to Sir David Dalrymple, "as a man of worth, a scholar, and a wit." "I have," said he, " never heard of him, except from you ; but let him know my opinion of him : for as he does not show himself much in the world, he should have the praise of the few who hear of him." On Tuesday, July 26, I found Mr. Johnson alone. It was a very wet day, and I again complained of the disagreeable effects of such weather. Johnson : "Sir, this is all imagina- tion, which physicians encourage ; for man lives in air as a fish lives in water ; so that if the atmosphere press heavy from above, there is an equal resistance from below. To be sure, bad weather is hard upon people who are obliged to be abroad ; and men cannot labour so well in the open air in bad weather as in good; but, Sir, a smith, or a tailor, whose work is within doors, will surely do as much in rainy weather as in fair. Some very deli- cate frames, indeed, may be affected by wet weather; but not common constitutions." We talked of the education of children ; and I asked him what he thought was best to teach them first. Johnson: "Sir, it is no matter what you teach them first, any more than what leg you shall put into your breeches first. Sir, you may stand disputing which is best to put in first, but in the meantime your breech is bare. Sir, while you are considering which of two things you should teach your child first, another boy has learned them both." On Thursday, July 28, we again supped in private at the Turk's Head coffee-house. Johnson : " Swift has a higher reputation than he deserves. His excellence is strong sense ; for his humour, though very well, is not re- markably good. I doubt whether the 'Tale of a Tub' be his ; for he never owned it, and it is much above his usual manner." "Thomson,! I think, had as much of the poet about him as most writers. Everything ap- peared to him through the medium of his favourite pursuit. He could not have viev/ed those two candles burning but with a poetical eye." "Has not a great deal of wit. Sir?" Johnson : "I do not think so. Sir. He is, in- deed, continually attempting wit, but he fails. And I have no more pleasure in hearing a man attempting wit and failing, than in see- ing a man trying to leap over a ditch and tumbling into it." He laughed heartily when I mentioned to him a saying of his concerning Mr. Thomas Sheridan,^ which Foote ' took a wicked pleas- ure to circulate. "Why, Sir, Sherry is dull, naturally dull ; but it must have taken him a great deal of pains to become what we now see him. Such an excess of stupidity, Sir, is not in Nature." — "So," said he, "I allowed him aU his own merit." He now added, "Sheridan cannot bear me. I bring his declaniation to a point. I ask him a plain question, 'What do you mean to teach ? ' Besides, Sir, what influence can Mr. Sheridan have upon the language of this great country, by his narrow ex'ertions? Sir, it is burning a farthing candle at Dover, to show light at Calais." Next day, Sunday, July 3, 1 told him I had been that morning at a meeting of the people called Quakers, where I had heard a woman preach. Johnson : " Sir, a woman's preach- ing is like a dog's walking on his hind legs. It is not done well ; but you are surprised to find it done at all." On Tuesday, August 2, (the day of my de- parture from London having been fixed for ' author of The Seasons, etc. ^ an Irishman who acted, taught elocution, and published a pronouncing dictionary of the English language — father of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the brilliant orator and dramatist ' Samuel Foote (1720-77), a popular actor and dramatist JUNIUS 351 the 5th.) Dr. Johnson did me the honour to pass a part of the morning with me at my chambers. He said, "that he always felt an incKnation to do nothing." I observed, that it was strange to think that the most indolent man in Britain had written the most laborious work, "The English Dictionary." JUNIUS LETTER XV TO HIS GR.\CE THE DUKE OF GRAFTON July 8, 1769. My Lord, If nature had given you an understanding qualitied to keep pace with the wishes and principles of your heart, she would have made you, perhaps, the most formidable minisber that ever was employed under a limited mon- arch to accomplish the ruin of a free people. When neither the feelings of shame, the re- proaches of conscience, nor the dread of punish- ment, form any bar to the designs of a minis- ter, the people would have too much reason to lament their condition, if they did not find some resource in the weakness of his under- standing. We owe it to the bounty of Provi- dence, that the completest depravity of the heart is sometimes strangely united w-ith a confusion of the mind which counteracts the most favourite principles, and makes the same man treacherous without art, and a hypocrite without deceiving. The measures, for in- stance, in which your Grace's activity has been chiefly exerted, as they were adopted without skill, should have been conducted with more than common dexterity. But truly, my Lord, the execution has been as gross as the design. By one decisive step you have defeated all the arts of writing. You have fairly confounded the intrigues of opposi- tion, and silenced the clamours of faction. A dark, ambiguous system might require and furnish the materials of ingenious illustration ; and, in doubtful measures, the virulent exag- geration of party must be employed to rouse and engage the passions of the people. You have now brought the merits of your adminis- tration to an issue on which every Englishman of the narrowest capacity may determine for himself. It is not an alarm to the passions, but a calm appeal to the judgment of the people upon their own most essential interests. A more experienced minister would not have hazarded a direct invasion of the first principles of the constitution before he had made some progress in subduing the spirit of the people. With such a cause as yours, my Lord, it is not sufficient that you have the court at your devotion unless you can find means to corrupt or intimidate the jury. The collective body of the people form that jur\', and from their decision there is but one appeal. Whether you have talents to support you at a crisis of such difficulty and danger should long since have been considered. Judging truly of your disposition, you have, perhaps, mistaken the extent of your capacity. Good faith and folly have so long been received for synonymous terms, that the reverse of the proposition has grown into credit, and every villain fancies himself a man of abihties. It is the apprehension of your friends, my Lord, that you have drawn some hasty conclusion of this sort, and that a partial reliance upon your moral character has betrayed you beyond the depth of your understanding. You have now carried things too far to retreat. You have plainly declared to the people what they are to expect from the continuance of your administration. It is time for your Grace to consider what you also may expect in retiurn from their spirit and their resentment. Since the accession of our most gracious sovereign to the throne we have seen a system of government which may well be called a reign of experiments. Parties of all denomi- nations have been employed and dismissed. The advice of the ablest men m this country has been repeatedly called for and rejected; and when the royal displeasure has been sig- nified to a minister, the marks of it have usually been proportioned to his abilities and integrity. The spirit of the favourite^ had some apparent influence upon every adminis- tration : and every set of ministers preserved an appearance of duration, as long as they submitted to that influence. But there were certain services to be performed for the favourite's security, or to gratify his resent- ments, which yoiu- predecessors in office had the wisdom or the virtue not to undertake. The moment this refractory spirit was dis- covered their disgrace was determined. Lord 1 the Earl of Bute 352 JUNIUS Chatham, Mr. Grenville, and Lord Rocking- ham have successively had the honour to be dismissed for preferring their duty as servants of the pubhc to those comphances which were expected from their station. A submissive administration was at last gradually collected from the deserters of all parties, interests, and connections; and nothing remained but to find a leader for these gallant well-disciplined troops. Stand forth, my Lord, for thou art the man. Lord Bute found no resource of dependence or security in the proud, imposing superiority of Lord Chatham's abilities, the shrewd, inflexible judgment of Mr. Grenville, nor in the mild but determined integrity of Lord Rockingham. His views and situation required a creature void of all these properties ; and he was forced to go through every divi- sion, resolution, composition, and refinement of political chemistry, before he happily arrived at the caput mortnum ^ of vitriol in your Grace. Flat and insipid in your retired state, but, brought into action, you become vitriol again. Such are the extremes of alternate in- dolence or fury which have governed your whole administration. Your circumstances with regard to the people soon becoming desperate, like other honest servants you de- termined to involve the best of masters in the same difficulties with yourself. We owe it to your Grace's well-directed labours, that your sovereign has been persuaded to doubt of the affections of his subjects, and the people to suspect the virtues of their sovereign, at a time when both were unquestionable. You have degraded the royal dignity into a base, dishonourable competition with Mr. WUkes,^ nor had you abilities to carry even this last contemptible triumph over a private man, without the grossest violation of the funda- mental laws of the constitution and rights of the people. But these are rights, my Lord, which you can no more annihilate than you can the soil to which they are annexed. The question no longer turns upon points of national honour and security abroad, or on the flcgrees of expedience and propriety of measures at home. It was not inconsistent that you should abandon the cause of liberty in another country,'' which you had persecuted ^ lilerally, dead head ; here, lifeless residue ^ John Wilkes, a worthless profligate, but a vigor- ous champion of popular rights and constitu- tional methods * America in your own ; and in the common arts of domestic corruption, we miss no part of Sir Robert Walpole's system except his abilities. In this humble imitative line you might long have proceeded, safe and contemptible. You might, probably, never have risen to the dig- nity of being hated, and even have been de- spised with moderation. But it seems you meant to be distinguished, and, to a mind like yours, there was no other road to fame but by the destruction of a noble fabric, which you thought had been too long the admiration of mankind. The use you have made of the military force introduced an alarming change in the mode of executing the laws. The arbi- trary appointment of Mr. Luttrell ^ invades the foundation of the laws themselves, as it mani- festly transfers the right of legislation from those whom the people have chosen to those whom they have rejected. With a succession of such appointments we may soon see a House of Commons collected, in the choice of which the other towns and counties of England will have as little share as the devoted county of Middlesex. Yet, I trust, your Grace will find that the people of this country are neither to be intimi- dated by violent measures, nor deceived by refinements. When they see JMr. Luttrell seated in the House of Commons by mere dint of power, and in direct opposition to the choice of a whole county, they will not listen to those subtleties by which every arbitrary exertion of authority is explained into the law and priv- ilege of parliament. It requires no persua- sion of argument, but simply the evidence of the senses, to convince them that to transfer the right of election from the collective to the representative body of the people contradicts all those ideas of a House of Commons which they have received from their forefathers, and which they have already, though vainly per- haps, delivered to their children. The prin- ciples on which this violent measure has been defended, have added scorn to injury, and forced us to feel that we are not only op- pressed but insulted. With what force, rhy Lord, with what pro- tection, are you prepared to meet the united detestation of the people of England? The city of London has given a generous example ^ Appointed by the House of Commons to the seat to which Wilkes had been elected by the County of Middlesex. THOMAS CHATTERTON 3sa to the kingdom in what manner a king of this country ought to be addressed ; and I fancy, my Lord, it is not yet in your courage to stand between your sovereign and the addresses of his subjects. The injuries you have done this country are such as demand not only redress but vengeance. In vain shall you look for protection to that venal vote which you have already paid for — another must be pur- chased ; and to save a minister, the House of Commons must declare themselves not only independent of their constituents, but the determined enemies of the constitution. Con- sider, my Lord, whether this be an extremity to which their fears will permit them to ad- vance, or, if their protection should fail you, how far you are authorised to rely upon the sincerity of those smiles which a pious court lavishes without reluctance upon a libertine by profession. It is not, indeed, the least of the thousand contradictions which attend you, that a man, marked to the world by the grossest violation of all ceremonj^ and deco- rum, should be the first servant of a court in which prayers are morality and kneeling is religion. Trust not too far to appearances by which your predecessors have been de- ceived, though they have not been injured. Even th» best of princes may at last discover that this is a contention in which everything may be lost but nothing can be gained ; and, as you became minister by accident, were adopted without choice, trusted without con- fidence, and continued without favour, be assured that, whenever an occasion presses, you will be discarded without even the forms of regret. You will then have reason to be thankful if you are permitted to retire to that seat of learning 1 which, in contemplation of the system of your life, the comparative purity of your manners with those of their high steward, and a thousand other recommending circumstances, has chosen you to encourage the growing virtue of their youth, and to pre- side over their education. Whenever the spirit of distributing prebends and bishop- rics shall have departed from you, you will find that learned seminary perfectly recovered from the delirium of an installation, and, what in truth it ought to be, once more a peaceful scene of slumber and thoughtless meditation. The venerable tutors of the university will no ' Grafton was elected Chancellor of the Uni- versity of Cambridge in 1768. longer distress your modesty by proposing you for a pattern to their pupils. The learned dulness of declamation will be silent ; and even the venal muse, though happiest in fiction, will forget your virtues. Yet, for the benefit of the succeeding age, I could wish that your retreat might be deferred until your morals shall happily be ripened to that ma- turity of corruption at which the worst ex- amples cease to be contagious. Junius. THOMAS CHATTERTON ( 1752-1770) BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR, THE DETHE OF SYR CHARLES BAWDIN The feathered songster chaunticleer Han wounde ^ hys bugle home, And tolde the earlie villager The commynge of the morne : , 4 Kynge Edwarde ^ sawe the ruddie streakes Of lyghte eclypse the greie ; And herde the raven's crokynge throte Proclayme the fated dale. 8 "Thou'rt ryghte," quod he, "for, by the Godde That syttes enthron'd on hyghe ! Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine, To-daie shall surelie die." 12 Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite ; "Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie Hee leaves thys mortall state." 16 Sir Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe, With harte brymm-fulle of woe ; Hee journey'd to the castle-gate. And to Syr Charles dydd goe. 20 Butt whenne hee came, hys children twaine. And eke hys lovynge ■ftyfe, Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore. For goode Syr Charleses lyfe. 24 ^ has sounded '-' Edward IV 354 THOMAS CHATTERTON "O goode Syr Charles ! " sayd Canterlone, "Badde tydyngs I doe brynge." "Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr Charles, "Whatte says the traytor kynge?" 28 ' "I greeve to telle ; before yonne Sonne Does fromme the welkinn flye, Hee hathe uppon hys honour sworne, Thatt thou shalt surelie die." 32 "Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Of thatte I'm not affearde; Whatte bootes to lyve a httle space? Thanke Jesu, I'm prepar'd : 36 "Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, I'de sooner die to-daie Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are, Though I shoulde lyve for aie." 40 Thenne Canterlone hee dydd goe out, To telle the maior^ straite To gett all thynges ynne redyness For goode Syr Charleses fate. 44 Thenne Maisterr Canynge saughte the kynge. And felle down onne hys knee ; "I'm come," quod hee, "unto your grace To move your clemencye." 48 Thenne quod the kynge, "Youre tale speke out, You have been much oure f riende ; Whatever youre request may bee, Wee wylle to ytte attende." 52 "My nobile leige ! alle my request Ys for a nobile knyghte. Who, though may hap hee has donne wrongc, Hee thoughte ytte stylle was ryghte : 56 ■"He has a spouse and children twaine, Alle rewyn'd are for aie ; Y'ff that you are resolved to lett Charles Bawdin die to-dai." 60 "Speke not of such a traytour vile," The kynge ynn furie sayde ; "Before the evening starre doth sheene,^ Bawdin shall loose hys hedde : 64 * William Canynge, mayor of Bristol in 1461 ^ shine ' "Justice does loudlie for hym calle, And hee shalle have hys meede : Speke, maister Canynge ! Whatte thynge else Att present doe you neede?" 68 "My nobile leige !" goode Canynge sayde, "Leave justice to our Godde, And laye the yronne rule asyde; Be thyne the olyve rodde. 72 "Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines, The best were synners grete ; Christ's vicarr only knowes ne ^ synne, Ynne alle thys mortall state. 76 "Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne, 'Twylle faste ^ thye crowne fuUe sure ; From race to race thye familie Alle sov 'reigns shall endure : . 80 "But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou Beginne thy infante reigne, ■ Thy crowne upponne thy childrennes brows Wylle never long remayne." 84 " Canynge, awaie ! thys traytour vile Has scorn'd my power and mee ; . Howe canst thou then for such a manne Entreate my clemencye?" 88 " My nobile leige ! the trulie brave Wylle val'rous actions prize ; Respect a brave and nobUe mynde, Although ynne enemies." 92 " Canynge, awaie ! By Godde ynne Heav'n That dydd mee beinge gyve, I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve. 96 "By Marie, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n, Thys sunne shall be hys laste," Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare, And from the presence paste. 1 00 With herte brymm-fuUe of gnawynge grief, Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe. And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole, And teares beganne to flowe. 104 "Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne; Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate Of aU wee morlall menne. 108 ^ no " fasten THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE 355 "Saye why, my friende, thie honest soul Runns overr att thyne eye ; Is ytte for my most welcome doome Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?" 112 Quod godlie Canynge, "I doe weepe, Thatt thou soe soone must dye, And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe ; 'Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye." 116 "Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye From godlie fountaines sprynge ; Dethe I despise, and alle the power Of Edwarde, traytour kynge. 1 20 "Whan through the tyrant's welcom means I shall resigne my lyfe, The Godde I serve ^^yUe soone provyde For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe. 1 24 "Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne, Thys was appointed mee ; Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge What Godde ordeynes to bee? 128 " Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, Whan thousands dy'd arounde ; Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde : 132 " Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'r>' dart. That cutte the airie waie, Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte. And close myne eyes for aie? 136 " And shall I nowe, forr f eere of dethe, Looke wanne and bee dysmayde ? Ne ! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere, Bee aUe the manne display 'd. 140 " Ah ! goddelyke Henrie ! ^ Godde foref ende,^ And guarde thee and thye sonne, Yff 'tis hys wylle ; but yf? 'tis nott, Why thenne hys w^dle bee donne. 144 "My honest friende, my faulte has beene To serve Godde and mye prynce ; And thatt I no tyme-server am. My dethe wylle soone convynce. 148 "Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, Of parents of grete note ; My fadre dydd a nobile armes Emblazon onne hys cote : 152 ^ Henry VI, imprisoned by Edward IV - defend "I make ne^ doubte butt hee ys gone Where soone I hope to goe ; Where wee for ever shall bee blest, From oute the reech of woe. 156 "Hee taughte mee justice and the laws Wyth pitie to unite ; And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe The wronge cause fromm the ryghte : 160 "Hee taughte mee wyth a prudent hande To feede the hungrie poore, Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie The hungrie fromme my doore : 1 64 "And none can saye butt alle mye lyfe I have hys wordyes kept ; And summ'd the actyonns of the dale Eche nyghte before I slept. 168 "I have a spouse, goe aske of her Yff Idefyl'dherbedde? I have a kynge, and none can laie Black treason onne my hedde. 172 "Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne ; Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd To leave thys worlde of payne ? 176 "Ne, hapless Henrie ! I rejoyce, I shall ne - see thye dethe ; ]\Io3te willynghe ynne thye just cause Doe I resign my brethe. 180 "Oh, fickle people ! rewyn'd ^ londe ! Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe ; Whyle Richard's sonnes ■* exalt themselves, Thye brookes \vythe bloude wylle tlowe. 184 "Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace, And godlie Henrie's reigne, Thatt you dyd choppe ^ your easie dales For those of bloude and peyne ? 188 "Whatte though I onne a sledde be drawne. And mangled by a hynde, I doe defye the traytor's pow'r, Hee can ne harm my mynd ; 192 1 no ^ not ^ ruined ■* Edward IV and Richard, Duke of Gloucester (later Richard III) ^ex- change 356 THOMAS CHATTERTON "Whatte though, viphoisted onne a pole, Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, And ne ryche monument of brasse Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ; 196 "Yett ynne the holie booke above, Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, There wythe the sarvants of the Lord Mye name shall lyve for aie. 200 "Thenne welcome dethe ! for lyfe eterne I leave thys mortall lyfe : Farewell vayne world, and alle that's deare, Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe ! 204 "Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes, As e'er the moneth of Male ; Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve, Wyth my dere wyfe to stale." 208 Quod Canynge, " 'Tys a goodlie thynge To bee prepar'd to die ; And from thys world of peyne and grefe To Godde ynne heav'n to tlie." 212 And nowe the belle began to toUe, And claryonnes to sound ; Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete A prauncyng onne the grounde : 216 And just before the officers His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne. 220 "Sweet Florence ! nowe I praie forbere, Ynn quiet lett mee die ; Praie Godde thatt ev'ry Christain soule Maye looke onne dethe as I. 224 "Sweet Florence ! why these brinie teers? Theye washe my soule awaie. And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe, Wyth thee, sweete dame, to stale. 228 " 'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe Untoc the lande of blyssc ; Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love, Receive thys holie kysse." 232 Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie,^ Tremblyngc these wordyes spoke, "Ah, crude Edwarde ! bloudie kynge ! Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke : 236 * speech "Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe, Wy thoute thye lovynge wyfe ? The crueUe axe thatt cuttes thy necke, Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe." 240 And nowe the officers came ynne To brynge Syr Charles awaie, Whoe lurnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe, And thus to her dydd saie : 244 "I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe ; Truste thou ynne Godde above, And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde, And ynne theyre hertes hym love : 248 "Teache them to'runne the nobile race Thatt I theyre fader runne ; Florence ! shou'd dethe thee take — adieu ! Yee officers leade onne." 252 Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde, And dydd her tresses tere ; "Oh stale, mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe !" Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare. 256 'Tyll tyredd ^ oute wythe ravynge loude, Shee feUen onne the flore ; Syr Charles exerted aUe hys myghte, And march'd fromm oute the dore. 260 Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, Wythe lookes full brave and swete ; Lookes thatt enshone ~ ne more concern Thanne anie ynne the strete. 264 Before hym went the council-menne, Ynne scarlett robes and golde. And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne, Muche glorious to beholde : 268 The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next Appeared to the syghte, Alle cladd ynne homehe russett weedes. Of godlie monkysh plyghte : * 272 Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume Moste sweethe theye dydd chaunt ; Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Who tun'd the strunge bataunt.-" 270 ^ tired ^ showed ' style ^ a mythical instru- ment (due to Chatterton's misunderstanding of an ancient word) THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE 357 Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came; Echone the bowe dydd bende, From rescue of Kynge Henries friends Syr Charles forr to defend. 280 Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles, Drawne onne a cloth-layde sledde, Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth plumes uponne they re hedde: 284 Eehynde hym tive-and-twenty moe Of archers stronge and stoute, Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande, Marched ynne goodlie route ; 288 Seincte Jameses Freers marched next, Echone hys parte dydd chaunt ; Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came. Who tun'd the strunge bataunt : 292 Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't ; And theyre attendynge menne echone, Lyke easterne princes trickt : 296 And after them, a multitude Of citizens dydd thronge ; The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes. As hee dydd passe alonge. 300 And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse, Syr Charles dydd turne and sale, "O thou, thatt savest manne fromme synne, Washe mye soule clean thys dale ! " 304 Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat The kynge ynne myckJe ^ state, To see Charles Baw'din goe alonge To hys most welcom fate. 308 Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare, The brave Syr Charles hee dydd standeuppe. And thus hys wordes declare : 312 "Thou seest me, Edwarde ! traytour vile ! Expos 'd to infamie ; Butt bee assur'd, disloyall manne ! I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee. 316 "Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude, Thou wearest nowe a crowne ; And hast appoynted mee to die, By power nott thyne owne. 320 ^ great "Thou thynkest I shall die to-daie ; I have beene dede 'till nowe, And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne For aie uponne my browe : 324 "Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares, Shalt rule thys fickle lande. To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule 'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande : 328 "Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave ! Shall falle onne thye owne hedde" — Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge Departed thenne the sledde. 332 Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face, Hee turn'd hys hedde awaie, And to hys broder Gloucester Hee thus dydd speke and sale : 336 "To hym that soe much dreaded dethe Ne ghastlie terrors brynge, Beholde the manne ! hee spake the truthe. Hee's greater thanne a kynge 340 "Soe let hym die !" Duke Richarde sayde; "And maye echone oure foes Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe And feede the carryon crowes." 344 And nowe the horses gentlie drewe Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle ; The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne, His pretious bloude to spylle. 348 Syrr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe, As uppe a gilded carre Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre : 352 And to the people hee dyd sale, "Beholde you see mee dye. For servynge loyally mye kynge, Mye kynge most ryghtfullie. 356 "As longe as Edwarde rules thys land, Ne quiet you wylle knowe : Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne And brookes wythe bloude shall flowe. 360 "You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge, Whenne ynne adversitye ; Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke, And for the true cause dye." 364 358 GEORGE CRABBE Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees, A prayer to Godde dyd make, Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe Hys partynge soule to take. 368 Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde Most seemlie onne the blocke ; Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once The able heddes-manne stroke : 372 And oute the blonde beganne to flowe, And rounde the scaffolde twyne ; And teares, enow to washe 't awaie, Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne. 376 The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre Ynnto foure partes cutte ; , And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde, Uponne a pole was putte. 380 One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, One onne the mynster-tower, And one from off the castle-gate The crowen ^ dydd devoure ; 384 The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate, A dreery spectacle ; Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe crosse, Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile. 3S8 Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate : Godde prosper longe oure kynge, And grante hee maye, M^th Bawdin's soule, Ynne heav'n Godd's mercie synge ! 392 THE ACCOUNTE OF W. CANYNGES FEAST 2 Thorowc the halle the belle han sounde ; Byelecoyle doe the grave beseeme ; The ealdermenne doe sytte arounde, Ande snoffelle oppe the cheorte steeme Lyche asses wylde ynne desartc waste 5 Swotclye the morneynge ayre doe taste. Syche coyne thie ate ; the minstrels plaie. The dynne of angclles doe theie keepe ; Heie styllc ; the guestes ha ne to saie, Butte nodde ycr thankes ande falle aslape 10 Thos cchone daie bee I to deene, Gyf Rowley, Iscamm, or Tyb Gorges be ne scene. * crows ^ For a translation of this absurd jargon see the Notes. GEORGE CRABBE (1754-1832) From TALES TALE X — THE LOVER'S JOURNEY On either side Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide. With dikes on either hand by ocean's self supplied : Far on the right the distant sea is seen, And salt the springs that feed the marsh between. Beneath an ancient bridge the straitened flood Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud ; Near it a sunken boat resists the tide, 1 1 1 That frets and hurries to th' opposing side ; The rushes sharp, that on the borders grow. Bend their brown flow'rets to the stream below, Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow : Here a grave Flora scarcely deigns to bloom, Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume : The few dull flowers that o'er the place are spread Partake the nature of their fenny bed ; Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom, 120 Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume : Here the dvv'arf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh, And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh ; Low on the ear the distant billows sound. And just in view appears their stony bound ; No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun ; Birds, save a wat'ry tribe, the district shun, Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters Again, the country was enclosed, a wide And sandy road has banks on either side ; Where, lo ! a hollow on the left appeared. And there a gipsy tribe their tent had reared ; 'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sim, And they had now their early meal begun. When two brown boys just left their grassy seat. The early traveller with their prayers to greet : While yet Orlando held his pence in hand. He saw their sister on her duty stand ; 1 50 Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly, Prepared the force of early powers to try; Sudden a look of languor he descries. And well-feigned apprehension in her eyes ; WILLIAM BLAKE 359 Trained but yet savage, in her speaking face He marked the features of her vagrant race ; W'Tien a Hght laugh and roguish leer ex- pressed The vice implanted in her youthful breast : Forth from the tent her elder brother came, Who seemed offended, yet forbore to blame The young designer, but could only trace i6i The looks of pity in the traveller's face : Within, the father, who from fences nigh Had brought the fuel for the tire's supply, Watched now the feeble blaze, and stood de- jected by. On ragged rug, just borrowed from the bed, And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed, In dirty patchwork negligently dressed. Reclined the wife, an infant at her breast ; In her wild face some touch of grace re- mained, Of vigour palsied and of beauty stained ; 171 Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate Were wrathful turned, and seemed her wants to state, Cursing his tardy aid — her mother there With gipsy-state engrossed the only chair ; Solemn and dull her look ; with such she stands. And reads the milk-maid's fortune in her hands, Tracing the lines of life ; assumed through years. Each feature now the steady falsehood wears ; With hard and savage eye she views the food, And grudging pinches their intruding brood ; Last in the group, the worn-out grandsire sits Neglected, lost, and living but by fits : 183 Useless, despised, his worthless labours done, And half protected by the vicious son, • Who half supports him ; he with hea\'y glance Mews the young ruffians who around him dance ; And, by the sadness in his face, appears To trace the progress of their future years : Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit, 190 INIust wildly wander each unpractised cheat! What shame and grief, what punishment and pain, Sport of fierce passions, must each child sus- tain — ■ Ere they like him approach their latter end, Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend! WILLIAM BLAKE (i757-i'827) From 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 : 4 "Pipe a song about a Lamb!" So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again;" So I piped : he wept to hear. 8 "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!" So I sung the same again, ^^^lLIe he wept with joy to hear. 12 "Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read." So he vanished from my sight ; And I plucked a hoUow reed, 16 And I made a rural pen. And I stained the water clear. And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. 20 From SONGS OF EXPERIENCE THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE "Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives its ease. And builds a heaven in hell's despair." 4 So sung a little clod of clay. Trodden with the cattle's feet. But a pebble of the brook Warbled out these metres meet : 8 "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. 360 WILLIAM BLAKE 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 TIGER Tiger, tiger, 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? 16 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 ? 20 Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 24 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. 4 And I watered it in fears Night and morning with my tears, And I sunned it with smiles And with soft deceitful wiles. 8 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. 16 From IDEAS OF GOOD AND EVIL AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE To see the world in a grain of sand, And a heaven in a wild flower ; Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour. 4 TWO KINDS OF RICHES Since all the riches of all this world May be gifts from the devil and earthly kings, I should suspect that I worshipped the devil If I thanked God for worldly things. 4 The countless gold of a merry heart, The rubies and pearls of a loving eye, The idle man never can bring to the mart. Nor the cunning hoard up in his treasury. 8 LOVE'S SECRET Never seek to tell thy love. Love that never told shall be ; • For the gentle wind does move Silently, invisibly. 4 I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears. Ah ! she did depart ! 8 Soon after she was gone from me, A traveller came by. Silently, invisibly : He took her with a sigh. 12 MINOR SCOTTISH POETS 361 MINOR SCOTTISH POETS THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE ' And are ye sure the news is true ? And are ye sure he's weel ? Is this a time to think of wark ? Ye jauds,2 fling by your wheel. 4 Is this the time to think of wark, When Cohn's at the door? Gi'e me my cloak ! I'll to the quay And see him come ashore. 8 For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck ava ; ^ There's little pleasure in the house. When our gudem.an's awa'. 12 Rise up and mak' a clean fireside ; Put on the muckle pot ; Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown, And Jock his Sunday coat : 16 And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,* Their hose as white as snaw ; It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's been long awa'. 20 There's twa fat hens upon the bauk,^ Been fed this month and mair ; Mak' haste and thraw '' their necks about, That Colin weel may fare ; 24 And mak' the table neat and clean, Gar ^ ilka thmg look braw ; It's a' for love of my gudeman, For he's been long a^a'. 28 O gi'e me do\\Ti my bigonet,^ My bishop satin gown. For I maun tell the bailie's wife That Colin's come to town. My Sunday's shoon they maun ^ gae on, jNIy hose o' pearl blue ; 'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman. For he's baith leal and true. 36 Sae true his words, sae smooth liis speech, His breath's like caller ^'^ air! His very foot has music in't. As he comes up the stair. 40 * This poem is often wrongly ascribed to Jean Adams. ^ jades ^ at all * sloes ^ cross-beam •^ twist ^ make * bonnet ^ must ^^ fresh 32 And will I see his face again ? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy with the thought, — In troth, I'm like to greet. ^ The cauld blasts o' the winter wind. That thrilled through my heart, They're a' blawn by; I ha'e him safe, Till death we'll never part : But what puts parting in my head ? It may be far awa' ; The present moment is our ain, The neist ^ we never saw. 44 48 52 Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, I ha'e nae more to crave ; Could I but live to mak' him blest, I'm blest above the lave : ^ 56 And will I see his face again ? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — In troth, I'm like to greet. 60 — WiLLL-VM Julius IMickle (1735-1788) THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST I've heard them lilting,^ at our ewe-milking, Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day ; But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning ; ^ The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede ® away. At bughts " in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning ; ^ The lasses are lanely, and dowie,^ and wae ; Nae dafhng,!" nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing. Ilk ane lifts her leglin.^^ and hies her away. 8 In hairst,^^ at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering. The bandsters " are lyart," and runkled and grey ; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae Seech- ing 15 — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 1 2 At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies ^^ are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle ^~ to play ; 1 weep ^ next ^ rest * singing ^ meadow path * vanished " sheep-pens ^ bantering ® dull ^^ jest- ing '^ pail ^ harvest ^^ binders " old ^^ coaxing 1* young men ^' bugbear 362 ROBERT BURNS But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 16 Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost. The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay. 20 We'll hear nae more lilting at our e^^^e-milking, Women and bairns are heartless and wae ; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning, The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 24 — ^Jane Elliot (1727-1805) From CALLER WATER WTian father Adie first pat ^ spade in The bonny yeard of antient Eden His amry - had nae liquor laid in, To fire his mou',' Nor did he thole ■* his wife's upbraidin' For being fou.^ 6 A caller ^ burn o' siller sheen Ran cannily out o'er the green. And whan our gutcher's ^ drouth had been To bide right sair,* He loutit ^ down and drank bedeen^" A dainty skair." 12 His bairns a' before the flood Had danger tack ^" o' flesh and blood, And on mair pithy shanks they stood Than Noah's line, Wha still hae been a feckless brood Wi' drinking wine. 18 24 The fuddlin' Bardies now-a-days Rin maukin-mad '•' in Bacchus' praise, And limp and stoiter thro' their lays Anacreontic, While each his sea of wine displays As big's the Pontic. My muse will no gang far frae hame. Or scour a' airths ^* to hound for fame ; In troth, the jillet ^^ ye might blame For thinking on't, ^ put ^ cupboard ^ mouth * endure ^ full ^ fresh ^ grandfather's * right sore to endure * bent ^^ quickly ^^ share ^^ lease ^' mad as a hare " regions ^^ huzzy Whan eithly ^ she can find the theme Of aqua font } 30 This is the name that doctors use Their patients' noodles to confuse ; • Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse, " They labour still. In kittle ^ words to gar ■* you roose ^ Their want o' skill. 36 But we'll hae nae sick ^ clitter-clatter, And briefly to expound the matter, It shall be ca'd good Caller Water, Than whilk,^ I trow. Few drogs in doctors' shops are better For me or you. 42 — Robert Fergusson (1750-1774) ROBERT BURNS (i 759-1 796) SONG, — GREEN GROW THE RASHES Chorus. — Green grow the rashes, O ! Green grow the rashes, O ! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend Are spent amang the lasses, O. There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 5 In every hour that passes, O : What signifies the life o' man. An 'twere na for the lasses, O? The war'ly * race may riches chase, An' riches still may fly them, ; lo An' tho' at last they catch them fast, Their hearts crfn ne'er enjoy them, O. But gie me a cannie ^ hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie, O ; An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men, 15 May a' gae tapsalteerie,^" 0. For you sae douce,|'- ye sneer at this ; Ye're nought but senseless asses, O : The wisest man the warl' e'er saw. He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 20 Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears I ler noblest work she classes, O : Her prentice han' she try'd on man, An' then she made the lasses, O. ^easily ^ aqua fontis= water from the spring ' ticklish * make ^ praise '' such ^ which ** worldly * quiet ^^ topsy-turvy ^^ solemn ADDRESS TO THE DEIL 363 ADDRESS TO THE DEIL O Prince ! O Chief of many throned pow'rs ! That led th' embattled seraphim to war. — — Milton. O thou ! whatever title suit thee, — Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie ! Wha in yon cavern, grim an' sootie, Clos'd under hatches, Spairges ^ about the brunstane cootie ^ S To scaud ^ poor wretches ! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be ; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, E'en to a deil, 10 To skelp * an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel ! Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; Far ken'd '" an' noted is thy name ; An' tho' yon lowin heugh's ^ thy hame,'' 15 Thou travels far ; An' faith 1 thou's neither lag ^ nor lame, Nor blate ^ nor scaur.^° Whyles,^^ rangin like a roarin lion, For prey a' holes an' corners tryin ; 20 Whyles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin, Tirlin' ^ the kirks ; i^ Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks. Wi' you mysel I gat a fright Ayont ^ the lough ; * Ye like a rash-buss ^ stood in sight Wi' waving sough. 40 I've heard my rev'rend grannie say, In lanely ^'* glens ye like to stray ; Or whare auld ruin'd castles gray Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way Wi' eldritch ^^ croon. 25 30 When twilight did my grannie summon To say her pray'rs, douce ^® honest woman Aft yont ^" the dike she's heard you bummin, Wi' eerie drone ; Or, rusthn, thro' the boortrees ^* comin, 35 Wi' heavy groan. Ac " dreary, -vidndy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklentin ^ light, ^ splashes ^ brimstone tub ^ scald * slap ^ known ® flaming ravine ^ home * sluggish ^ shy ^^ timid ^^ sometimes ^ unroofing ^^ churches " lonely *^ tmearthly ^^ grave ^' often beyond '* elders ^^ one ^ slanting The cudgel in my nievc * did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch,* stoor ^ "Quaick, quaick," 45 Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd like a drake, On whistlin wings. Let warlocks ^ grim an' wither'd hags Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags 50 They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags Wi' wicked speed ; And in kirk-yards ^ renew their leagues, Ov.Te howket ^ dead. Thence, cotmtra wives wi' toil an' pain 55 May plunge an' plunge the kirn " in vain ; For oh ! the yellow treasure's taen By -^dtchin skill ; An' dawtet,^^ twal-pint hawkie's ^^ gaen As yell's ^^ the bill." 60 When thowes ^^ dissolve the snavsy hoord,i® An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then water-kelpies ^' haunt the foord By your direction, 70 An' nighted trav'lers are allur'd To their destruction. And aft ^* your moss-traversing spunkies ^^ Decoy the wight that late and drunk is : The bleezing,-*^ curst, mischievous monkeys 75 Delude his eyes, ' Till in some miry slough he sunk is. Ne'er mair to rise. \\Tien masons' mystic word and grip In storms an' tempests raise you up, 80 Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell. The youngest brither -^ ye wad whip Aff 22 straught to hell ! ^ beyond ^ lake * rush-bush * fist * unearthly ® harsh ' wizards * church-yards ^ dug up ^"^ churn ^ petted ^2 twelve-pint cow ^' dry as ^* bull ^° thaws ^® snowy hoard ^' water-spirits ^* often '* will-o'-the-wisps -" blazing ^^ brother ^ off 3^4 ROBERT BURNS Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, 85 When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd. And all the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,^ In shady bow'r ; 90 Then you, ye auld sneck-drawin ^ dog ! Ye cam to Paradise incog. And play'd on man a cursed brogue,' (Black be your fa' !) And gied the infant warld a shog,^ 95 Maist ^ ruin'd a'. D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,*' Wi' reeket ^ duds and reestet gizz,* Ye did present your smoutie phiz Mang better folk, 100 An' sklented ^ on the man of Uz ^° Your spitefu' joke ? An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house and hal'. While scabs and blotches did him gall, 105 Wi' bitter claw. An' lows'd " his ill-tongued, wicked scaul,^^ Was warst ava ? " But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, no Sin' that day Michael " did you pierce, Down to this time. Wad ding ^^ a Lallan ^^ tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme. An' now, auld Cloots,^'' I ken ye're thinkin, 115 A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin. Some luckless hour will send him linkin,^^ To your black pit ; But faith ! he'M turn a corner jinkin," An' cheat you yet. 120 But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben ! O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! Ye aiblins ^" might — I dinna ken Still hae a stake : ^^ I'm wae ^^ to think upo' yon den, 125 Ev'n for your sake ! ' sward ^ latch-lifting ^ "Tioked ^ singed face ' trick '' shock ^ almost ' flurrj' "^ smoked ^ singed face '■' directed '° Job " loosed ^- scold " worst of all " cf. Milton, Par. Lost, VI, 326 ^^ baffle ^^ Lowland " old Hoofs ^^ tripping ^' darting ^'^ possibly ^* rftill have a chance in the game ^ sad From LINES TO JOHN LAPRAIK I am nac Poet, in a sense. But just a Rhymer like by chance, 50 An' hae to learning nae pretence; Yet what the matter? Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 55 And say, "How can you e'er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?" But, by your leave, my learned foes, . Ye're maybe wrang. 60 What's a' your jargon o' your schools. Your Latin names for horns an' stools? If honest nature made you fools. What sairs ^ your grammars ? Ye'd better taen^ up spades and shools, 65 Or knappin-hammers.' A set o' dull, conceited hashes '' Confuse their brains in college classes ! They gang in stirks ^ and come out asses, Plain truth to speak ; 70 An' syne ^ they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek ! Gie me ae ^ spark o' Nature's fire, That's a' the learnin I desire ; Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub * an' mire 75 At pleugh or cart. My Muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. TO A MOUSE ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785 Wee, sleekit,' cowrin, tim'rous beastie. Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na start awa sae hasty Wi' bickerin ^^ brattle ! " I wad be laith ^^ to rin an' chase thee 5 Wi' murd'rin pattle ! ^' ' serves ^ have taken ^ stone breakers ■* fools ^ steers * then ^ one * puddle ^ sleek "* hurrying ^^ scamper '^ loth ^' paddle THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 365 I'm tnily sorr\' man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that Ul opinion Which makes thee startle 10 At me, thy poor earth-born companion. An' fellow-mortal ! I doubt na, ^A'hyles,^ but thou may thieve: What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! A daimen ^ icker ^ in a thrave * 15 'S a sma' request ; I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,* An' never miss 't ! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! Its silly wa's ® the win's are strewin ! 20 An' naething, now, to big " a new ane, 0' foggage * green ! An' bleak December's winds ensuin Baith snell ^ an' keen ! Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 25 An' weary winter comin fast. An' cozie here beneath the blast , Thou thought to dwell, Till crash 1 the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. 30 That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! Now thou's tum'd out for a' thy trouble, But ^^ house or hald. To thole ^ the winter's sleety dribble 35 An' cranreuch ^^ cauld ! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane ^^ In proving foresight may be vain : The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 40 Gang aft a-gley,^* An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain For promis'd joy. Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! The present only toucheth thee : But, och I I backward cast my ee^* 45 On prospects drear ! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear ! ^ sometimes ^ occasional ^ ear of grain * twenty- four sheaves ^ rest ^ its poor walls " build ^ rank grass * piercing ^^ without ^^ endure ^ hoar-frost ^^ lone ^^ amiss '^ eye THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joj^s and destiny obscure ; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. — Gray. i\Iy lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! No mercenary bard his homage pays ; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end : ]\Iy dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise. To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 5 The lowly train in hfe's sequester 'd scene ; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; WTiat Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah ! tho' his , worth imknown, far happier there, I ween ! November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh,^ The short 'ning winter day is near a close ; The mirv^ beasts retreating frae the pleugh. The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose ; The toil-worn Cotter frae his laboiu" goes, — This night his weekly moU is at an end, — Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes, 16 Hoping the morn ^ in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view. Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 20 Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher ^ through To meet their dad, wi' flichterin * noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, ^ blinkin bonilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, 24 The Hsping infant prattling on his knee. Does a' his weary kiaugh ^ and care beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. ^ sound ^ morrow ' stagger * fluttering * fire-place ® anxiety 366 ROBERT BURNS Belyve/ the elder bairns come drappin in, At service out amang the farmers roun' ; Some ca ^ the plough, some herd, some tentie ^ rin 30 A cannie errand to a neibor toun : Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman- grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her ee, Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw * new gown, Or deposite her sair-won ^ penny-fee, 35 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : '^ The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet; Each tells the uncos ^ that he sees or hears. 40 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; Anticipation forward points the view ; The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Gars ^ auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 45 Their master's an' their mistress's com- mand The younkers a' are warned to obey ; An' mind their labours wi' an eydent ' hand. An' ne'er tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 49 "An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway, An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might : They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! " 54 But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door. Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor. To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her cheek; Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 61 * presently ^ drive ^ careful ^ fine ^ hard-won ^ asks ' odds and ends * makes * diligent While Jenny halBins ^ is afraid to speak ; Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben,- A strappin youth ; he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen ; ^ 66 The father cracks * of horses, pleughs, and kye.^ The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. But, blate ^ and laithfu',^ scarce can weel behave ; The mother wi' a woman's wiles can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave, 71 Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.* O happy love ! where love like this is found ! O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com- pare ! I'v.e paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare — "If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleas- ure spare, 77 One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale." 81 Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 85 Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. Points to the parents fondling o'er their child. Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- traction wild? 90 But now the supper crowns their simple board. The halesome parritch,^ chief of Scotia's food; ^ partly ^ within ^ not ill taken ■* talks ^ cows '' shy ^ bashful ** rest ^ porridge THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 367 The sow'pe ^ their only hawkie ^ does afford, That yont ^ the hallan •* snugly chows her cud. The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, 95 To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd ^ kebbuck fell,« An' aft ^ he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond * auld, sin' lint ^ was i' the bell. 99 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They round the ingle form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er with patriarchal grace The big ha'-biblcj^" ance his father's pride ; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. His lyart " haffets ^ wearing thin and bare; 105 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. He wales ^^ a portion with judicious care ; And, "Let us worship God," he says with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: no Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures • rise, Or plaintive Martyrs., worthy of the name. Or noble Elgin beets ^^ the heaven-ward flame. The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays. Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; 115 The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-Like father reads the sacred page, — How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 120 . With .\malek's ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal bard did groaning He ^ milk ' cow ^ beyond "* partition ^ well-saved ** strong cheese " often * twelve-month ^ since flax ■"^ hall Bible " gray ^ locks ^^ chooses ^^ incites, kindles Beneath the stroke of heaven^s avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 125 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, — How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in heav'n the second name. Had not on earth whereon to lay His head : 130 How His first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the siui a mighty angel stand, And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heav'n 's command. 135 Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays : Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays, 140 No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear. Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear, WTiile circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride 145 In all the pomp of method and of art. When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace except the heart ! The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert. The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply in some cottage far apart 151 May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 368 ROBERT BURNS And proffer up to lieav'n the warm re- quest, That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest And decks the lily fair in llow'ry pride. Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 1 60 For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 165 "An honest man's the noblest work of God":i And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind : What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, 169 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! i7S And, oh ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while. And stand a wall of fire around their much- lov'd isle. 180 O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart. Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride. Or nobly die, the second glorious part, — (The patriot's God peculiarly thou art. His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) O never, never Scotia's realm desert, But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard. In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! ^ Quoted from Pope ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS ye wha are sae guid yoursel, Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neibour's fauts and folly ! Whase life is like a wcel-gaun ^ mill, 5 Supply'd wi' store o' water. The heapet happer's - ebbing still. And still the clap ■* plays clatter, — ■ Hear me, ye venerable core,'* As counsel for poor mortals, 10 That frequent pass douce ^ Wisdom's door For glaiket *^ Folly's portals ; 1 for their thoughtless, careless sakes Would here propone defences — Their donsie ^ tricks, their black mistakes, 15 Their failings and mischances. Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, And shudder at the niffer ; * But cast a moment's fair regard, What maks the mighty differ ? * 20 Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft ^° mair than a' the lave ") Your better art o' hidin. Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse That still eternal gallop : Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way ; But in the teeth o' baith ^ to sail, It maks an unco ^^ leeway. 25 30 See Social Life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmugrify'd,i^ they're grown 35 Debauchery and Drinking : O would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences; Or — your more dreaded hell to state — Damnation of expenses ! 40 Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, Tied up in godly laces, 1 well-going ^ heaped hopper is ' clapper ^ company ^ grave ^ giddy ^ reckless * exchange ^ difference '" often " rest ^^ both ^^ wonderful ^^ metamorphosed A BARD'S EPITAPH 369 Before you gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases : A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 45 A treacherous inclination — But, let me whisper i' your lug, ^ Ye're aiblins ^ nae temptation. Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman ; 50 Tho' they may gang a kennin ^ wrang, To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, The moving Why they do it ; And just as lamely can ye mark, 55 How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord, its various tone, Each spring, its various bias : 60 Then at the balance, let's be mute, We never can adjust it ; What's done we partly can compute, But know not what's resisted. TO A MOUNTAIN DMSY ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour ; For I maun crush amang the stoure * Thy slender stem : To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 5 Thou bonie gem. Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet. The bonie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the devvy weet Wi' spreckl'd breast, 10 When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter -biting north Upon thy early, hvunble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou gUnted forth 15 Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield High shelt'ring woods an' wa's ^ maun shield : ^ ear ^ perhaps ^ trifle * dust * walls But thou, beneath the random bield ^ O' clod or stane. Adorns the histie " stibble-tield Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad. Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread. Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betray 'd And guileless trust ; Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage and gales blow hard. And whelm him o'er! 30 35 40 Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n. By human pride or cunning driv'n 45 To mis'ry's brink ; Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, He ruin'd sink! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine — no distant date ; 50 Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate. Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom. A BARD'S EPITAPH Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre ^ fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate ^ to seek, owre proud to snool? ^ — Let him draw near ; And owre this grassy heap sing dool,* 5 And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song. Who, noteless, steals the crowds among. ^ shelter sorrow ' dry ^ over ^ bashful ^ cringe 370 ROBERT BURNS That weekly this area throng ? — Oh, pass not by! lo But with a frater-feeUng strong Here heave a sigh. Is there a man whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs himself life's mad career 15 Wild as the wave ? — Here pause — and thro' the starting tear Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, 20 And keenly felt the friendly glow And softer flame ; But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name ! Reader, attend! whether thy soul .25 Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole In low pursuit ; Know, prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root. 30 TAM O' SHANTER A TALE Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke. — Gawin Douglas When chapman billies ^ leave the street, And drouthy ^ neibors neibors meet, As market-days are wearing late. And folk begin to tak the gate ; While we sit bousin at the nappy,' 5 And gettin fou and unco ■* happy. We think na on the lang Scots miles. The mosses, waters, slaps,'' and stiles. That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, 10 Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter : (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 15 For honest men and bonie lasses.) O Tam ! had'st thovi but been sae wise As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! ^ pedlers ^ thirsty ' ale ^ marvellously ^ gaps She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,^ A bletherin, blusterin, drunken blellum ; ^ 20 That frae November till October, Ae ^ market-day thou was na sober ; That ilka ^ melder ^ wi' the miller. Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; That ev'ry naig '' was ca'd ^ a shoe on, 25 The smith and thee gat roarin fou on ; That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied, that, late or soon. Thou would be found deep drown'd in Dqon ; Or catch't wi' warlocks * in the mirk,* 31 By AUoway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars ^" me greet," To think how mony counsels sweet. How mony lengthened sage advices, 35 The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our talc : — Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle,^'^ bleezin finely, Wi' reamin swats ^^ that drank divinely ; 40 And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony : Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither ; " They had been fou ^^ for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter ; 45 And ay the ale was growing better : The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi' secret favours, sweet, and precious: The souter ^^ tauld his queerest stories ; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 50 The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy. E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy : ^'^ As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 55 The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! But pleasures are like poppies spread. You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; 60 Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white — then melts forever ; Or like the borealis race, ^ That flit ere you can point their place ; ^ wretch ^ idle-talker ^ one * every ^ grinding '' nag ^ driven ^ wizards ^ dark ^° makes " weep '^ fireside ^^ foaming ale ^^ brother '^ full ^^ cob- bler ^' ale TAM 0' SHANTER 371 Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. 65 Nae man can tether time or tide : The hour approaches Tam maun ride, — That hour, o' night's black arch the key- stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 70 And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last ; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd • That night, a child might understand, The Deil had business on his hand. Weel moimted on his grey mare, Meg, — A better never lifted leg, — 80 Tam skelpit ^ on thro' dub ^ and mire, Despising wind and rain and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, Whiles glowrin roimd wi' prudent cares, 85 Lest bogles ^ catch him unawares. Kirk-x\lloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets * nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; * And past the birks ^ and meikle ^ stane, 91 Whare drucken ^ Charlie brak's neck-bane ; ^ And thro' the whins, ^° and by the cairn," Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; '^ And near the thorn, aboon ^^ the well, 95 Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. Before him Doon pours all his floods ; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; The lightnings flash from pole to pole. Near and more near the thunders roU ; 100 When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk- Alio way seemed in a bleeze : ^^ Thro' flka bore ^^ the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 105 What dangers thou can'st make us scorn ! Wi' tippenny ^® we fear nae evil ; Wi' usquebae ^^ we'll face the devil ! ^ clattered ^ puddle ^ goblins * owls ^ smothered " Dirches ' big ^ drunken ^ neck-bone '° gorse " pile of stones ^ child ^^ above '■* bla crevice '* twopenny ale ^' whiskey every The swats ^ sae ream'd - in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle.^ no But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd. Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light ; And, wow! Tam saw an unco •• sight ! Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 115 Nae cotillon brent-new * frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels Put life and mettle in their heels : A winnock ® bunker ^ in the east. There sat Auld Nick in shape o' beast ; 120 A towzie tyke,^ black, grim, and large. To gie them music was his charge ; He screv/'d the pipes and gart * them, skirl,^" TiU roof and rafters a' did dirl.^^ — Coffins stood round like open presses, 125 That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; And by some devflish cantraip ^^ sleight Each in its cauld hand held a light, By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table 130 A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; ^^ Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae the rape ^* — Wi' his last gasp his gab ^^ did gape ; Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted; 135 Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; A garter, which a babe had strangled ; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft — The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 140 Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew, 145 The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,!^ Till ilka carlin ^" swat ^® and reekit,^' And coost 2° her duddies ^^ to the wark ^^ And linket at it in her sark ! ^^ 150 Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,^^ A' plump and strapping in their teens ! ^ ale ^ foamed ^ copper ■* marvellous ^ brand- rindow " seat * shaggy cur ' made o^.^u,... ^^ throb ^ tricksy ^^ irons ^'^ rope ^^ mouth 10 " loamea " copper ' marveuous " orana- new * window " seat * shaggy cur ' made scream ^^ throb ^ tricksy ^^ irons ^'^ rope mouth ^^ clutched ^^ old woman ^* sweated steamed ^° cast aside ^^ clothes ^'^ work ^^ che- lise ^^ girls 372 ROBERT BURNS Their sarks, instead o' creeshie * flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen! ^ — Thir ^ breeks o' mine, my only pair, 155 That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies,'' For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! ^ But Tarn ken'd what was what fu' brawlie ; ^ There was ae winsom wench and walie,' That night enlisted in the core ^ 165 (Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore ; For mony a beast to dead she shot. And perish'd mony a bonie boat. And shook baith meikle ^ corn and bear,^" And kept the country-side in fear) ; 170 Her cutty sark " o' Paisley harn,^^ That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie.^^ Ah! little kent thy reverend grannie, 175 That sark she coft ^"^ for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her*riches). Wad ever graced a dance o' witches! But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r, Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 180 To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jad she was and Strang,) And how Tam stood like ane bewitch 'd. And thought his very een ^^ enrich'd ; Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd ^^ fu' fain," 185 And hotch'd ^* and blew wi' might and main : Till first ae caper, syne ^^ anither, Tam tint ^^ his reason a' thegither, And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"^' And in an instant all was dark: 190 And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,^ When plundering herds assail their byke ; ^^ As open pussie's^'' mortal foes, 195 When, pop ! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief !" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch ^^ skricch and hollo. 200 ^greasy ^ very fine linen ^ these ''hips ''girls ^well 'goodly * company ®much ^"barley ^' short skirt '^ linen '^ proud '''bought '^eyes "'fidgeted '^ eagerly '** squirmed "then 2" lost '""Short-skirt ^ fuss ^^ hive ^'' the hare's '^'■' unearthly Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou'll get thy fairin ! ' In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 205 And win the key-stane of the brig : - There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient ^ a tail she had to shake ! 210 For Nannie, far before the rest. Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; * But little wist she Maggie's mettle — Ae ^ spring brought aff her master hale, 2 1 5 But left behind her ain ^ grey tail : The carlin ' claught her by the rump. And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk * man and mother's son, take heed, 220 Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think, ye may buy the joys owre ^ dear, Remember Tam o' Shanter's mear.^*^ BONIE DOON Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care? Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, 5 That sings upon the bough ; Thou minds me o' the happy days. When my fause luve was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, That sings beside thy mate ; 10 For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate. Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon To see the wood-bine twine, And ilka ^ ^ird sang o' its luve, 15 And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Frae aff its thorny tree ; And my fause i' luver staw "^ my rose But left the thorn wi' me. 20 Short-skirt ' reward ^ bridge ^ devil '' aim ^ one '' own '' wench ** every * over '" mare " false '- stole HIGHLAND MARY 373 AE FOND KISS Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; Ae fareweel, and then forever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; Dark despair around benights me. The Powers aboon will tent ^ thee-; Misfortune sha' na steer ^ thee ; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie ! That we may brag, we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonie. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; lo But to see her was to love her ; Love but her, and love forever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met — or never parted — 15 We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! Thine be ilka ^ joy and treasure. Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 20 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee ! BONIE LESLEY O saw ye bonie Lesley As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her, 5 And love but her forever ; For Nature made her what she is, And never made anither ! Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects, we before thee : 10 Thou art di\'ine, fair Lesley, The hearts 0' men adore thee. The Deil he could na scaith - thee, Or aught that wad belang thee ; He'd look into thy bonie face, 15 And say, "I canna wrang thee." HIGHLAND MARY Ye banks, and braes,^ and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods and fair your flowers. Your waters never drumlie ! * There simmer first unfauld her robes, 5 And there the langest tarry ; For there I took the last fareweel, O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,^ How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 10 As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp'd her to my bosom ! The golden hours, on angel wings. Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me as light and life, 15 Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace Our parting was fu' tender ; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder ; 20 But O ! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flOwer sae early ! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay. That wraps my Highland Mary ! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 25 I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! And closed for aye the sparkling glance. That dwelt on me sae kindly ! And mould'ring now in silent dust. That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 30 But still within my bosom's core Shall live' my Highland Mary. ^ tend ' hurt ^ slopes ■* muddy ^ birch every '■ injure 374 ROBERT BURNS DUNCAN GRAY SCOTS WHA HAE Duncan Gray came here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! On blythe Yule night when we were fou,^ Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! Maggie coost her head fu hiegh, Look'd asklent ^ and unco skiegh,^ Gart ■* poor Duncan stand abiegh ; ^ Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; Welcome to your gory bed. Or to victory ! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour ; See approach proud Edward's power Chains and slavery ! Duncan fleech'd,^ and Duncan pray'd ; Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,^ Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat * his een « baith bleer't " and blin', Spak o' lowpin " owre a Hnn ; ^^ Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! IS Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can till a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave ? Let him turn and flee ! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or Freeman fa', Let him follow me ! 15 Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! Slighted love is sair to bide,-'' Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! "Shall I, like a fool," quoth he, " For a haughty hizzie ^* die ? She may gae to — France for me ! " Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! How it comes let doctors tell. Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! Meg grew sick as he grew hale, Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings ; And O ! her een, they spak sic things ! Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 25 30 Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! Maggie's was a piteous case, 35 Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! Duncan could na be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd ^^ his wrath ; Now they're crouse ^^ and cantie '^ baith ; Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! • 40 ^ full ^ sidewise ^ wondrous shy '' made ^ off * flattered ' a mountainous island off Ayrshire ^ wept '■* eyes '" bleared '^ leaping ^^ water- fall "^ hard to endure " lass ^^ smothered. ^® bright " happy By oppression's woes and pains By your sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free ! Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty's in every blow ! — Let us do or die ! A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT Is there, for honest poverty, That hings his head, an' a' that ? The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that ! For a' that, an' a' that, 5 Our toils obscure, an' a' that ; The rank is but the guinea's stamp ; The man's the gowd ^ for a' that. What tho' on hamely fare we dine. Wear hodden-gray,^ an' a' that ; 10 Gie fools their sUks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that. For a' that, an' a' that. Their tinsel show, an' a' that ; The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 15 Is king o' men for a' that. gold ^ coarse grey cloth A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT 375 Ye see yon birkie,^ ca'd a lord, Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that ; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof ^ for a' that : 20 For a' that, an' a' that, His riband, star, an' a' that, The man o' independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that. A prince can mak a belted knight, 25 A marquis, duke, an' a' that ; But an honest man's aboon ^ his might, Guid faith he mauna fa' * that ! ^ young fellow ^ fool ^ above * cannot accomplish For a' that, an' a' that. Their dignities, an' a' that, 30 The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth. Are higher rank than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may. As come it will for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree,^ an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, It's coming yet, for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that. 35 40 pnze THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850) From THE PREFACE TO "LYRICAL BALLADS" The principal object, then, which I proposed to myself in these Poems was to choose inci- dents and situations from common life, and to relate or describe them, throughout, as far as was possible, in a selection of language really used by men, and, at the same time, to throw over them a certain colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be presented to the mind in an unusual way ; and, further, and above all, to make these incidents and situations interesting by tracing in them, truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws of our nature : chiefly, as far as regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a state of excitement. Low and rustic life was generally chosen, because, in that condition, the essential passions of the heart find a better soil in which they can attain their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic language ; because in that condition of life our elementary feelings co- exist in a state of greater simplicity, and, con- sequently, may be more accurately contem- plated, and more forcibly communicated ; because the manners of rural life germinate from those elementary feelings ; and from the necessary character of rural occupations, are more easily comprehended, and are more durable ; and, lastly, because in that condition the passions of men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent forms of nature. The language, too, of these men is adopted (purified ipdeed from what appears to be its real defects, from all lasting and rational causes of dislike or disgust) because such men hourly communicate with the best objects fr6m which the best part of language is origi- nally derived ; and because, from their rank in society and the sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse, being less under the influ- ence of social vanity, they convey their feel- ings and notions in simple and unelaborated expressions. Accordingly, such a language, arising out of repeated experience and regular feelings, is a more permanent, and a far more philosophical language, than that which is frequently substituted for it by Poets, who think that they are conferring honour upon themselves and their art, in proportion as they separate themselves from the sympathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary and capricious habits of expression, in order to furnish food for fickle tastes, and fickle appetites, of their own creation. I cannot, however, be insensible of the pres- ent outcry against the triviality and meanness, both of thought and language, which some of my contemporaries have occasionally intro- duced into their metrical compositions ; and I acknowledge that this defect, where it exists, is more dishonourable to the Writer's own character than false refinement or arbitrary innovation, though I should contend at the same time, that it is far less pernicious in the sum of its consequences. From such verses the Poems in these volumes will be found dis- tinguished at least by one mark of difference, that each of them has a worthy purpose. Not that I mean to say, I always began to write with a distinct purpose formally conceived; but my habits of meditation have so formed my feelings, as that my descriptions of such objects as strongly excite those feelings, will be found to carry along with them a purpose. If in this opinion I am mistaken, I can have little right to the name of a Poet. For all good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings : and though this be true, Poems to which any value can be attached were never produced on any variety of sub- jects but by a man, who, being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility, had also thought long and deeply. For our continued influxes of feeling are modified and directed by our thoughts, which are indeed the repre- 376 PREFACE TO "LYRICAL BALLADS 377 sentatives of all our past feelings : and, as by contemplating the relation of these general representatives to each other we discover what is really important to men, so, by the repetition and continuance of this act, our feelings will be connected with important subjects, till at length, if we be originally possessed of much sensibility, such habits of mind will be produced, that, by observing blmdly and mechanically the impulses of those habits, we shall describe objects, and utter sentiments, of such a nature, and in such connection with each other, that the imder- standing of the being to whom we address ourselves, if he be in a healthful state of asso- ciation, must necessarily be in some degree enlightened, and his affections ameliorated. I will not abuse the indulgence of my Reader by dwelling longer upon this subject ; but it is proper that I should mention one other circumstance which distinguishes these Poems from the popular Poetry of the day; it is this, that the feeling therein developed gives importance to the action and situation, and not the action and situation to the feeling. My meaning will be rendered perfectly intelli- gible by referring my Reader to the Poems entitled Poor Susan and the Childless Father, particularly to the last Stanza of the latter Poem. I wiU not suffer a sense of false modesty to prevent me from asserting, that I point my Reader's attention to this mark of distinction, far less for the sake of these particular Poems than from the general importance of the sub- ject. The subject is indeed important ! For the human mind is capable of being excited without the application of gross and violent stimiilants ; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this, and who does not further know, that one being is elevated above another, in proportion as he possesses this capability. It has therefore appeared to me, that to en- deavour to produce or enlarge this capability is one of the best services in which, at any period, a Writer can be engaged; but this service, excellent at all times, is especially so at the present day. For a multitude of causes, unknown to former times, are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion, to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor. The most effective of these causes are the great national events which are daily taking place, and the increas- ing accumulation of men in cities, where the uniformity of their occupations produces a cra\dng for extraordinary incident, which the rapid commimication of intelligence hourly gratifies. To this tendency of life and man- ners the literatiure and theatrical exhibitions of the country have conformed themselves. The invaluable works of our elder writers, I had almost said the works of Shakspeare and Milton, are driven into neglect by frantic novels, sickly and stupid German Tragedies, and deluges of idle and extravagant stories in verse. — When I think upon this degrading thirst after outrageous stimulation, I am almost ashamed to have spoken of the feeble effort with which I have endeavoured to counteract it ; and, reflecting upon the magni- tude of the general evil, I should be oppressed with no dishonourable melancholy, had I not a deep impression of certain inherent and in- destructible qualities of the human mind, and likewise of certain powers in the great and permanent objects that act upon it, which are equally inherent and indestructible ; and did I not further add to this impression a belief, that the time is approaching when the evil will be systematically opposed, by men of greater powers, and with far more distin- guished success. Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and aim of these Poems, I shall request the Reader's permission to apprise him of a few circumstances relating to their style, in order, among other reasons, that I may not be cen- sured for not having performed what I never attempted. The Reader will find that per- sonifications of abstract ideas rarely occur in these volumes ; and, I hope, are utterly rejected as an ordinary device to elevate the style, and raise it above prose. I have pro- posed to myself to imitate, and, as far as is possible, to adopt the very language of men ; and assuredly such personifications do not make any natural or regular part of that lan- guage. They are, indeed, a figure of speech occasionally prompted by passion, and I have made use of them as such ; but I haVe en- deavoured utterly to reject them as a mechan- ical device of style, or as a family language which Writers in metre seem to lay claim to by prescription. I have wished to keep my Reader in the company of flesh and blood, 378 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH persuaded that by so doing I shall interest him. I am, however, well aware that others who pursue a different track may interest him likewise; I do not interfere with their claim, I only wish to prefer a different claim of my own. There will also be found in these pieces little of what is usually called poetic diction ; I have taken as much pains to avoid it as others ordinarily take to produce it ; this I have done for the reason already alleged, to bring my language near to the language of men, and further, because the pleasure which I have proposed to myself to impart, is of a kind very different from that which is sup- posed by many persons to be the proper object of poetry. I do not know how, with- out being cidpably particular, I can give my Reader a more exact notion of the style in which I wished these poems to be written, than, by informing him that I have at all times endeavoured to look steadily at my subject, consequently, I hope that there is in these Poems little falsehood of description, and that my ideas are expressed in language fitted to their respective importance. Some- thing I must have gained by this practice, as it is friendly to one property of all good poetry, namely, good sense ; but it has necessarily cut me ofif from a large portion of phrases and figures of speech which from father to son have long been regarded as the common inheritance of Poets. I have also thought it expedient to restrict myself still further, having abstained from the use of many expressions, in them- selves proper and beautiful, but which have been foolishly repeated by bad Poets, till such feelings of disgust are connected with them as it is scarcely possible by any art of association to overpower. If in a poem there should be found a series of lines, or even a single line, in which the language, though naturally arranged, and ac- cording to the strict laws of metre, does not differ from that of prose, there is a numerous class of critics who, when they stumble upon these prosaisms, as they call them, imagine that they have made a notable discovery, and exult over the Poet as over a man ignorant of his own profession. Now these men would establish a canon of criticism which the Reader will conclude he must utterly, reject, if he wishes to be pleased with these pieces. And it would be a most easy task to prove to him, that not only the language of a large portion of every good poem, even of the most elevated character, must necessarily, except with ref- erence to the metre, in no respect differ from that of good prose, but likewise that some of the most interesting parts of the best poems will be foimd to be strictly the language of prose, when prose is well written. The truth of this assertion might be demonstrated by innumerable passages from almost all the poetical writings, even of Milton himself. I wiU go further. I do not doubt that it may be safely affirmed, that there neither is. nor can be, any essential difference between the language of prose and metrical composi- tion. We are fond of tracing the resem- blance betv/een Poetry and Painting, and, accordingly, we call them Sisters : but where shall we fmd bonds of connection sufficiently strict to typify the afifinit}^ betwixt metrical and prose composition ? They both speak by and to the same organs ; the bodies in which both of them are clothed may be said to be of the same substance, their affections are kin- dred, and almost identical, not necessarily differing even in degre^ ; Poetry ^ sheds no tears "such as Angels weep" but natural and human tears; she can boast of no celestial Ichor that distinguishes her vital juices from those of prose; the same human blood cir- culates through the veins of them both. If it be affirmed that rhym-C and metrical arrangement of themselves constitute a dis- tinction which overturns what I have been saying on the strict affinity of metrical lan- guage with that of prose, and paves the way for other artificial distinctions which the mind voluntarily admits, I answer that the lan- guage of such Poetry as I am recommending is, as far as is possible, a selection of the lan- guage really spoken by men ; that this selec- tion, wherever it is made with true taste and feeling, will of itself form a distinction far greater than would at first be imagined, and ^ I here use the word "Poetry" (though against my own judgment) as opposed to the word "Prose," and synonymous with metrical composi- sion. But much confusion has been introduced into criticism by this contradistinction of Poetry and Prose, instead of the more philosophical one of Poetry and Matter of Fact, or Science. The only strict antithesis to Prose is Metre : nor is this, in truth, a strict antithesis ; because Hnes and pas- sages of metre so naturally occur in writing prose, that it would be scarcely possible to avoid theto, even were it desirable. PREFACE TO " LYRIC\L BALLADS 379 will entirely separate the composition from the vulgarity and meamiess of ordinan,' life ; and, if metre be superadded thereto, I believe that a dissimilitude will be produced alto- gether sufficient for the gratification of a rational mind, ^^'hat other distinction -would we have? WTience is it to come? And where is it to exist? Nat, surely, where the Poet speaks through the mouths of his char- acters : it cannot be necessary here, either for elevation of style, or any of its supposed orna- ments : for, if the Poet's subject be judiciously chosen, it will naturally, and upon fit occasion, lead him to passions the language of which, if selected tnily and judiciously, must neces- sarily be dignified and variegated, and aUve with metaphors and figures. I forbear to speak of an incongruity which would shock the intelligent Reader, should the Poet inter- weave any foreign splendour of his own with that which the passion naturally suggests: it is sufficient to say that such addition is im- necessary. And, surely, it is more probable that those passages, which with propriety abound with metaphors and figures, will have their due elJect, if, upon other occasions where the passions are of a milder character, the style also be subdued and temperate. But, as the pleasure which I hope to give by the Poems I now present to the Reader must depend entirely on just notions upon this sub- ject, and, as it is in itself of the highest impor- tance to our taste and moral feelings, I cannot content myself with these detached remarks. And if, in what I am about to say, it shall appear to some that my labour is unnecessary, and that I am like a man fighting a battle without enemies, I would remind such per- sons, that, whatever may be the language outwardly holden by men, a practical faith in the opinions which I am wishing to estab- hsh is almost imknown. If my conclusions are admitted, and carried as far as they must be carried if admitted at all, our judgments concemmg the works of the greatest Poets both ancient and modern wdll be far different from what they are at present, both when we praise, and when we censure : and our moral feelings influencing and influenced by these judgments w^Ul, I beheve, be corrected and purffied. Taking up the subject, then, upon general groimds, I ask what is meant by the word " Poet " ? What is a Poet ? To whom does he address himself ? And what language is to be expected from him ? He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endued with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tender- ness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind ; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him ; de- lighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find them. To these quahties he has added, a disposition to be affected more than other men by absent things as if they were present ; an ability of conjuring up in himself passions, which are indeed far from being the same as those produced by real events, yet (especially in those parts of ther general sympathy which are pleasing and de- lightful) do more nearly resemble the passions produced by real events, than anything w^hich, from the motions of their own minds merely, other men are accustomed to feel in them- selves; whence, and from practice, he has acquired a greater readiness and power in expressing what he thinks and feels, and es- pecially those thoughts and feelings which, by his own choice, or from the structure of his owTi mind, arise in him without immediate external excitement. But, whatever portion of this faculty we may suppose even the greatest Poet to pos- sess, there cannot be a doubt but that the language which it will suggest to him, must, in liveliness and truth, fall far short of that which is uttered by men in real life, under the actual pressure of those passions, certain shad- ow's of which the Poet thus produces, or feels to be produced, in himself. However exalted a notion we would wish to cherish of the character of a Poet, it is obvious, that, while he describes and imitates passions, his situation is altogether slavish and mechan- ical, compared with the freedom and poAver of real and substantial action and suffering. So that it will be the wish of the Poet to bring his feelings near to those of the persons whose feelings he describes, nay, for short spaces of time, perhaps, to let himself slip into an entire delusion, and even confound and identify his own feelings with theirs ; modifying only the language which is thus suggested to him by a consideration that he describes for a particular purpose, that of giving pleasure. Here, then, 38o WILLIAM WORDSWORTH he will apply the principle on which I have so much insisted, namely, that of selection; on this he will depend for removing what would otherwise be painful or disgusting in the pas- sion ; he will feel that there is no necessity to trick out or to elevate nature : and, the more industriously he applies tliis principle, the deeper will be his faith that no words, which Ms fancy or imagination can suggest, will be to be compared with those which are the emanations of reality and truth. But it may be said by those who do not object to the general spirit of these remarks, that, as it is impossible for the poet to produce upon all occasions language as exquisitely fitted for the passion as that which the real passion itself suggests, it is proper that he should consider himself as in the situation of a translator, who deems himself justified when he substitutes excellencies of another kind for those which are unattainable by him ; and endeavours occasionally to surpass his original, in order to make some amends for the general inferiority to which he feels that he must submit. But this w'ould be to en- courage idleness and unmanly despair. Fur- ther, it is the language of men who speak of what they do not understand; who talk of Poetry as of a matter of amusement and idle pleasure ; who will converse with us as gravely about a taste for Poetry, as they express it, as if it were a thing as indifferent as a taste for Rope-dancing, or Frontiniac ^ or Sherry. Aris- totle, I have been told, hath said, that Poetry is the most philosophic of all writing : it is so : its object is truth, not individual and local, but general, and operative; not standing upon external testimony, but carried alive into the heart by passion ; truth which is its own testimony, which gives strength and divinity to the tribunal to which it appeals, and re- ceives them from the same tribimal. Poetry is the image of man and nature. The ob- stacles which stand in the way of the fidelity of the Biographer and Historian and of their consequent utility, are incalculably greater than those which are to be encountered by the Poet who has an adequate notion of the dignity of his art. The Poet writes under one restriction only, namely, that of the necessity of giving immediate pleasure to a human Being possessed of that information which may be expected from him, not as a lawyer, a ^ a sweet wine of France physician, a mariner, an astronomer, or a natural philosopher, but as a Man. Except this one restriction, there is no object standing between the Poet and the image of things; between this, and the Biographer and Histo- rian there are a thousand. Nor let this necessity of producing immedi- ate pleasure be considered as a degradation of the Poet's art. It is far otherwise. It is an acknowledgment of the beauty of the universe, an acknowledgment the more sincere, because it is not formal, but indirect ; it is a task fight and easy to him who looks at the world in the spirit of love : further, it is an homage paid to the native and naked dignity of man, to the grand elementary principle of pleasure, by which he knows, and feels, and lives, and moves. We have no sympathy but what is propagated by pleasure : I would not be misunderstood; but wherever we sympathise with pain, it wiU be found that the sympathy is produced and carried on by subtle combina- tions with pleasure. We have no knowledge, that is, no general principles drawn from the contemplation of particular facts, but what has been built up by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure alone. The Man of Science, the Chemist and Mathematician, whatever difiiculties and disgusts they may have had to struggle with, know and feel this. How- ever painful may be the objects with which the Anatomist's knowledge is connected, he feels that his knowledge is pleasure; and where he has no pleasure he has no knowl- edge. What then does the Poet? He con- siders man and the objects that surround him as acting and reacting upon each other, so as to produce an infinite complexity of pain and pleasure ; he considers man in his own nature and in his ordinary life as contemplating this with a certain quantity of immediate knowl- edge, with certain convictions, intuitions, and deductions, which by habit become of the nature of intuitions; he considers him as looking upon this complex scene of ideas and sensations, and finding everywhere objects that immediately excite in him sjTnpathies which, from the necessities of his nature, are accompanied by an overbalance of en- joyment. To this knowledge which all men carry about with them, and to these sympathies in which, without any other discipline than that of our daily fife, we are fitted to take delight, the Poet principally directs his attention. PREFACE TO "LYRICAL BALLADS" 381 He considers man and nature as essentially adapted to each other, and the mind of man as naturally the mirror of the fairest and most interesting qualities of nature. And thus the Poet, prompted by this feehng of pleasure which accompanies him through the whole course of his studies, converses with general nature with affections akin to those, which, through labour and length of time, the ]Man of Science has raised up in himself, by convers- ing with those particular parts of nature which are the objects of his studies. The knowledge both of the Poet and the Man of Science is pleasure ; but the knowledge of the one cleaves to us as a necessary part of our existence, our natural and inahenable inheri- tance ; the other is a personal and indi\dd- ual acquisition, slow to come to us, and by no habitual and direct sympathy connecting us with our fellow-beings. The Man of Science seeks truth as a remote and unknown bene- factor ; he cherishes and loves it in his soh- tude : the Poet, singing a song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly companion. Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impas- sioned expression which is in the countenance of aU Science. Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man, ''that he looks before and after." He is the rock of defence of human nature; an up- holder and preser\'er, carrying everywhere with him relationship and love. In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs, in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knov.iedge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time. The objects of the Poet's thoughts are everj^where; though the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favourite guides, yet he will follow whereso- ever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of aU knowledge — it is as immortal as the heart of man. If the labours of Men of Science should ever create any material revo- lution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions which we habitually re- ceive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at present, but he ^^ill be ready to follow the steps of the Man of Science, not only in those general indirect effects, but he will be at his side, carrying sensation into the midst of the objects of the Science itself. The remotest discoveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, or Mineralogist, will be as proper objects of the Poet's art as any upon which it can be em- ployed, if the time should ever come when these things shall be familiar to us, and the relations under which they are contemplated by the followers of these respective Sciences shall be manifestly and palpably material to us as enjoying and suiifering beings. If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus familiarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it v\'ere, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man. — It is not, then, to be supposed that any one, who holds that sublime notion of Poetry which I have attempted to convey, will break in upon the sanctity and truth of his pictures by transitory and accidental ornaments, and endeavour to excite admiration of himself by arts, the necessity of which must manifestly depend upon the assumed meanness of his subject. I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings : it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tran- quillity ; the emotion is contemplated, till, by a species of reaction, the tranquiUity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kin- dred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind. In this mood successfid composition generally be- gins, and in a mood similar to this it is carried on ; but the emotion of whatever kind, and in whatever degree, from various causes, is qualified by various pleasures, so that in de- scribing any passions whatsoever, w-hich are voluntarily described, the mind will, upon the whole, be in a state of enjojTnent. Now, if Nature be thus cautious in preserving in a state of enjoyment a being thus employed, the Poet ought to profit by the lesson thus held forth to him., and ought especially to take care, that, whatever passions he communicates to his Reader, those passions, if his Reader's mind be sound and vigorous, should always be accompanied with an overbalance of pleas- ure. How the music of harmonious metrical 382 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH language, the sense of difificulty overcome, and the blind association of pleasure which has been previously received from the works of rhyme or metre of the same or similar con- struction, and indistinct perception perpet- ually renewed of language closely resembling that of real hfe, and yet, in the circumstance of metre, differing from it so widely — all these imperceptibly make up a complex feel- ing of delight, which is of the most important use in tempering the painful feeling which will always be found intermingled with powerful descriptions of the deeper passions. This effect is always produced in pathetic and im- passioned poetry ; while, in lighter composi- tions, the ease and gracefulness with which the Poet manages his numbers are themselves confessedly a principal source of the gratifi- cation of the Reader. I might, perhaps, in- clude all which it is necessary to say upon this subject, by aflirming what few persons will deny, that, of two descriptions either of pas- sions, manners, or characters, each of them equally well executed, the one in prose and the other in verse, the verse will be read a hundred times where the prose is read once. We see that Pope, by the power of verse alone, has contrived to render the plainest common sense interesting, and even fre- quently to invest it wdth the appearance of passion. Long as I have detained my Reader, I hope he will permit me to caution him against a mode of false criticism which has been applied to Poetry in which the language closely re- sembles that of life and nature. Such verses have been triumphed over in parodies of which Dr. Johnson's stanza is a fair specimen. I put my hat upon my head And walked into the Strand, And there I met another man Whose hat was in his hand. Immediately under these lines I will place one of the most justly-admired stanzas of the "Babes in the Wood." These pretty babes with hand in hand Went wandering up and down ; But never more they saw the Man Approaching from the Town. In both these stanzas the words, and the order of the words, in no respect differ from the most unimpassioned conversation. There are words in both, for example, "the Strand," and "the Town," connected with none but the most familiar ideas ; yet the one stanza we admit as admirable, and the other as a fair example of the superlatively contemptible. Whence arises this difference? Not from the metre, not from the language, not from the order of the words ; but the matter expressed in Dr. Johnson's stanza is contemptible. The proper method of treating trivial and simple verses, to which Dr. Johnson's stanza would be a fair parallelism, is not to say. This is a bad kind of poetry, or. This is not poetry; but. This wants' sense ; it is neither interesting in itself, nor can lead to anything interesting ; the images neither originate in that sane state of feeling which arises out of thought, nor can excite thought or feeling in the Reader. This is the only sensible manner of dealing with such verses. Why trouble yourself about the species till you have previously decided upon the genus ? Why take pains to prove that an ape is not a Newton, when it is self-evident that he is not a man? WE ARE SEVEN A simple child. That lightly drav/s its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl : 5 She was eight years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl , That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad : 10 Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; — Her beauty made me glad. " Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?'' "How many? Seven in all," she said, 15 And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. 20 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY 383 "Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother ; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, 25 And two are gone to sea. Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell. Sweet maid, how this may be." Then did the little maid reply, " Seven boys and girls are we ; 30 Two of us in the church-yard lie. Beneath the church-yard tree." "You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they are alive ; If two are in the church-yard laid, 35 Then ye are only five." " Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side bj^ side. 40 "jVIy stockings there I often knit, ]\Iy kerchief there I hem ; And there upon the ground I sit. And sing a song to them. "And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my Uttle porringer. And eat my supper there. "The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain ; And then she went away. "So in the church-yard she was laid ; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. 45 50 55 "And when the ground was white with snow. And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go. And he lies by her side." 60 "How many are you, then," said I. "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little maid's reply, "O master! we are seven." "But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 65 Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away ; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!" EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY "Why, William, on that old grey stone, Thus for the length of half a day. Why, WiUiam, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away ? "Where are your books? — that light be- queathed 5 To beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind. "You look round on your Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you ; As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you!" One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake. When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15 And thus I made reply : "The eye — it cannot choose but see ; We cannot bid the ear be still ; Our bodies feel, where'er they be. Against or with our will. "Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress ; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 25 Of things forever speaking, That nothing of itself will come. But we must still be seeking ? " — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone. Conversing as I may, 30 I sit upon this old grey stone. And dream my time away." 384 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE TABLES TURNED AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT Up! up! my friend, and quit your books ; Or surely you'll grow double : Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble ? The sun, above the mountain's head, 5 A freshening lustre mellow Through aU the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, 10 How sweet his music ! on my life There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher : Come forth into the light of things, 15 Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless — Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20 One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; 25 Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things : — We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art ; Close up those barren leaves ; 30 Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON RI^ VISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR JULY 13, 1798 Five years have past ; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain- springs With a soft inland murmur. — Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 5 That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard- tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms, 16 Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some imcertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20 Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire The hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 25 Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; And passing even into my purer mind. With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 30 Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life. His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 3 5 To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery. In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, 40 Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood In which the affections gently lead us on, — Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 45 In body, and become a living soul : While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft — 50 In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir TINTERN ABBEY 385 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 55 sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought. With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60 The picture of the mind revives again : While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, 65 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 1 came among these hills ; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led : more like a man 70 Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 75 What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock. The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. Their colours and "their forms, were then to me An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 80 That had no need of a remoter charm, B^ thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past. And all its aching joys are now no more, x\nd all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 85 Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur ; other gifts Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe. Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, 91 Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime, 95 Of something far more deeply interfused. Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. And the round ocean and the living air. And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; A motion and a spirit, that impels 100 All thinking things, all objects of all thought. And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods. And mountains ; and of all that we behold From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 105 Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create, And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense. The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, in If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay : For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river ; thou my dearest friend, My dear, dear friend; and in thy voice I catch 116 The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, 120 My dear, dear sister! and this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy : for she can so inform 125 The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, 131 Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; 135 And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee : and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then. If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 14S And these my exhortations! Nor, per- chance — • If I should be where I no more can hear 386 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence — wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together ; and that I, so long 151 A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service : rather say With warmer love — oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wUt thou then forget, 155 That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! LUCY She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love : A violet by a mossy stone S Half hidden from the eye ! — Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; 10 But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! "The floating clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend ; 20 Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form .By silent sympathy. "The stars of midnight shall be dear 25 To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round. And beauty born of murmuring sound ShaU pass into her face. 30 "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live 35 Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake — the work was done — How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She difed, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; 40 The memory of what has been. And never more will be. A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL THREE YEARS SHE GREW Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown ; This child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine, and I will make 5 A lady of my own. "Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse : and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 10 Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. " She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn, Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. 15 A slumber did my spirit seal ; I had no human fears ; She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force ; She neither hears nor sees ; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees. LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew, She dwelt on a wide moor, — The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! THE RECLUSE 387 You yet may spy the fawn at play The hare upon the green ; 10 But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. "To-night will be a stormy night — You to the town must go ; And take a lantern, child, to light 15 Your mother through the snow." '•That, Father ! will I gladly do : 'Tis scarcely afternoon — The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon I " 20 At this the father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band ; He plied his work ; — and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe : 25 With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time : She wandered up and down ; 30 And many a hUl did Lucy climb : But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shoutmg far and wide ; But there was neither sound nor sight 35 To serve them for a guide. At daybreak on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor ; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. 40 They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, "Li heaven we all shaU meet ;" — When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small ; 46 And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall ; And then an open field they crossed : The marks were stUl the same ; They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; And to the bridge they came. 50 They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Lito the middle of the plank ; 55 And further there were none! — Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child ; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wUd. 60 O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind ; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. THE RECLUSE From BOOK I On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I pft perceive Fair trains of imagery before me rise, x\ccompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no vmpleasing sadness mixed ; 5 And I am conscious of affecting thoughts And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes Or elevates the mind, intent to weigh The good and evU of our mortal state. 9 — To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, WTiether from breath of outward circumstance, Or from the soul — an impulse to herself — I would give utterance in numerous^ verse. Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope, And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ; 15 Of blessed consolations in distress; Of moral strength, and intellectual power; Of joy in widest commonalty spread ; Of the individual mmd that keeps her own Liviolate retirement, subject there 20 To conscience only, and the law supreme Of that Intelligence which governs all — I sing: — "fit audience let me find though few! "2 So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the bard — • In holiest mood. Urania,^ I shaU need 25 Thy guidance, or a greater muse, if such Descend to earth or dweU in highest heaven ! For I must tread on shado\\y ground, must sink ^ melodious - Quoted from Milton. ^ Cf. note on Shelley's Adonais, 1. 12 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Deep — and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 2g To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. All strength — ■ all terror, single or in bands, That ever was put forth in personal form — Jehovah — with his thunder, and the choir Of shouting angels, and the empyreal thrones — I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not 35 The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out By help of dreams — can breed such fear and awe As falls upon us often when we look Into our minds, into the mind of Man — ■ 40 My haunt, and the main region of my song. — Beauty — a living Presence of the earth, Surpassing the most fair ideal forms Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed From earth's materials — waits upon my steps ; 45 Pitches her tents before me as I move, An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves Elysian, Fortunate Fields — like those of old Sought in the Atlantic Main — why should they be A history only of departed things, 50 Or a mere fiction of what never was? For the discerning intellect of Man, When wedded to this goodly universe In love and holy passion, shall find these A simple produce of the common day. 55 — I, long before the blissful hour arrives, Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse Of this great consummation : — and, by words Which speak of nothing more than what we are, Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 60 Of death, and win the vacant and the vain To noble raptures ; while my voice proclaims How exquisitely the individual mind (And the progressive powers perhaps no less Of the whole species) to the external world 65 Is fitted : — and how exquisitely, too — Theme this but little heard of among men — The external world is fitted to the mind ; And the creation (by no lower name Can it be called) which they with blended might 70 Accomplish : — this is our high argument.' — Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft Must turn elsewhere — to travel near the tribes ' great subject And fellowships of men, and see ill sights Of madding passions mutually inflamed ; 75 Must hear Humanity in fields and groves Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang Brooding above the fierce confederate storm Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore Within the walls of cities — may these sounds Have their authentic comment ; that even these 81 Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ! — Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspir'st The human Soul of universal earth, Dreaming on things to come ; and dost possess 85 A metropolitan temple in the hearts Of mighty poets ; upon me bestow A gift of genuine insight ; that my song With star-like virtue in its place may shine, Shedding benignant influence, and secure 90 Itself from all mialevolent effect Of those mutations that extend their sway Throughout the nether sphere! — And if with this I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 95 Contemplating ; and who, and what he was — The transitory being that beheld This vision ; — when and where, and how he lived ; Be not this labour useless. If such theme May sort with highest objects, then — dread Power ! 100 Whose gracious favour is the primal source Of all illumination ■^- may my life Express the image of a better time, More wise desires, and simpler manners ; — nurse IMy heart in genuine freedom : — all pure thoughts 105 Be with me ; — so shall thy unfailing love Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end ! TO THE CUCKOO blithe New-comer! I have heard, 1 hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall 1 call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice ? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout 1 hear. From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 389 Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, 10 Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, 15 A voice, a mystery ; The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to ; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. 20 To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green ; And thou wert still a hope, a love ; StiU longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet ; 25 Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace Again appears to be 30 An unsubstantial faery place, That is fit home for thee! MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow m the sky : So was it when my life began ; So is it now I am a man ; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The ChUd is father of the I\Ian ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. THE SOLITARY REAPER Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself ; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain And sings a melancholy strain ; O listen ! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands 10 Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands : A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird Breaking the silence of the seas 15 Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings ? — Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago : 20 Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day ? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again ? Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 25 As if her song could have no ending ; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending ; — I listened, motionless and still ; And, as I mounted up the hill 30 The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight ; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament ; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 5 Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; A dancing shape, an image gay. To haunt, to startle, and way -lay. 10 I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty ; A countenance in which did meet 15 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and srmles. And now I see with eye serene 21 The very pulse of the machine ; A being breathing thoughtful breath, 390 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH A traveller between life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will, 25 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; A perfect woman, nobly planned. To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light. 30 I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils ; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 5 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine A.nd twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line A.long the margin of a bay : 10 Ten thousand saw I at a glance. Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced ; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : A poet could not but be gay 15 In such a jocund company : I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought : For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, 20 They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude ; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. ODE TO DUTY Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! O Duty! if that name thou love . Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove ; Thou, who art victory and law 5 When empty terrors overawe ; From vain temptations dost set free ; And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity 1 There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 10 Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth : Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot Who do thy work, and know it not : Oh! if through confidence misplaced 15 They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast. Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. 20 And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold. Live in the spirit of this creed ; Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. I, loving freedom, and untried; 25 No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide. Too blindly have reposed my trust : And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred 30 The task, in smoother walks to stray ; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. Through no disturbance of m}' soul. Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control ; 35 But in the quietness of thought : Me this unchartered freedom tires ; I feel the weight of chance-desires : My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. 40 Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace ; Nor know we anj'thing so fair As is the smile upon thy face : Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 45 And fragrance in thy footing treads ; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee : I myself commend 50 Unto thy guidance from this hour ; Oh, let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice ; The confidence of reason give ; 55 And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live! INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 391 PERSON.\L T.\LK I I am not one who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk, — Of friends, who live within an easy walk. Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight : And, for ^ my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, _ _ 5 Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, These all wear out of me, Uke forms, with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast- night. Better than such discourse doth silence long. Long, barren silence, square with my desire ; 10 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim. In the loved presence of my cottage fire, And listen to the flapping of the flame. Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. II " Yet life," you say, " is life ; w^e have seen and see, 15 And with a living pleasure we describe ; And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe The languid mind into activity. Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee Are fostered by the comment and the gibe." 20 Even be it so ; yet still among your tribe. Our daily world's true worldings, rank not me! Children are blest, and powerful ; their world lies More justly balanced; partly at their feet. And part far from them : sweetest melodies 25 Are those that are by distance made more sweet ; • Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes. He is a slave ; the meanest we can meet ! Ill Wings have we, — and as far as we can go, We may lind pleasure : wilderness and wood, Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood Which with - the lofty sanctifies the low. 32 Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know. Are a substantial world, both pure and good : ^ as for - by means of Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, 35 Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, Matter wherein right voluble I am, To which I listen with a ready ear ; Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, — The gentle Lady married to the Moor ; 41 And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. IV Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought, 45 Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joy- ous thought : And thus from day to day my little boat Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 50 Blessings be with them — and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays 1 Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 56 ODE INTniATIONS OF IMINIORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD There was a time when meadow, grove and stream, The earth, and ever>^ common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light. The glory and the freshness of a dream. 5 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — Turn wheresoe'er I may. By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. II The Rainbow comes and goes, 10 And lovely is the Rose ; The Moon doth with delight 392 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Look round her when the heavens are bare ; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; 15 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath past away a glory from the earth. Ill Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound 20 As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief ; A timely utterance gave that thought relief. And I again am strong : 24 The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; I hear the echoes through the mountains throng. The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay : Land and sea 30 Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday ; — Thou child of joy. Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd-boy! 35 IV Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jXibilee : My heart is at your festival. My head hath its coronal, 40 The fullness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. Oh evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning, This sweet May-morning, And the children are culling 45 On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm — I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 50 — But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have looked upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone : The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat : 55 Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, 60 And Cometh from afar : Not in entire forget fulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home : 65 Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy. But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy ; 70 The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended ; At length the Man perceives it die away, 75 And fade into the light of common day. VI Earth fiUs her lap with pleasures of her own ; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, 80 The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. 84 VII Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. With light upon him from his father's eyes ! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 90 Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral ; And this hath now his heart,- 95 And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, 100 And with new joy and pride INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 393 The little Actor cons another part ; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 105 As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Mil Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity ; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep no Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep. Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — Mighty prophet ! Seer blest ! On whom those truths do rest, 115 \\Tiich we are toiling all our lives to find. In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; Thou, over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by ; 120 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. Why with such earnest pains dost thou pro- voke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 126 And custom lie upon thee with a weight. Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! DC O joy ! that in our embers Is something that doth live, 130 That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thought of ovu" past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction : not indeed 134 For that which is most worthy to be blest — Delight and Uberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. With new-fledged hope still fluttering b his breast : — Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; 140 But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings ; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, 145 High instincts before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : But for those first affections. Those shadowy recollections. Which, be they what they may, 150 Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 155 To perish never ; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeav- our, Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 160 Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be. Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea WTiich brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, 165 And see the Children sport upon the shore^ And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song I And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound ! 1 70 We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May ! What though the radiance which was once so bright 175 Be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; 180 In the primal sympathy WTiich having been must ever be ; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suft'ering ; 1S4 In the faith that looks through death. In years that bring the philosophic mind. XI And O ye Fountains, Meadows, HiUs, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves ! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 'I only have relinquished one delight 190 394 WILLIAM WOKDSWORTH To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooli which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped Kghtly as they ; The mnocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet ; 195 The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality: Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. TO A SKY-LARK Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? Of, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy groimd ? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 5 Those quivering wings composed, that music stiU! Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; A privacy of glorious light is thine ; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 10 Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! SONNETS ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENE- TIAN REPUBLIC Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee ; And was the safeguard of the west : the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest child of Liberty. She was a maiden city, bright and free ; 5 No guile seduced, no force could violate ; And, when she took unto herself a Mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 10 When her long life hath reached its final day : Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is passed away. TO TOUSSAINT L'OU\^RTURE Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men! Whether the whisthng rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now PUlowed in some deep dimgeon's earless den ; — miserable chieftain ! where and when 5 Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : Though fallen thyself, never to rise again. Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left be- hind Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies; 10 There's not a breathing of the common wind That wdll forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind. SEPTEMBER, 1802, NEAR DOVER Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; And saw, whUe sea was calm and air was clear, The coast of France — the coast of France how near ! Drawn almost into frightful neighbo'urhood. 1 shrunk ; for verily the barrier flood 5 Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! What mightiness for evil and for good ! Even so doth God protect us if we be Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, 10 Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity ; Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul Only, the nations shaU be great and free. THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND Two voices are there ; one is of the sea. One of the mountains ; each a mighty voice : In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! There came a tyrant, and with holy glee s Thou fought 'st against him ; but hast vainly striven : Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, SONNETS 395 \\Tiere not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left ; lo For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be That mountain floods should thunder as before, And ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful voice be heard by thee. LONDON, 1802 Milton ! thou should'st be li\'ing at this hour : England hath need of thee : she is a fen Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen. Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient Enghsh dower 5 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; And give us manners, wtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 10 Pui'e as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on Ufa's common way, In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. COMPOSED UPON wt:stminster BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802 Earth has not anything to show more fair : Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty : This Cit}' now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the mornmg ; silent, bare, 5 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples he Open imto the fields, and to the sky ; All bright and glittering m the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hUl; 10 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! The river ghdeth at his ovm sweet will : Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; And all that mighty heart is lying still ! ON THE SEA-SHORE NEAR C.\LAIS It is a beauteous evening, calm and free. The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea : 5 Listen ! the mighty Being is awake. And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder — everlastingly. Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here. If thou appear untouched by solemn thought j Thy nature is not therefore less di\dne : u Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; And worship'st at the temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US The world is too much with us : late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay w^aste our powers : Little we see in Nature that is 'ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 5 The winds that wiU be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 10 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. TO SLEEP A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, wmds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky: I have thought of all by turns, and yet do he 5 Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melodies IMust hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay. And could not win thee. Sleep ! by any stealth : So do not let me wear to-night away : 1 1 Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! 396 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE ri\t:r DUDDON IV I thought of thee, my partner and my guide, As being past away. — Vain sympathies ! For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes, I see what was, and is, and will abide ; Still glides the Stream, and shall forever glide ; The Form remains, the Function never dies ; 6 While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, We Men, who in our morn of youth defied The elements, must vanish;^ — be it so! Enough, if something from our hands have power lo To live, and act, and serve the future hour ; And if, as toward the silent tomb we go. Through love, through hope, and faith's tran- scendent dower. We feel that we are greater than we know. MOST SWEET IT IS Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path be there or none, While a fair region round the traveller lies Which he forbears again to look upon ; Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, 5 The work of Fancy, or some happy tone Of meditation, slipping in between The beauty coming and the beauty gone. If Thought and Love desert us, from that day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse : With Thought and Love companions of our way, II Whate'er the senses take or may refuse. The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews Of inspiration on the humblest lay. SCORN NOT THE SONNET Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours ; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart : the melody Of this small lute gave case to Petrarch's wound ; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 5 With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief ; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery- land 10 To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he blew Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (1772-1834) BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA CHAP. XIV During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth and I were neighbours, our conversations turned frequently on the two cardinal points of poetry, the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and the power of giving the interest of novelty by the modifying colours of imagination. The sudden charm, which accidents of light and shade, which moonlight or sunset, diffused over a known and familiar landscape, appeared to represent the prac- ticability of combining both. These are the poetry of nature. The thought sug- gested itself (to which of us I do not recollect) that a series of poems might be composed of two sorts. In the one, the incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, super- natural ; and the excellence aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions as would naturally accompany such situations, suppos- ing them real. And real in this sense they have been to every human being who, from whatever source of delusion, has at any time believed himself under supernatural agency. For the second class, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary Ufe ; the characters and incidents were to be such as will be found in every village and its vicinity where there is a meditative and feeling mind to seek after them, or to notice them when they present themselves. In this idea originated the plan of the "Lyrical Ballads"; in which it was agreed that my endeavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA 397 least romantic ; yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a sem- blance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspen- sion of disbelief for the moment, which con- stitutes poetic faith. Mr. Wordsworth, on the other hand, was to propose to himself as his object, to give the charm of novelty to things of every day, and to excite a feeling analogous to the supernatural, by awakening the mind's attention from the lethargy of custom, and directing it to the loveliness and the wonders of the world before us ; an inex- haustible treasure, but for which, in con- sequence of the film of familiarity and seliish solicitude, we have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither feel nor understand. With this view I wTote the "Ancient Mari- ner," and was preparing, among other poems, the "Dark Ladie," arid the " Christabel," in which I should have more nearly realised my ideal than I had done in my first attempt. But Mr. Wordsworth's industry had proved so much more successful, and the number of his poems so much greater, that my com- positions, instead of forming a balance, ap- peared rather an interpolation of heterogene- ous matter. Mr. Wordsworth added two or three poems v.ritten in his own character, in the impassioned, lofty, and sustained diction which is characteristic of his genius. In this foim the "Lyrical Ballads" were published; and were presented by him, as an experiment, whether subjects, which from their nature rejected the usual ornaments and extra- colloquial style of poems in general, might not be so managed in the language of ordinary life as to produce the pleasurable interest which it is the pecuUar business of poetry to impart. To the second edition he added a preface of considerable length ; in which, notwithstanding some passages of apparently a contrar}^ import, he was understood to contend for the extension of this style to poetry of all kinds, and to reject as vicious and indefensible all phrases and forms of style that were not included in what he (unfortunately, I think, adopting an equivocal expression) called the language of real life. From this preface, prefixed to poems in which it was impossible to deny the presence of orig- inal genius, how^ever mistaken its direction might be deemed, arose the whole long-con- tinued controversy. For from the conjunc- tion of perceived power with supposed heresy I explain the inveteracy, and in some in- stances, I grieve to say, the acrimonious passions, with which the controversy has been conducted by the assailants. Had !Mr. Wordsworth's poems been the silly, the childish things which they were for a long time described as being ; had they been really distinguished from the compositions of other poets merely by meanness of language and inanity of thought ; had they indeed con- tained nothing more than what is found in the parodies and pretended imitations of them ; they must have sunk at once, a dead weight, into the slough of obhvion, and have dragged the preface along with them. But year after year increased the number of JVIr. Words- worth's admirers. They were fotmd, too, not in the lower classes of the reading pubhc, but chiefly among young men of strong sensi- bility and meditative minds ; and their ad- miration (inflamed perhaps in some degree by opposition) was distinguished by its in- tensity, I might almost say, by its religious ferv^our. These facts, and the intellectual energy of the author, which was more or less consciously felt, where it was outwardly and even boisterously denied, meeting with sen- timents of aversion to his opinions, and of alarm at their consequences, produced an eddy of criticism, which would of itself have borne up the poems by the violence with w'hich it whirled them round and round. With many parts of this preface, in the sense attributed to them, and which the words un- doubtedly seem to authorise, I never con- curred; but, on the contrary, objected to them as erroneous in principle, and as con- tradictory (in appearance at least) both to other parts of the same preface and to the author's own practice in the greater number of the poems themselves. jMr. Wordsworth, in his recent collection, has, I find, degraded this prefatory disquisition to the end of his sec- ond volume, to be read or not at the reader's choice. But he has not, as far as I can dis- cover, announced any change in his poetic creed. At all events, considering it as the source of a controversy, in which I have been honoured more than I deserve by the fre- quent conjunction of my name with his, I think it expedient to declare, once for all, in what points I coincide wdth his opinions, and in what points I altogether differ. But in order to render myself intelligible, I must 398 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE previously, in as few words as possible, explain my ideas, first, of a poem ; and secondly, of poetry itself, in kind and in essence. The oftice of philosophical disquisition con- sists in just distinction ; while it is the privi- lege of the philosopher to preserve himself constantly aware that distinction is not division. In order to obtain adequate notions of any truth, we must intellectually separate its distinguishable parts ; and this is the technical process of philosophy. But having so done, we must then restore them in our conceptions to the unity in which they actually coexist ; and this is the result of philosophy. A poem contains the same elements as a prose composition ; the difference, therefore, must consist in a different combination of them, in consequence of a different object proposed. According to the difference of the object will be the difference of the com- bination. It is possible that the object may be merely to facilitate the recollection of any given facts or observations by artificial arrangement ; and the composition will be a poem, merely because it is distinguished from prose by metre, or by rhyme, or by both conjointly. In this, the lowest sense, a man might attribute the name of a poem to the well-known enumeration of the days in the several months : "Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November," etc. and others of the same class and purpose. And as a particular pleasure is found in an- ticipating the recurrence of sound and quanti- ties, aU compositions that have this charm su- peradded, whatever be their contents, may be entitled poems. So much for the superficial form. A differ- ence of object and contents supplies an addi- tional ground of distinction. The immediate purpose may be the communication of truths : either of truth absolute and demonstrable, as in works of science; or of facts experienced and recorded, as in history. Pleasure, and that of the highest and most permanent kind, may result from the attainment of the end; but it is not itself the immediate end. In other works the commimication of pleasure may be the immediate purpose ; and though truth, either moral or intellectual, ought to be the ultimate end, yet this will distinguish the character of the author, not the class to which the work belongs. Blest indeed is that state of society, in which the immediate purpose would, be baiSed by the perversion of the proper ultimate end ; in which no charm of diction or imagery coidd exempt the Bathyllus even of an Anacreon, or the Alexis of Virgil, from disgust and aversion! But the communication of pleasure may be the immediate object of a work not metrically composed ; and that object may have been in a high degree attained, as in novels and romances. Would then the mere superaddi- tion of metre, with or without rhyme, entitle these to the name of poems? The answer is, that nothing can permanently please, which does not contain in itself the reason Avhy it is so, and not otherwise. If metre be superadded, all other parts must be made consonant with it. They must be such as to justify the perpetual and distinct attention to each part, which an exact correspondent recurrence of accent and sound are calculated to excite. The final definition then, so deduced, may be thus worded. A poem is that species of com- position, which is opposed to works of science, by proposing for its immediate object pleasure, not truth ; and from all other species (having this object in common with it) it is discrimi- nated by proposing to itself such delight from the whole, as is compatible with a distinct gratification from each component part. Controversy is not seldom excited in conse- quence of the disputants attaching each a different meaning to the same word ; and in few instances has this been more striking than in disputes concerning the present subject. If a man chooses to call every composition a poem, which is rhyme, or measure, or both, I must leave his opinion un controverted. The distinction is at least competent to characterise the writer's inten- tion. If it were subjoined, that the whole is likewise entertaining or affecting as a tale, or as a series of interesting reflections, I of course admit this as another fit ingredient of a poem, and an additional merit. But if the definition sought for be that of a legitimate poem, I answer, it must be one the parts of which mutually support and explain each other; all in their proportion harmo- nising with, and supporting the purpose and known influences of metrical arrangement. The philosophic critics of all ages coincide with the ultimate judgment of all countries, in eqvially denying the praises of a just poem, BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA 399 on the one hand to a series of striking lines or distichs, each of which absorbing the whole attention of the reader to itseh", disjoins it from its context, and makes it a separate whole, instead of a harmonising part ; and on the other hand, to an unsustained com- position, from which the reader collects rapidly the general result imattracted by the component parts. The reader should be carried forvrard, not merely or chieliy by the mechanical impulse of ciuiosity, or by a rest- less desire to arrive at the final solution ; but by the pleasurable acti\dty of mind excited by the attractions of the journey itself. Like the motion of a serpent, wliich the Egyptians made the emblem of mtellectual power ; or like the path of sound through the air, at ever\' step he pauses and half recedes, and from the retrogressive movement collects the force which again carries him onward, Prac- cipUandus est liber spirltus,^ says Petronius Arbiter most happily. The epithet, liber, here balances the preceding verb : and it is not easy to conceive more meaning condensed in fewer words. But if this should be admitted as a satisfac- tory character of a poem, we have still to seek for a definition of poetry. The writings of Plato, and Bishop Taylor, and the Thcoria Sacra of Burnet, furnish undeniable proofs that poetry of the highest kind may exist with- out metre, and even without the contra-dis- tinguishing objects of a poem. The first chapter of Isaiah (indeed a very large propor- tion of the whole book) is poetry in the most emphatic sense ; yet it would be not less irrational than strange to assert, that pleasure, and not truth, was the immediate object of the prophet. In short, whatever specific import we attach to the word poetry, there will be found involved in it, as a necessary conse- quence, that a poem of any length neither can be, nor ought to be, all poetry. Yet if a harmonious whole is to be produced, the re- maining parts must be preserved in keeping with the poetry ; and this can be no otherwise effected than by such a studied selection and artificial arrangement as will partake of one, though not a peculiar, property of poetry. And this again can be no other than the property of exciting a more continuous and equal attention than the language of prose aims at, whether colloquial or written. My own conclusions on the nature of poetry, in the strictest use of the word, have been in part anticipated in the preceding disquisition on the fancy and imagination. What is poetry? is so nearly the same question with, what is a poet ? that the answer to the one is involved in the solution of the other. For it is a distinction resulting from the poetic genius itself, which sustains and modifies the images, thoughts, and emotions of the poet's own mind. The poet, described in ideal perfection, brings the whole soul of man into activity, wdth the subordination of its faculties to each other, according to their relative worth and dignity. He diffuses a tone and spirit of unity, that blends, and (as it were) fuses, each into each, by that synthetic and magical power, to which we have exclusively appro- priated the name of imagination. This power, first put in action by the will and understanding, and retained under their irremissive,^ though gentle and unnoticed, con- trol {laxis ejfertur habenis ~) reveals itself in the balance or reconciliation of opposite or discor- dant qualities : of sameness, with difference ; of the general, with the concrete ; the idea, with the image ; the individual, with the repre- sentative ; the sense of novelty and fresh- ness, with old and famihar objects : a more than usual state of emotion, with more than usual order ; judgment ever awake and steady self-possession, with enthusiasm and feeling profound or vehement ; • and while it blends and harmonises the natinral and the artificial, still subordinates art to nature ; the m.anner to the matter ; and our admiration of the poet to our sympathy with the poetry. KUBLA KHAN: OR, A \TSION IN A DREAAI A FRAGMENT In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree : Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea-. s So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round : And there were gardens bright with sinuous riUs, ^ The free spirit must be urged headlong. ^ unremitting ^ He is borne with loosened reins. 400 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree ; And here were forests ancient as the hills, lo Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! A savage place ! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 15 By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil . seething. As if this earth in fast tliick pants were breath- ing, A mighty fountain momently was forced : Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 30 The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves ; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 35 A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw : It was an Abyssinian maid. And on her dulcimer she play'd, 40 Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, 45 I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! ' And all who heard shoidd see them there, — And all should cry. Beware! Beware! — His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 50 Weave a circle round him thrice. And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed. And drunk the milk of Paradise THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER An ancient Mariner meeteth three gallants bid- den to a wed- ding-feast, and detaineth The wedding- guest is spell- bound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and con- strained to hear his tale. IN SEVEN PARTS Part I It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. "By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? The bridegroom's doors are open'd wide, And I am next of kin ; The guests are met, the feast is set : May'st hear the merry din." He holds him with his skinny hand, "There was a ship," quoth he. "Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard loon !" Eftsoons his hand dropt he. He holds him with his glittering eye — The wedding-guest stood still , And listens like a three years' child : The Mariner hath his will. The wedding-guest sat on a stone : He cannot choose but hear ; IS THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 401 And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. "The ship was cheer 'd, the harbour clear'd, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the Ughthouse top. The sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he ! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. Higher and higher every day, TUl over the mast at noon — " The wedding-guest here beat his breast. For he heard the loud bassoon. 25 30 The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the Line. Tlie bride hath paced into the hall. Red as a rose is she ; Nodding their heads before her goes 35 The merry minstrelsy. The wedding-guest he beat his breast. Yet he cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. 40 The wedding- guest heareth the bridal music ; but the Mariner con- tinueth his tale. "And now the storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong : He struck with his o'ertaking wings. And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dipping prow, 45 As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe. And forward bends his head. The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast, And southward aye we fled. 50 The ship drawn by a storm toward the south pole. And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold ; And ice, mast -high, came floating by. As green as emerald ; And through the drifts the snowy clifts 55 Did send a dismal sheen : Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — The ice was all between. The ice was here, the ice was there. The ice was all around : 60 It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd, Like noises in a swound ! The land of ice, and of fearful soxmds, where no living thing was to be seen. 402 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality. At length did cross an Albatross: Thorough the fog it came : As if it had been a Christian soul, We haU'd it in God's name. It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; The helmsman steer'd us through ! 6S 70 And lo ! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward, through fog and floating ice. And a good south wind sprung up behind ; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play Came to the mariners' hoUo ! In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud. It perch 'd for vespers nine ; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmer'd the white moon-shine." 75 The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen. "God save thee, ancient Mariner ! From the iiends, that plague thee thus ! — 80 Why look'st thou so?" — "With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross ! Part II "The sun now rose upon the right; Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. 85 And the good south wind stiU blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow. Nor any day, for food or play, Came to the mariners' hoUo ! go His shipmates cry out against the ancient IVfariner, for killing the bird of good luck. But when the fog cleared off, they jus- tify the same, and thus make them- selves accom- plices in the crime. And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe ; For all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay That made the breeze to blow ! Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious sun uprist : ' Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. 95 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 403 The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow follow'd free : We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be ; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea ! All in a hot and copper sky, The blood}^ sun, at noon. Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the moon. los The fair breeze con- tinues ; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails north- ward, even till it reaches the Line. The ship hath been suddenly becalmed. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. "5 Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink ; Water, water, every wheref, Nor any drop to drink. And the Albatross begins to be avenged. The very deep did rot : Christ ! That ever this should be ! Yea, shmy things did crawl with legs Upon the, slimy sea. 125 About, about, in reel and rout. The death-fires danced at night ; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue and white. 130 And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so : Nine fathom deep he had follow'd us, From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter drought, 135 Was wither'd at the root ; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or A spirit had followed them ; one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither de- parted souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic They are very more. Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks Had I from old and young ! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. 140 the ancient Mariner: his neck. The shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round 404 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE Part III The ancient Mariner be- holdeth a sign in the element afar off. At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst. A flash of joy ; "There pass'd a weary time. Each throat Was parch'd, and glazed each eye. A weary time ! A weary time ! 145 How glazed each weary eye ! When looking westward I beheld A something in the sky. At first it seem'd a little speck, And then it seem'd a mist : 150 It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist.^ A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! And still it near'd and near'd : As if it dodged a water-sprite, 155 It plunged and tack'd and veer'd. With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail ; Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood, 160 And cried, A sail ! a sail ! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call : Gramercy ! ^ they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, 165 As ^ they were drinking all. And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes onward without wind or tide? ' See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! Hither, to work us weal. Without a breeze, without a tide. She steadies with upright keel ! ' The western wave was all a-fiame : The day was well nigh done : Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright sun ; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the sun. 170 175 It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship. And straight the sun was fleck'd with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) As if through a dungeon grate he peer'd. With broad and burning face. Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears ! Are those her sails that glance in the sun, Like restless gossameres ? '' 180 ^ I perceived ^ Many thanks ! the air in clear weather •* as if ^ fine cobwebs that float in THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 405 195 Are those her ribs through which the sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew ? Is that a Death ? and are there two ? Is Death that woman's mate? Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold : Her skin was as white as leprosy, The night-mare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. The naked hulk alongside came. And the twain were casting dice ; 'The game is done I I've, I've won !' Quoth she, and whistles thrice. The sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out : At one stride comes the dark ; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark. We listen'd and look'd sideways up ! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seem'd to sip ! The stars were dim, and thick the night. The steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd white; From the sails the dew did drip — TiU clomb above the eastern bar The horned moon, with one bright star 21 Within the nether tip. 185 And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting sun. The spectre- woman and her death- 190 mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship. Like vessel, like crew ! 205 Death, and Life-in-Death, have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner. No twilight within the courts of the At the rising of the moon. One after one, by the star-dogg'd moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. 215 One after another. Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. They dropp'd down one by one. His shipmates drop down dead. The souls did from their bodies fly. They fled to bliss or woe ! And every soul, it pass'd me by. Like the whizz of my cross-bow I" But Life-in- Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner. Part IV "I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! I fear thy skinny hand ! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribb'd sea-sand. 225 The wedding- guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him. 4td6 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE But the an- cient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and pro- ceedeth to relate his horrible penance. He despiseth the creatures of the calm, And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead. But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men. In his loneli ness and txedness he yearneth towards the I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown." — "Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest ! 230 This body dropt not down. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My sold in agony. 235 The many men, so beautiful ! And they all dead did lie : And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on ; and so did I. I look'd upon the rotting sea, 240 And drew my eyes awaj' ; I look'd upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. I look'd to Heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, 245 A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat ; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, Lay like a load on my weary eye, 251 And the dead were at my feet. The cold sweat melted from their limbs. Nor rot nor reek" did they : The look with which they look'd on me 255 Had never pass'd away. An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high ; But oh ! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 260 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die. journeying moon, and the The moving moon went up the sky, And no where did abide : Softly she was going up, 265 And a star or two beside — stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward ; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country, and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. Her beams bemock'd the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread ; But where the ship's" huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt alway 270 A still and awful red. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 407 Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watch'd the water-snakes : They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they rear'd, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. 275 By the light of the moon he beholdeth God's crea- tures of the great calm. Within the shadow of the ship I watch'd their rich attire : Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. They coil'd and swam ; and every track Was a flash of golden lire. 280 O happy living things ! no tongue Their beauty might declare : A spring of love gush'd from my heart, And I bless'd them unaware ! Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I bless'd them unaware. 285 Their beauty and their happiness. He blesseth them in his heart. The selfsame moment I could pray ; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. 290 The spell begins to break. Part V "Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, Belov'd from pole to pole ! To Mary Queen the praise be given ! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 295 That slid into my soul. The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remain'd, I dreamt that they were fiU'd with dew ; And when I awoke, it rain'd. 300 My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments aU were dank ; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 305 I was so light — almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost. By grace of the holy Motheir, the ancient Mar- iner is re- freshed with rain. And soon I heard a roaring wind : It did not come anear ; But with its sound it shook the sails. That were so thin and sere.^ idry 310 He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element. 4o8 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE The bodies of the ship's crew are in- spirited, and the ship moves on ; But not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or mid- dle air, but by a blessed troop of an- gelic spirits, sent down by the invoca- tion of the guardian saint. The upper air burst into life ! And a hundred fire-flags sheen/ To and fro they were hurried about ; And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. 31S And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge ; And the rain pour'd down from one black cloud ; The moon was at its edge. 321 The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The moon was at its side : Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide. 325 330 The loud wind never reach 'd the ship, Yet now the ship moved on ! Beneath the lightning and the moon The dead men gave a groan. They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise. The helmsman steer'd, the ship moved on ; Yet never a breeze up-blew ; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do : They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — We were a ghastly crew. The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee : The body and I puU'd at one rope, But he said nought to me." "I fear thee, ancient Mariner !" "Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain. Which to their corses came again. But a troop of spirits blest : For when it dawn'd — they dropp'd their arms, And cluster'd round the mast; 351 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths. And from their bodies pass'd. 335 340 345 Around, around, flew each sweet sound. Then darted to the sun ; Slowly the sounds come back again. Now mix'd, now one by one. 355 beautiful THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 409 Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the skylark sing ; Sometimes all little birds that are, 360 How they seem'd to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning ! And now 'twas like aU instruments, Now like a lonely flute ; And now it is an angel's song, 365 That makes the heavens be mute. It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, 370 That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. Till noon we quietly sail'd on, Yet never a breeze did breathe : Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 375 Moved onward from beneath. Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid ; and it was he That made the ship to go. 380 The sails at noon left of? their tune. And the ship stood still also. The sun, right up above the mast. Had fix'd her to the ocean ; But in a minute she 'gan stir, 385 With a short uneasy motion — Backwards and forwards half her length, With a short uneasy motion. Then like a pawing horse let go. She made a sudden bound : 390 It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound. How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare ; But ere my living life return'd, 395 I heard, and in my soul discern 'd Two voices in the air. ' Is it he ? ' quoth one, ' is this the man ? By Him who died on cross. With his cruel bow he laid fuU low 400 The harmless Albatross. ' The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, The lonesome spirit from the south- pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obe- dience to the angelic troop, but still re- quireth ven- geance. The Polar Spirit' s fel- low demons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who re- turneth south- ward. 4IO SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.' The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew : Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done, And penance more will do.' 405 Part VI First Voice 'But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 410 Thy soft response renewing — What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the ocean doing ? ' Second Voice ' Still as a slave before his lord, The ocean hath no blast ; 415 His great bright eye most silently Up to the moon is cast — If he may know which way to go ; For she guides him, smooth or grim. See, brother, see ! how graciously 420 She looketh down on him.' The Mariner hath been cast into a trance ; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive north- ward, faster than human life could en- dure. First Voice 'But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind ? ' Second Voice 'The air is cut away before, And closes from behind. Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! Or we shall be belated : For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 42s The super- natural mo- tion is retarded ; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew. I woke, and we were sailing on, As in a gentle weather : 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ; The dead men stood together. All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter : All fix'd on me their stony eyes. That in the moon did glitter. The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never pass'd away : I could not draw my eyes from theirs. Nor turn them up to pray. 430 435 440 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 411 And now this spell was snapt : once more I view'd the ocean green, And look'd far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen — 443 Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turn'd round, walks on, And turns no more his head ; Because he knows a frightful fiend 450 Doth close behind him tread. But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made : Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade. 45S It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring — It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt Uke a welcoming. Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 460 Yet she sail'd softly too : Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — On me alone it blew. Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed The lighthouse top I see? 465 Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? Is this mine own countree ? We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray — ' O let me be awake, my God ! 470 Or let me sleep alway.' The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn ! And on the bay the moonlight lay. And the shadow of the moon. 475 The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock: The moonlight steep 'd in silentness The steady weathercock. And the bay was white with silent light, 480 Till rising from the same, FuU many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came. The curse is finally expiated, And the an- cient Mariner beholdeth his native country. The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were : I turn'd my eyes upon the deck — Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! 48s .\nd appear in their own forms of light. 412 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood ! A man all light, a seraph-man, 490 On every corse there stood. This seraph-band, each waved his hand : It was a heavenly sight ! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light : 495 This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart — No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank Like music on my heart. But soon I heard the dash of oars, 500 I heard the pilot's cheer ; My head was turn'd perforce away, And I saw a boat appear. The pilot, and the pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast : 505 Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy The dead men could not blast. I saw a third — I heard his voice : It is the Hermit good ! He singeth loud his godly hymns 510 That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. The Hermit of the Wood Approacheth the ship with wonder. Part VH "This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. - 515 How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far count ree. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — He hath a cushion plump : 520 It is the moss that whoUy hides The rotted old oak-stump. The skiflf-boat near'd : I heard them talk, ' Why, this is strange, I trow ! Where are those hghts so many and fair, 525 That signal made but now ? ' ' Strange, by my faith ! ' the Hermit said — 'And they answer'd not our cheer ! The planks look warp'd ! and see those sails. How thin they are and sere ! 530 I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 413 Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along : When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 535 And the owlet whoops to the wolf below That eats the she-wolf's young.' ' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — (The pilot made reply) I am a-fear'd' — 'Push on, push on !' 540 Said the Hermit cheerily. The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirr'd ; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. 545 Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread : It reach'd the ship, it split the bay ; The ship went down like lead. Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound, 550 WTaich sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drown 'd. My body lay afloat ; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the pUot's boat. 555 Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round ; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound. I moved my lips — the pilot shriek'd, 560 And fell down in a fit ; The holy Hermit raised his eyes. And pray'd where he did sit. I took the oars : the pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, 565 Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. 'Ha ! ha !' quoth he, 'full plain I see, The DevU knows how to row.' And now, all in my own countree, 570 I stood on the firm land ! The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat. And scarcely he could stand. *0 shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !' The Hermit cross'd his brow. 575 'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say — WTiat manner of man art thou ? ' Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd With a woeful agony, The ship sud- denlj' sinketh. The ancient Mariner is saved in the pilot's boat. The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him ; and the pen- ance of life falls on him. 414 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE And ever and anon through- out his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land; And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth. Which forced me to begin my tale : 580 And then it left me free. Since then at an uncertain hour, That agony returns ; And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns. 585 I pass, like night, from land to land: I have strange power of speech ; That rtioment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me : To him my tale I teach. 590 What loud uproar bursts from that door : The wedding-guests are there ; But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are : And hark the little vesper bell, 595 Which biddeth me to prayer ! O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea : So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be. 600 O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me. To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company ! — To walk together to the kirk, 605 And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay ! Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 610 To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small ; .615 For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all." The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone; and now the Wedding-Guest 620 Turn'd from the bridegroom's door. He went like one that hath been stunn'd, And is of sense forlorn : A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn. 625 CHRISTABEL 4IS CHRISTABEL From PART I 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, And the owls have awaken'd the crowing cock ; Tu-whit — Tu-whoo ! And hark, again ! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew. 5 Sir Leoline, the Baron rich. Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; From her kennel beneath the rock She maketh answer to the clock, g Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour ; Ever and aye, by shine and shower, Sixteen short howls, not over loud ; Some say, she sees mj^ lady's shroud. Is the night chilly and dark ? The night is chilly, but not dark. 15 The thin grey cloud is spread on high, It covers but not hides the sky. The moon is behind, and at the full ; And yet she looks both small and dull. The night is chill, the cloud is grey : 20 'Tis a month before the month of INIay, And the Spring comes slowly up this way. The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well. What makes her in the wood so late, 25 A furlong from the castle gate ? She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothed knight ; And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal of her lover that's far away. 30 She stole along, she nothing spoke, The sighs she heaved were soft and low. And naught was green upon the oak, But moss and rarest mistletoe : She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 35 And in silence prayeth she. The lady sprang up suddenly. The lovely lady, Christabel ! It moan'd as near as near can be, But what it is she cannot tell. — On the other side it seems to be, Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. The night is chill ; the forest bare ; Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ? There is not wind enough in the air 40 45 To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady's cheek — There is not wind enough to twirl The one red .leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, 50 Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 55 And stole to the other side of the oak. What sees she there? There she sees a damsel bright, Drest in a silken robe of white, That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 60 The neck that made that White robe wan. Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; Her blue-vein'd feet unsandal'd w-ere ; And wildly ghtter'd here and there The gems entangled in her hair. 65 I guess, 'twas frightful there to see A lady so richly clad as she — Beautiful exceedingly ! "Mar>- mother, save me now !" Said Christabel, "and who art thou?" 70 The lady strange made answer meet, And her voice was faint and sweet : — "Have pity on my sore distress, I scarce can speak for weariness : Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! " 75 Said Christabel, "How- camest thou here?" And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet Did thus pursue her answer meet : — "]\Iy sire is of a noble line, And my name is Geraldine : 80 Five warriors seized me yestermom, ]Me, even me, a maid forlorn : They choked my cries with force and fright, And tied me on a palfrey white. The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 85 And they rode furiously behind. They spurr'd amain, their steeds were white : And once we cross'd the shade of night. As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, I have no thought w-hat men they be ; Nor do I know how long it is (For I have lain entranced, I wis) Since one, the tallest of the five, Took me from the palfrey's back, A wear>^ woman, scarce alive. Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke : He placed me underneath this oak ; 90 95 4i6 FRANCIS JEFFREY He swore they would return with haste ; Whither they went I cannot tell — I thought I heard, some minutes past, Sounds as of a castle bell. Stretch forth thy hand," thus ended she, "And help a wretched maid to flee." ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843) THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE A well there is in the West country. And a clearer one never was seen ; There is not a wife in the West country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. 4 An oak and an elm tree stand beside, And behind does an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below. 8 A traveller came to the WeU of St. Keyne ; Joyfully he drew nigh, < For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky. 1 2 He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank. Under the willow-tree. 16 There came a man from the house hard by At the well to fill his pail, On the well-side he rested it. And he bade the stranger hail. 20 " Now art thou a bachelor, stranger? ' ' quoth he, " For an if thou hast a wife. The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life. 24 *'0r has thy good woman, if one thou hast Ever here in Cornwall been ? For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne." 28 "I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply ; "But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why." 32 "St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a tiriie Drank of this crystal well. And before the Angel summoned her She laid on the water a spell. 36 "If the Husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his Wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be Master for life. 40 "But if the Wife should drink of it first, God help the Husband then !" The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the waters again. 44 "You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the Cornish-man said. But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head. 48 "I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch. But i' faith, she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to Church." FRANCIS JEFFREY (1773-1850) "THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE" This, we think, has the merit of being the very worst poem we ever saw imprinted in a quarto volume; and though it was scarcely to be expected, we confess, that Mr. Words- worth, with all his ambition, should so soon have attained to that distinction, the wonder may perhaps be diminished when we state, that it seems to us to consist of a happy union of all the faults, without any of the beauties, which belong to his school of poetry. It is just such a work, in short, as some wicked enemy of that school might be supposed to have devised, on purpose to make it ridicu- lous ; and when we first took it up, we could not help suspecting that some iU-natured critic had actually taken this harsh method of instructing IVIr. Wordsworth, by example, in the nature of those errors, against which our precepts had been so often directed in vain. We had not gone far, however, till we felt intimately that nothing in the nature of a joke could be so insupportably dull ; — and that this must be the work of one who THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 417 earnestly believed it to be a pattern of pa- thetic simplicity, and gave it out as such to the admiration of all intelligent readers. In this point of view, the work may be regarded as curious at least, if not in some degree in- teresting ; and, at all events, it must be instructive to be made aware of the excesses into which superior understandings may be betrayed, by long self-indulgence, and the strange extravagances into which they may run, when under the influence of that intoxica- tion which is produced by vmrestrained ad- miration of themselves. This • poetical in- toxication, indeed, to pursue the figure a little farther, seems capable of assuming as many forms as the vulgar one which arises from wine; and it appears to require as delicate a management to make a man a good poet by the help of the one, as to make him a good companion by means of the other. In both cases a Uttle mistake as to the dose or the quality of the inspiring fluid may make him absolutely outrageous, or lull him over into the most profound stupidity, instead of brightening up the hidden stores of his genius: and truly we are concerned to say, that Mr. Wordsworth seems hitherto to have been unlucky in the choice of his liquor — or of his bottle-holder. In some of his odes and ethic exhortations, he was exposed to the pubhc in a state of incoherent rapture and glorious delirium, to which we think we have seen a parallel among the humbler lovers of jollity. In the Lyrical Bal- lads, he was exhibited, on the whole, in a vein of very pretty deliration ; but in the poem before us, he appears in a state of low and maudlin imbecUity, which would not have misbecome Master Silence^ himself, in the close of a social day. Whether this unhappy result is to be ascribed to any adulteration of his Castalian^ cups, or to the unlucky choice of his company over them, we cannot presume to say. It may be that he has dashed his Hippocrene ^ with too large an infusion of lake^ water, or assisted its operation too exclusively by the study of the ancient historical ballads of "the north countrie." That there are palpable imitations of the style and manner ^ Cf. Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part II. ^ from the Castalian fountain on Mt. Parnassus, sacred to the Muses ^ a fountain on Mt. Hehcon, sacred to the Muses * a jesting allusion to Wordsworth's residence in the Lake district of those venerable compositions in the work before us, is indeed undeniable; but it unfortunately happens, that while the hobbling versification, the mean diction, and flat stupidity of these models are very exactly copied,, and even improved upon, in this imitation, their rude energ>% manly simplicity, and occasional felicity of expres- sion, have totally disappeared; and, instead of them, a large allowance of the author's own metaphysical sensibility, and mystical wordiness, is forced into an unnatural com- bination with the borrowed beauties which have just been mentioned. SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832) THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL From C.\NT0 VI The Lay of Rosabelle O listen, listen, ladies gay ! No haughty feat of arms I tell ; Soft is the note, and sad the lay, That mourns the lovely Rosabelle ; 4 "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew ! And, gentle ladye, deign to stay, Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth ^ to-day. 8 "The blackening wave is edged with white: To inch 2 and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh. 1 2 "Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch : Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?" — 16 " 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 20 " 'Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, If 'tis not fiU'd by Rosabelle." — 24 ^ bay ^ island 4i8 SIR WALTER SCOTT O'er Roslin all that drear>' night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. 28 It glared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copse- wood glen ; 'Twas seen from Dry den's groves of oak. And seen from cavern'd Hawthomden. 32 Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, Where Roslin's chiefs uncofiin'd lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud. Sheathed in his iron panoply. 36 Seem'd aU on fire, within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale,^ Shone every pillar foliage-bound. And glimmer'd aU the dead men's mail. 40 Blazed battlement and pinnet^ high. Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St. Clair. 44 There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; Each one the holy vault doth hold — But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle! 48 And each St. Clair was buried there, With candle, with book, and with knell ; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung, The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. S 2 CHRISTMAS IN THE OLDEN TIME From MARMION, INTRODUCTION TO CANTO VI Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill ; But let it whistle as it will. We'll keep our Christmas merry still. Each age has deemed the new-bom year The fittest time for festal cheer : Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane At lol ■■* more deep the mead did drain ; High on the beach his galleys drew, And feasted all his pirate crew ; Then in his low and pine-built hall, 10 Where shields and axes decked the wall, ^ enclosure ^ pinnacle ' Yule, the heathen Christmas They gorged upon the half -dressed steer ; Caroused in seas of sable beer ; While round, in brutal jest, were thrown The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone ; Or listened all, in grim delight, While Scalds^ yeUed out the joys of fight. Then forth in frenzy would they hie. While wildly-loose their red locks fly ; A»d, dancing round the blazing pile, 20 They make such barbarous mirth the while, As best might to the mmd recall The boisterous joys of Odin's hall.^ And well our Christian sires of old Loved when the year its course had rolled And brought blithe Christmas back again With aU its hospitable train. Domestic and religious rite Gave honour to the holy night : On Christmas eve the beUs were rung ; 30 On Christmas eve the mass was simg ; That only night, in all the year. Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.* The damsel donned her kirtle sheen ; The hall was dressed with holly green ; Forth to the wood did merry-men go, To gather in the mistletoe. Then opened wide the baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; Power laid his rod of /ule aside ; 40 And Ceremony doffed her pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose; The lord, underogating,'' share The vulgar game of "post and pair." All hailed with uncontrolled delight. And general voice, the happy night That to the cottage, as the crown. Brought tidings of salvation down. The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 50 Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubbed tUl it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn, By old blue-coated serving-man ; Then the grim boar's-head frowned on high Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garbed ranger tell 60 How, when, and where the monster fell ; ^ poets 2 in the Other- world, where heroes fought and feasted forever * The Mass is not celebrated at night except at Christmas. * with- out loss of dignity FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK DHU 419 What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baiting of the boar. The wassail round, in good brown bowls. Garnished with ribbons, bUthely trowls. There the huge sirloin reeked ; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie; Nor failed old Scotland to produce, At such high-tide, her savoury goose. Then came the merry maskers in, 70 And carols roared with blithesome din ; If unmelodious was the song. It was a hearty note, and strong. Who hsts may in their mumming see Traces of ancient mystery ; ^ White skirts supplied the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visors made : But, O ! what maskers richly dight Can boast of bosoms half so light ! England was merrv^ England, when 80 Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale ; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale ; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year. SOLDIER, REST ! THY WARFARE O'ER From THE LADY OF THE LAKE Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er. Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ; Dream of battled iields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall. Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; 10 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here JNIustering clan, or squadron tramping. Y''et the lark's shrill fife may come At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum. Booming from the sedgy shallow. 20 Ruder soimds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here ; Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. ^ religious drama Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done. While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep I the deer is in his den ; Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying ; 30 Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen Hovv' thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; Think not of the rising sun, For, at dawning to assail ye, Here no bugles sound reveille. FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK DHU From THE LADY OF THE LAKE Canto V VIII "Enough, I am by promise tied To match me with this man of pride : Twice have I sought Clan-.\lpine's glen In peace; but when I come again, I come with banner, brand, and bow, As leader seeks his mortal foe. For lovelorn swain, in lady's bower, Ne'er panted for the appointed hoiur, As I, until before me stand 25 This rebel Chieftain and his band." IX "Have, then, thy wish!" — He whistled shrill. And he was answered from the hill ; Wild as the scream of the curlew. From crag to crag the signal flew. Instant, through copse and heath, arose Bonnets and spears and bended bows ; On right, on left, above, below, Sprung up at once the lurking foe ; From shingles grey their lances start. The bracken bush sends forth the dart, 10 The rushes and the willow wand Are bristUng into axe and brand, And every tuft of broom gives life To plaided warrior armed for strife. That whistle garrisoned the glen At once with fuU five hundred men. As if the yawning hill to heaven A subterranean host had given. Watching their leader's beck and will, All silent there they stood, and still. 20 420 SIR WALTER SCOTT Like the loose crags whose threatening mass Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, As if an infant's touch could urge Their headlong passage down the verge, With step and weapon forward flung. Upon the mountain-side they hung. The Mountaineer cast glance of pride Along Benledi's ^ living side. Then fixed his eye and sable brow Full on Fitz-James:2 "How say'st thou" now? 3° These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true ; And, Saxon, — I am Roderick Dhu !" ^ X Fitz- James was brave ; — though to his heart The Hfe-blood thrilled with sudden start, He manned himself with dauntless air, Returned the Chief his haughty stare. His back against a rock he bore, And firmly placed his foot before : — " Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I." Sir Roderick marked, — and in his eyes Respect was mingled with surprise, lo And the stern joy which warriors feel In foeman worthy of their steel. Short space he stood, — then waved his hand : Down sunk the disappearing band ; Each warrior vanished where he stood, In broom or bracken, heath or wood: Sunk brand and spear, and bended bow, In osiers pale and copses low : It seemed as if their mother Earth Had swallowed up her warlike birth. 20 The wind's last breath had tossed in air Pennon and plaid and plumage fair, — The next but swept a lone hillside, Where heath and fern were waving wide ; The sun's last glance was glinted back, From spear and glaive,^ from targe* and jack,*^ — The next, all unreflected, shone Gn bracken green, and cold grey stone. XI Fitz-James looked round, — yet scarce believed The witness that his sight received ; ^ a high mountain, north of Loch Vennachar ^ James V, in disguise •'' Black Roderick, chief of Clan-Alpine * sword * small shield "^ leather jacket Such apparition well might seem Delusion of a dreadful dream. Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed, And to his look the Chief replied : " Fear naught — nay, that I need not say — But — doubt not aught from mine array. Thou art my guest ; — I pledged my v/ord As far as Coilantogle ford : ^ 10 Nor would I call a clansman's brand For aid against one valiant hand, Though on our strife lay every vale Rent by the Saxon from the Gael. So move we on ; — I only meant To show the reed on which you leant, Deeming this path you might pursue Without a pass from Roderick Dhu." They moved ; — I said Fitz-James was brave. As ever knight that belted glaive ; 20 Yet dare not say that now his blood Kept on its wont and tempered flood. As, following Roderick's stride, he drew That seeming lonesome pathway through, Which yet, by fearful proof, was rife With lances, that, to take his life, Waited but signal from a guide. So late dishonoured and defied. Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round The vanished guardians of the ground, 30 And still, from copse and heather deep, Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep. And in the plover's shrflly strain The signal whistle heard again. Nor breathed he free till far behind The pass was left ; for then they wind Along a wide and level green, Where neither tree nor tuft was seen. Nor rush nor bush of broom was near. To hide a bonnet or a spear. 40 XII The Chief in silence strode before, And reached that torrent's sounding shore, Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,^ From Vennachar in silver breaks. Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines On Bochastle^ the mouldering lines, Where Rome, the Empress of the world. Of yore her eagle wings unfurled. And here his course the Chieftain stayed. Threw down his target and his plaid, 10 * at the east end of Loch Vennachar ^ Lochs Katrine, Achray, and Vennachar ^ a moor in which are the ruins of a Roman camp FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK DHU 421 And to the Lowland warrior said : "Bold Saxon ! to his promise just, Vich-Alpine^ has discharged his trust. This murderous Chief, this ruthless man, This head of a rebellious clan. Hath led thee safe through watch and ward, Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard. Now, man to man, and steel to steel, A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel. See, here, all vantageless I stand, 20 Armed, like thyself, with single brand ; For this is Coilantogle .ford. And thou must keep thee with thy sword." XIII The Saxon paused : "I ne'er delayed, When foeman bade me draw my blade ; Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death : Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, And my deep debt for life preserved, A better meed have well deserved : Can naught but blood our feud atone? Are there no means?" "No, Stranger, none And hear, — to fire thy flagging zeal, — The Saxon cause rests on thy steel ; 10 For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred Between the living and the dead : 'Who spills the foremost foeman's life His party conquers in the strife.'" "Then, by my word," the Saxon said, "The riddle is already read. Seek yonder brake beneath the clifT, — There lies Red Murdock,^ stark and stiff. Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy, Then yield to Fate, and not to me. 20 To James, at Stirling, let us go. When, if thou wilt be still his foe. Or if the King shall not agree To grant thee grace and favour free, I plight my honour, oath, and word. That, to thy native strengths restored. With each advantage shalt thou stand. That aids thee now to guard thy land." XIV Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye: "Soars thy presumption, then, so high, Because a wretched kern ^ ye slew, Homage to name to Roderick Dhu? ^ the descendant of .\lpine - a guide who tried to betray him ^ a foot-soldier He yields not, he, to man nor fate ! Thou add'st but fuel to my hate : — My clansman's blood demands revenge. Not yet prepared? — By Heaven, I change My thought, and hold thy valour light As that of some vain carpet knight, 10 Who ill deserved my courteous care. And whose best boast is but to wear A braid of his fair lady's hair." "I thank thee, Roderick, for the word! It nerves my heart, it steels my sword ; For I have sworn this braid ^ to stain In the best blood that warms thy vem. Now, truce, farewell ! and, ruth, begone ! — Yet think not that by thee alone. Proud Chief ! can courtesy be shown ; 20 Though not from copse, nor heath, nor cairn, Start at my whistle clansmen stern, Of this small horn one feeble blast Would fearful odds against thee cast. But fear not — doubt not — ■ which thou wilt — We try this quarrelhilt to hilt." Then each at once his falchion drew. Each on the ground his scabbard threw. Each looked to sun and stream and plain, And what they ne'er might see again ; 30 Then, foot and point and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed. XV 111 fared it then with Roderick Dhu, That on the field his targe he threw. Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide Had death so often dashed aside ; For, trained abroad his arms to wield, Fitz- James's blade was sword and shield. He practised every pass and ward. To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; While less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintained unequal war. 10 Three times in closing strife they stood, And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood : No stinted draught, no scanty tide, The gushing floods the tartans dyed. Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain. And showered his blows like wintry rain ; And, as firm rock or castle-roof Against the winter shower is proof. The foe, invulnerable still. Foiled his wild rage by steady skill ; 20 ^ For the story of the braid and his oath, see Canto IV, xxi-xxviii. 422 CHARLES LAMB Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, And, backwards borne upon the lea, Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee. - XVI "Now yield thee, or, by Him who made The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade !" "Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy ! Let recreant yield, who fears to die." Like adder darting from his coU, Like wolf that dashes through the toil, Like mountain-cat who guards her young, Full at Fitz- James's throat he sprung ; Received, but recked not of a wound, And locked his arms his foeman round. lo Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own ! No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! That desperate grasp thy frame might feel Through bars of brass and triple steel ! They tug ! They strain ! Down, down they go, The Gael above, Fitz-James below. The Chieftam's gripe his throat compressed, His "knee was planted in his breast ; His clotted locks he backward threw, Across his brow his hand he drew, 20 From blood and mist to clear his sight, Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright ! But hate and fury ill supplied The stream of life's exhausted tide. And all too late the advantage came, To turn the odds of deadly game ; For, while the dagger gleamed on high. Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye. Down came the blow ! but in the heath The erring blade found bloodless sheath. 30 The struggling foe may now unclasp The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp ; Unwounded from the dreadful close. But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834) THE TWO RACES OF MEN The human species, according to the best theory I can form of it, is composed of two distinct races, the men who borrow, and the men who lend. To these two original diver- sities may be reduced all those impertinent classifications of Gothic and Celtic tribes, wliite men, black men, red men. All the dwellers upon earth, "Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites,"^ flock hither, and do naturally fall in with one or other of these primary distinctions. The infinite superiority of the former, which I choose to designate as the great race, is discernible in their figure, port, and a certain instinctive sovereignty. The latter are born degraded. "He shall serve his brethren." ^ There is something in the air of one of this caste, lean and suspicious ; con- trasting with the open, trusting, generous man- ners of the other. Observe who have been the greatest bor- rowers of all ages — Alcibiades ^ — Falstaff — Sir Richard Steele — our late incomparable Brinsley ^ — what a family likeness in all four! What a careless, even deportment hath your borrower ! what rosy gills ! what a beautiful reliance on Providence doth he manifest, — taking no more thought than lilies ! ^ What contempt for money, — accounting it (yours and mine especially) no better than dross ! What a liberal confoimding of those pedantic distinctions of meiim and timm!^ or rather, what a noble simplification of language (be- yond Tooke'), resolving these supposed oppo- sites into one clear, intelligible pronoun adjec- tive ! — What near approaches doth he make to the primitive community, — to the extent of one-half of the principle at least ! He is the true taxer "who calleth all the world up to be taxed" ;* and the distance is as vast between him and one of us, as sub- sisted betwixt the Augustan Majesty ^ and the poorest obolary*° Jew that paid it tribute- pittance at Jerusalem! — His exactions, too, have such a cheerful, voluntary air ! So far removed from your sour parochial or state- gatherers, — those ink-horn varlets, who carry their want of welcome in their faces ! He Cometh to you with a smile, and troubleth you with no receipt ; confining himself to no set season. Every day is his Candlemas, or his Feast of Holy Michael. ^^ He applieth the lene tormentum ^^ of a pleasant look to your purse, — ^ Ads, ii: 9 ^ inaccurately quoted from Genesis, ix: 25 ^a pupil of Socrates, celebrated for his beauty, talents, insolence, and extrava- gance * Richard Brinsley Sheridan, dramatist, orator, and spendthrift * Cf. Matlliew, vi: 28 ^ mine and thine ^ Home Tooke, an English philologer (1736-1812) * Cf . Zw^e, ii : i * Ro- man government ^^ able to pay only a half- penny " customary dates for settling debts ^'^ mild torture, Horace, Odes, III, .x.xi, 13 THE TWO RACES OF MEN 423 which to that gentle warmth expands her silken leaves, as naturally as the cloak of the traveller, for which sun and wind contended ! He is the true Propontic which never ebbeth ! ^ The sea which taketh handsomely at each man's hand. In vain the victim, whom he delighteth to honour, struggles with destiny ; he is ifi the net. Lend therefore cheerfully, O man ordained to lend — that thou lose not in the end, with thy worldly penny, the reversion promised.- Combine not preposterously in thine owti person the penalties of Lazarus and of Dives ! ^ — but, when thou seest the proper authority coming, meet it smilingly, as it were half-way. Come, a handsome sacrifice ! See how light he makes of it ! Strain not cour- tesies with a noble enemy. Reflections like the foregoing were forced upon my mind by the death of my old friend, Ralph Bigod, Escj., who departed this life on Wednesday evening ; dying, as he had lived, without much trouble. He boasted himself a descendant from mighty ancestors of that name, who heretofore held ducal dignities in this realm. In his actions and sentiments he beUed not the stock to which he pretended. Early in life he found himself invested with ample revenues ; which, Avith that noble dis- interestedness which I have noticed as in- herent in men of the great race, he took almost immediate measures entirely to dissipate and bring to nothing : for there is something re- volting in the idea of a king holding a private purse; and the thoughts of Bigod were all regal. Thus furnished, by the very act of dis- furnishment ; getting rid of the cumbersome luggage of riches, more apt (as one ^ sings) To slacken virtue, and abate her edge. Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise, he sets forth, hke some Alexander, upon his great enterprise, "borroviing and to borrow !" In his periegesis, or triumphant progress throughout this island, it has been calculated that he laid a tithe part of the inhabitants imder contribution. I reject this estimate as greatly exaggerated : but having had the honour of accompanying my friend, divers times, in his perambulations about this vast city, I own I was greatly struck at first with 1 Cf. Othello, III, iii, 453-6 2 cf. Luke, vi: 35 ^ i.e., suffer in both worlds ''Milton, Par. Re- gained, ii, 45S-6. the prodigious number of faces we met, who claimed a sort of respectful acquaintance with us. He was one da>' so obliging as to explain the phenomenon. It seems, these were his tributaries ; feeders of his exchequer ; gentle- men, his good friends (as he was pleased to express himself) , to whom he had occasionally been beholden for a loan. Their multitudes did no way disconcert him. He rather took a pride in mmibering them ; and, with Comus, seemed pleased to be "stocked with so fair a herd."i With such sources, it was a wonder how he contrived to keep his treasury always empty. He did it by force of an aphorism, which he had often in his mouth, that "money kept longer than three days stinks." So he made use of it whUe it was fresh. A good part he drank away (for he was an excellent toss-pot), some he gave away, the rest he threw away, literally tossing and hurling it \'iolently from him — as boys do burs, or as if it had been infectious, — into ponds, or ditches, or deep holes, — inscrutable ca\dties of the earth : — or he would bury it (where he w^ould never seek it again) by a river's side mider some bank, which (he would facetiously observe) paid no interest — but out away from him it must go peremptorily, as Hagar's offspring- mto the wilderness, while it was sweet. He never missed it. The streams were perennial wliich fed his fisc.^ W'hen new supplies be- came necessary, the first person that had the felicity to fall in with him, friend or stranger, was sure to contribute to the deficiency. For Bigod had an Undeniable way with him. He had a cheerful, open exterior, a quick jo\dal eye, a bald forehead, just touched with grey {carta fides) .^ He anticipated no excuse, and found none. And, waiving for a while my theory as to the great race, I would put it to the most untheorising reader, who may at times have disposable coin in his pocket, whether it is not more repugnant to the kind- liness of his nature to refuse such a one as I am describing, than to say no to a poor peti- tionary rogue (your bastard borrower), who, by his mumping visnomy,^ teUs you that he expects nothing better ; and, therefore, whose preconceived notions and expectations you do in reality so much less shock in the refusal. ^ Milton, Coww5, ii, 151-2 -Genesis, xxi: 14 ^ treasury ^ hoary faith, i.e., a sign of honesty, ^neid, i, 292 ^ begging countenance 424 CHARLES LAMB When I think of this man ; his fiery glow of heart ; his swell of feeling ; how magnifi- cent, how ideal he was ; how great at the mid- night hour ; and when I compare with him the companions with whom I have associated since, I grudge the saving of a few idle ducats, and think that I am fallen into the society of lenders, and little men. To one like Elia,^ whose treasures are rather cased in leather covers than closed in iron coffers, there is a class of alienators more formidable than that which I have touched upon ; I mean your borrowers of hooks — those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the sym- metry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes. There is Comberbatch,^ matchless in his depre- dations ! That foul gap in the bottom shelf facing you, like a great eye-tooth knocked out — (you are now with me in my little back study in Bloomsbury, Reader !) — with the huge Switzer-like ^ tomes on each side (like the Guildhall giants, in their reformed posture, guardant of nothing'') once held the tallest of my folios, Opera Bonaventurae,^ choice and massy divinity, to wliich its two supporters (school divinity also, but of a lesser caKbre, — BeUarmine,^ and Holy Thomas') showed but as dwarfs, — ■ itself an Ascapart ! ^ — that Comberbatch abstracted upon the faith of a theory he holds, which is more easy, I confess, for me to suffer by than to refute, namely, that "the title to property in a book" (my Bonaventure, for instance) "is in exact ratio to the claimant's powers of under- standing and appreciating the same." Should he go on acting upon this theory, which of our shelves is safe ? The slight vacuum in the left-hand case — two shelves from the ceiling — scarcely dis- tinguishable but by the c^uick eye of a loser — was whilom the commodious resting-place of Browne on Urn Burial. C. will hardly allege that he knows more about that treatise than I do, who introduced it to him, and was ' Lamb's pen-name ^ the name assumed by Coleridge when he enlisted as a soldier ^ The papal guard of Switzers was composed of tall men. "• The figures of (iog and Magog, which once guarded the entrance, had been removed to the back of the hall. ''St. Bonaventura (1221-74), a great religious writer '' an Italian theologian (1542-1621) ^ Cf . p. 211, Note 2 *a giant in the romance of Bevis of Hampton indeed the first (of the moderns) to discover its beauties — but so have I known a foolish lover to praise his mistress in the presence of a rival more qualified to carry her off than himself. — Just below, Dodsley's dramas ' want their fourth volmne, where Vittoria Corombona ^ is ! The remainder nine are as distastefid as Priam's refuse sons, when the fates borrowed Hector. Here stood the Anat- omy of Melancholy,^ in sober state. — There loitered the Complete Angler ; quiet as in life, by some stream side. — In yonder nook, John Buncle, a widower- volume, with " eyes closed," mourns his ravished mate.^ One justice I must do my friend, that if he sometimes, like the sea, sweeps away a treas- ure, at another time, sea-like, he throws up as rich an equivalent to match it. I have a small under-collection of this nature (my friend's gatherings in his various calls), picked up, he has forgotten at what odd places, and de- posited with as Httle memory at mine. I take in these orphans, the twice-deserted. These proselytes of the gate ^ are welcome as the true Hebrews. There they stand in con- jimction ; natives, and naturalised. The latter seem as little disposed to inquire out their true lineage as I am. — I charge no ware-house-room for these deodands,^ nor shall ever put myself to the ungentlemanly trouble of advertising a sale of them to pay expenses. To lose a volume to C. carries some sense and meaning in it. You are sure that he will make one hearty meal on your viands, if he can give no account of the platter after it. But what moved thee, wayward, spiteful K.,^ to be so importunate to carry off with thee, in spite of tears and adjurations to thee to for- bear, the Letters of that princely woman, the thrice noble Margaret Newcastle ? * — know- ing at the time, and knowing that I knew also, thou most assuredly wouldst never turn over one leaf of the illustrious folio : — what but the mere spirit of contradiction, and childish ^ a collection of Elizabethan plays ^ a play by John Webster ^ a curious and learned book by Robert Burton (162 1) ^ The Life of John Buncle, Esq., a novel in two volumes, by Thomas Amory ^ a late Rabbinical title for sojourners in Israel, cf. Exod., xx: 10 * Used loosely for "forfeited objects" ' James Kenney, dramatist (i 780-1849) ** Duchess of Newcastle (i624?-74), a talented and learned woman MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST 425 love of getting the better of thy friend ? — Then, worst cut of all ! to transport it with thee to the Gallican land — Unworthy land to harbour such a sweetness, A virtue in which aU ennobling thoughts dwelt. Pure thoughts, kind thoughts, high thoughts, her sex's wonder ! ^ — hadst thou not thy play-books, and books of jests and fancies, about thee, to keep thee merry, even as thou keepest all companies with thy quips and mirthful tales ? Child of the Greenroom, it was unkindly, unkindly done of thee. Thy wife, too, that part- French, better-part-English woman ! — that she could fix upon no other treatise to bear away, in kindly token of remembering us, than the works of Fulke Greville, Lord Brook ^ — of which no Frenchman, nor woman of France, Italy, or England, was ever by nature constituted to comprehend a tittle ! Was there not Zimmerniann ^ on Solitude ? Reader, if haply thou art blessed with a moderate collection, be shy of showing it ; or if thy heart overfloweth to lend them, lend thy books; but let it be to such a one as S. T. C.^ — he will return them (generally anticipating the time appointed) with usury ; enriched with annotations, tripling their value. I have had experience. JMany are these precious Mss. of his — (in matter oftentimes, and almost in quantity not tmfrequently, vying with the originals) in no very clerkly hand — • legible in my Daniel ; ^ in old Burton ; in Sir Thomas Browne ; and those abstruser cogi- tations of the Greville, now. alas ! wandering in Pagan lands. — I counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor thy library, against S. T. C. MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST "A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game." This was the celebrated w-'iV/ of old Sarah Battle® (now with God), who, next to her devotions, loved a good game of whist. She was none of your lukewarm gamesters, your half-and-half players^, who hav6 no objection to take a hand, if you want one to make up a rubber ; who affirm that ^ apparently composed by Lamb himself - Sir Philip Sidney's friend ^ a Swiss philosopher (1728-95) ''Coleridge * Samuel Daniel ^ an imaginary name and person they have no pleasure in winning ; that they like to win one game and lose another ; that they can while away an hour very agreeably at a card-table, but are indifferent whether the>^ play or no ; and will desire an adversary who has slipped a wrong card, to take it up and play another. These insufferable trillers are the curse of a table. One of these flies will spoil a whole pot.^ Of such it may be said that they do not play at cards, but only play at playing at them. Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She detested them, as I do, from her heart and soul ; and would not, save upon a striking emergency, willingly seat herself at the same table with them. She loved a thorough-paced partner, a determined enemy. She took, and gave, no concessions. She hated favours. She never made a revoke, nor ever passed it over in -her adversary without exacting the utmost forfeiture. She fought a good fight : cut and thrust. She held not her good sword (her cards) "like a dancer."- She sat bolt upright ; and neither showed you her cards, nor desired to see yours. All people have their blind side — their superstitions ; and I have heard her declare, mider the rose, that Hearts was her favourite suit. I never in my Hfe — and I knew Sarah Battle many of the best years of it — saw her take out her snuff-box when it was her turn to play ; or snuff' a candle in the middle of a game ; or ring for a servant, till it was fairly over. She never introduced, or connived at, miscellaneous conversation during its process. As she emphatically observed, cards were cards; and if I ever saw unmingled distaste in her fine last-century countenance, it was at the airs of a young gentleman of a literary turn, who had been with difficulty persuaded to take a hand; and who, in his excess of candour, declared, that he thought there was no harm . in unbending the mind now and then, after serious studies, in recreations of that kind! She could not bear to have her noble occupation, to which she woimd up her faculties, considered in that light. It was her business, her duty, the thing she came into the world to do, — and she did it. She un- bent her mind afterwards — over a book. Pope was her favourite author: his Rape of the Lock her favourite work. She once 1 Cf. Eccles., x: i 3S-6 Cf. Atit. atid Chop., Ill, xi, 426 CHARLES LAMB did me the favour to play over with me (with the cards) his celebrated game of Ombre in that poem ; and to explain to me how far it agreed with, and in what points it would be found to differ from, tradrille. Her illusfra- tions were apposite and poignant ; and I had the pleasure of sending the substance of them to Air. Bowles ; ^ but I suppose they came too late to be inserted among his ingenious notes upon that author. Quadrille," she has often told me, was her first love ; but whist had engaged her maturer esteem. The former, she said, was showy and specious, and likely to allure young persons. The uncertainty and quick shifting of partners — a thing which the constancy of whist ab- hors ; the dazzling supremacy and regal in- vestiture of Spadille ^ — absurd, as she justly observed, in the pure aristocracy of whist, where his crown and garter give him ri'o proper power ab'ove his brother-nobility of the Aces ; — the giddy vanity, so taking to the inexperi- enced, of playing alone ; "* above all, the ox'er- powering attractions of a Sans Prendre Vole,^ — to the triumph of which there is certainly nothing parallel or approaching, in the contin- gencies of whist ; — all these, she would say, make ciuadrille a game of captivation to the young and enthusiastic. But whist was the solider game : that was her word. It was a long meal; not like quadriUe, a feast of snatches. One of . two rubbers might co- extend in duration with an evening. They gave time to form rooted friendships, to cultivate steady enmities. She despised the chance-started, capricious, and ever-fluctuat- ing alliance's of the other. The skirmishes of quadrille, she would say, reminded her of the petty ephemeral embroilments of the little Italian states, depicted by Machiavel : ® per- petually changing postures and connections ; bitter foes to-day, sugared darlings to-morrow ; kissing and scratching in a breath ; — but the wars of whist were comparable to the long, steady, deep-rooted, rational antipa- thies of the great French and English nations. A grave simplicity was what she chiefly admired in her favourite game. There was nothing silly in it, like the nob ' in cribbage — * He edited Pope in 1806. ^ a variety of ombre ' Cf. p. 279, n. 4 '' Cf. p. 279, 11. 25ff. ^ a term in quadrille for a hand able to take all the tricks * a famous historian of Italy (1469-1527) ' the knave turned, in cribbage nothing superfluous. No flushes — that most irrational of all pleas that a reasonable being can set up : — that any one should claim four by virtue of holding cards of the same mark and colour, without reference to the playing of the game, or the individual worth or pre- tensions of the cards themselves ! She held this to be a solecism ; as pitiful an ambition at cards as alliteration is in authorship. She despised superficiality, and looked deeper than the colours of things. — Suits were soldiers, she would say, and must have a uniformity of array to distinguish them : but what should we say to a foolish squire, who should claim a merit from dressing up his tenantry in red jackets, that never were to be marshalled — never to take the field ? — She even wished that whist were more simple than it is ; and, in my mind, would have stripped it of some appendages, which, in the state of human frailty, may be venially, and even commend- ably, allowed of. She saw no reason for the deciding of the trump by the turn of the card. Why not one suit always trumps? — Why two colours, when the mark of the suit would have sufi&ciently distinguished them without it? "But the eye, mj^ dear madam, is agree- ably refreshed with the variety. Man is not a creature of pure reason — he must have his senses delightfully appealed to. We see it in Roman Catholic countries, where the music and the paintings draw in many to worship, whom your quaker spirit of unsensualising would have kept out. — You, yoiu-self, have a pretty collection of paintings — but confess to me, whether, walking in your gallery at Sand- ham,i among those clear Vandykes," or among the Paul Potters ^ in the ante-room, you ever felt your bosom glow with an elegant delight, at all comparable to that you have it in your power to experience most evenings over a well-arranged assortment of the court-cards? — the pretty antic habits, like heralds in a procession — the gay triumph-assuring scar- lets — the contrasting deadly-kiUing sables — the ' hoary majesty of spades ' — Pam in all his glory ! — * "All these might be dispensed with; and ^ an imaginary mansion ^ pictures by the famous Dutch portrait painter. Sir Anthony Vandyke (1599-1641) ^ Paul Potter, a Dutch painter of animals (1625-54) * Cf. Rape of the Lock, iii, 56, 61. MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST 427 with their naked names upon the drab paste- board, the game might go on very well, pic- tureless ; but the beauty of cards would be extinguished forever. Stripped of all that is imaginative in them, they must degenerate into mere gambhng. Imagine a dull deal board, or drum head, to spread them on, in- stead of that nice verdant carpet^ (next to nature's), fittest arena for those courtly com- batants to play their gallant jousts and tour- neys in ! — Exchange those delicatcly-tumed ivory markers — (work of Chinese artist, unconscious of their symbol, — or as pro- fanely shghting their true application as the arrantest Ephesian joiu-neyman^ that tiu"ned out those little shrines for the goddess) — exchange them for little bits of leather (our ancestors' money), or chalk and a slate !" — The old lady, with a smile, confessed the soundness of my logic ; and to her approbation of my arguments on her favourite topic that evening I have alv/ays fancied myself indebted for the legacy of a curious cribbage-board, made of the finest Sienna marble, which her maternal uncle (old Walter Plumer, whom I have elsewhere celebrated) brought with him from Florence : — this, and a trifle of five hundred pounds, came to me at her death. The former bequest (which I do not least value) I have kept with religious care ; though she herself, to confess a truth, was never greatly taken with cribbage. It was an essen- tially vulgar game, I have heard her say, — disputing with her uncle, who was very par- tial to it. She could rfever heartily bring her mouth to pronounce "Go," or ^'That's a go." She called it an ungrammatical game. The pegging teased her. I once knew her to for- feit a rubber (a five-dollar stake) because she would not take advantage of the turn-up knave, which would have given it her, but which she must have claimed by the disgrace- ful tenure of declaring "/wo for his heels." There is something extremely genteel in this sort of self-denial. Sarah Battle was a gentle- woman born. Piquet she held the best game at the cards for two persons, though she would ridicule the pedantry of the terms — such as pique — re- pique — the capot — they savoured (she thought) of affectation. But games for two, or even three, she never greatly cared for. She loved the quadrate, or square. She would argue thus : — Cards are warfare : the ends are gain, with glory. But cards are war, in disguise of a sport : when single adversaries encounter, the ends proposed are too palpable. By themselves, it is too close a fight ; with spectators, it is not much bettered. No looker-on can be interested, except for a bet, and then it is a mere affair of mioney; he cares not for your luck sympathetically, or for your play. — Three are still worse ; a mere naked war of every man against every man, as in cribbage, without league or alliance ; or a rotation of petty and contradictory interests, a succession of heartless leagues, and not much more hearty infractions of them, as in tradrille.^ — But in square games {she meant whist), aU that is possible to be attained in card-playing is accomplished. There are the incentives of profit with honoiu-, common to every species — though the latter can be but very imperfectly enjoyed in those other games, where the spectator is only feebly a partici- pator. But the parties in whist are specta- tors and principals too. They are a theatre to themselves, and a looker-on is not wanted. He is rather worse than nothing, and an im- pertinence. Whist abhors neutrality, or in- terests beyond its sphere. You glory in some svuprising stroke of skill or fortune, not be- cause a cold — or even an interested — by- stander witnesses it, but because your partner sympathises in the contingency. You win for two. You triumph for two. Two are exalted. Two again are mortified; which dixades their disgrace, as the conjunction doubles (by taking off the invidiousness) your glories. Two losing to two are better recon- ciled, than one to one in that close butchery. The hostile feeling is weakened by multiply- ing the channels. War becomes a civil game. By such reasonings as these the old lady Avas accustomed to defend her favourite pastime. No inducement could ever prevail upon her to play at any game, where chance entered into the composition, for nothing. Chance, she would argue — and here again, admire the subtlety of her conclusion ; — chance is nothing, but where something else depends upon it. It is obvious, that cannot be glory. What rational cause of exultation could it give to a man to turn up size ^ ace a hundred times together by himself? or before specta- tors, where no stake was depending? — ;Make ^ Cf. ibid., iii, 44, 80. ^ Cf. Acts, xix: 24, 25. ' a variety of ombre 428 CHARLES LAMB a lottery of a hundred thousand tickets with but one fortunate number — and what pos- sible principle of our nature, except stupid wonderment, could it gratify to gain that number as many times successively without a • prize ? Therefore she disliked the mixture of chance in backgammon, where it was not played for money. She called it foolish, and those people idiots, who were taken with a lucky hit under such circumstances. Games of pure skill were as little to her fancy. Played for a stake, they were a mere system of overreaching. Played for glory, they were a mere setting of one man's wit, — his mem- ory, or combination-faculty rather — against another's; like a mock-engagement at a review, bloodless and profitless. She could not conceive a ga^ne wanting the spritely infusion of chance, the handsome excuses of good fortune. Two people playing at chess in a corner of a room, whUst whist was stirring in the centre, would inspire her with insufferable horror and ennui. Those well- cut similitudes of Castles and Knights, the imagery of the board, she wovJd argue (and I think in this case justly), were entirely misplaced and senseless. Those hardhead contests can in no instance ally with the fancy. They reject form and colour. A pencil and dry slate (she used to say) were the proper arena for such combatants. To those puny objectors against cards, as nurturing the bad passions, she would retort, that man is a gaming animal. He must be always trying to get the better in something or other : — that this passion can scarcely be more safely expended than upon a game at cards : that cards are a temporary illusion ; in truth, a mere drama; for we do but play at being mightily concerned, where a few idle shillings are at stake, yet, during the illusion, we are as mightily concerned as those whose stake is crowns and kingdoms. They are a sort of dream-fighting; much ado; great battling, and little bloodshed ; mighty means for disproportioned ends : quite as diverting, and a great deal more innoxious, than many of those more serious games of life, which men play without esteeming them to be such. With great deference to the old lady's judg- ment in these matters, I think 1 have experi- enced some moments in my life when playing at cards for nothing has even been agreeable. When I am in sickness, or not in the best spirits, I sometimes call for the cards, and play a game at f)iquet for love with my cousin Bridget ^ — Bridget Elia. I grant there is something sneaking in it ; but with a tooth-ache, or a sprained ankle, — when you are subdued and humble, — you are glad to put up with an iiaferior spring of action. There is such a thing in nature, I am con- vinced, as sick whist. I grant it is not the highest style of man — I deprecate the manes ^ of Sarah Battle — she lives not, alas! to whom I should apologise. At such times, those terms which my old friend objected to, come in as something ad- missible — I love to get a tierce or a quatorze, though they mean nothing. I am subdued to an inferior interest. Those shadows of win- ning amuse me. That last game I had with my sweet cousin (I capotted her) — (dare I tell thee, how foolish I am ?) — I wished it might have lasted forever, though we gained nothing, and lost nothing, though it was a mere shade of play : I would be content to go on in that idle folly for ever. The pipkin should be ever boiling, that was to prepare the gentle lenitive to my foot, which Bridget was doomed, to apply after the game was over : and, as I do not much relish appliances, there it should ever bubble. Bridget and I should be ever playing. A CHAPTER ON EARS I have no ear. — Mistake me not, Reader — nor imagine that I am by nature destitute of those exterior twin appendages, hanging ornaments, and (architecturally speaking) handsome volutes ^ to the human capital. Better my mother had never borne me. — I am, I think, rather deli- cately than copiously provided with those conduits ; and I feel no disposition to envy the mule for his plenty, or the mole for her exactness, in those ingenious labyrinthine in- lets — those indispensable side-intelligencers. Neither have I incurred, or done anything to incur, with Defoe, that hideous disfigure- ment, which constrained him to draw upon assurance — to feel " quite unabashed," •''and ^ that is, his sister Mary ^ spirit ^ spiral orna- ments on the capital of an Ionic pillar ^ "Ear- less, on hij;h, stood unabashed Defoe," Dunciad, ii, 147 ; but Defoe did not lose his ears'. A CHAPTER ON EARS 429 at ease upon that article. I was never, I thank my stars, in the pillory ; nor, if I read them aright, is it within the compass of my destiny, that I ever should be. When therefore I say that I have no ear, you wiU understand me to mean — jor music. To say that this heart never melted at the concord of sweet sounds, would be a foul self- libel. ^^ Water parted from the sea"^ never fails to move it strangely. So does "In in- fancy."^ But they were used to be svmg at her harpsichord (the old-fashioned instrument in vogue in those days) by a gentlewoman — the gentlest, sure, that ever merited the ap- pellation — the s\veetest — why should I hesi- tate to name Mrs. S , once the blooming Fanny Weatheral of the Temple ^ — who had power to thrill the soul of Elia, sriiall imp as he was, even in his long coats ; and to make him glow, tremble, and blush with a passion, that not faintly indicated the dayspring of that absorbing sentiment which was after- wards destined to overwhelm and subdue his nature quite for Alice W n.^ I even think that sentimentally I am dis- posed to harmony. But organically I am in- capable of a tune. I have been practising "God save the King" all my life; whistling and humming of it over to myself m solitary corners ; and am not yet arrived, they tell me, within many quavers of it. Yet hath the loyalty of Elia never been impeached. I am not without suspicion, that I have an undeveloped faculty of music within me. For, thrumming, in my wild way, on my friend A.'s piano, the other morning, while he was engaged in an adjoining parlour, — on his re- turn he was pleased to say, "he thought it could not be the maid!" On his first surprise at hearing the keys touched in somewhat an airy and mast erf iil way, not dreaming of me, his suspicions had lighted on Jenny. But a grace, snatched from a superior refinement, soon convinced him that some being — tech- nically perhaps deficient, but higher informed from a principle common to all the fine arts — had swayed the keys to a mood which Jenny, with all her (less cultivated) enthu- siasm, could never have elicited from them. I mention this as a proof of my friend's pene- ^ Songs in Arta.xerxes, an opera he heard when six years old — his first play - Cf . Spenser's Prothalamion, 11. 132-5. ^a feigned name for the love of his youth tration, and not with any view of disparaging Jenny. Scientifically I could never be made to understand (yet have I taken some pains) what a note in music is ; or how one note should differ from another. ^luch less in voices can I distinguish a soprano from a tenor. Only sometimes the thorough-bass I contrive to guess at, from its being super- eminently harsh and disagreeable. I tremble, however, for my misapplication of the simplest terms of that which I disclaim. While I profess my ignorance, I scarce know what to say I am ignorant of. I hate, perhaps, by misnomers. Sosten-uto and adagio stand in the like relation of obscurity to me ; and Sol, Fa, Mi, Re, is as conjuring as Baralipton.^ It is hard to stand alone in an age like this, — (constituted to the quick and critical per- ception of all harmonious combinations, I verily believe, beyond all preceding ages, since Jubal" stumbled upon the gamut,) to remain, as it were, singly imimpressible to the magic influences of an art, which is said to have such an especial stroke at soothing, elevating, and refining the passions. — Yet, rather than break the candid current of my confessions, I must avow to you that I have received a great deal more pain than pleasure from this so cried-up faculty. I am constitutionally susceptible of noises. A carpenter's hammer, in a warm summer noon, will fret me into more than midsum- mer madness. But those unconnected, unset sounds are nothing to the measured malice of music. The ear is passive to those single strokes ; willingly enduring stripes, while it hath no task to con. To music it cannot be passive. It will strive — mine at least will — spite of its inaptitude, to thrid the maze ; like an unskilled eye painfully poring upon hiero- glyphics. I have sat through an Italian Opera, till, for sheer pain, and inexplicable anguish, I have rushed out into the noisiest places of the crowded streets, to solace myself with sounds, which I was not obliged to follow, and get rid of the distracting torment of end- less, fruitless, barren attention ! I take refuge in the unpretending assemblage of honest common-life sounds ; — and the purgatory of the Enraged Musician ^ becomes my paradise. ^ technical term in logic ^ the traditional inventor of musical instruments, cf. Genesis, iv: 21. ^ a picture by William Hogarth (1697-1764) 430 CHARLES LAMB I have sat at an Oratorio (that profanation of the purposes of the cheerfid playhouse) watching the faces of the auditory in the pit (what a contrast to Hogarth's Laughing Au- dience !) immovable, or affecting some faint emotion — till (as some have said, that our occupations in the next world will be but a shadow of what delighted us in this) I have imagined myself in some cold Theatre in Hades, where some of the forms of the earthly one should be kept us, with none of the enjoyment ; or like that — Party in a parlour All silent, and all damned.^ Above all, those insufferable concertos, and pieces of music, as they are called, do plague and embitter my apprehension. — Words are something ; but to be exposed to an endless battery of mere sounds ; to be long a-dying ; to lie stretched upon a rack of roses ; to keep up languor by unintermitted effort ; to pUe honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable tedious sweetness; to fill up sound with feeling, and strain ideas to keep pace with it ; to gaze on empty frames, and be forced to make the pictures for yourself ; to read a book, all stops,'^ and be obliged to supply the verbal matter ; to invent extem- pore tragedies to answer to the vague gestures of an mexplicable rambling mime ^ — these are faint shadows of what I have undergone from a series of the ablest-executed pieces of this empty instrumental music. I deny not, that in the opening of a concert, I have experienced something vastly lulling and agreeable : — afterwards foUoweth the languor and the oppression. Like that dis- appointing book in Patmos;* or, like the comings on of melancholy, described by Bur- ton, doth music make her first insinuating approaches: — "Most pleasant it is to such as are melancholy given, to walk alone in some solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, by some- brook side, and to meditate upon some delightsome and pleasant subject, which shall affect him most, amabilis insania,^ and mentis gratissimus error.'' A most incompa- rable delight to build castles in the air, to go ^ From a suppressed stanza of Wordsworth's Peter Bell, -punctuation marks ^a pantomim- ist * Cf. Revelation, x : lo . '•' pleasant lunacy * most delightful mental delusion smiling to themselves, acting an infinite variety of parts, which they suppose, and strongly imagine, they act, or that they see done. — So delightsome these toys'- at first, they coidd spend whole days and nights with- out sleep, even whole years in such contem- plations, and fantastical meditations, which are like so many dreams, and will hardly be drawn from them — winding and unwind- ing themselves as so many clocks, and still pleasing their humours, until at the last the scene turns upon a sudden, and they being now habitatecl to such meditations and soli- tary places, can endure no company, can think of nothing but harsh and dist-asteful subjects. Fear, sorrow, suspicion, sicbrusticus pudor,^ discontent, cares, and weariness of life, sur- prise them on a sudden, and they can think of nothing else : continually suspectin.g, no sooner are their eyes open, but this infernal plague of melancholy seizeth on them, and terrifies their souls, representing some dis- mal object to their minds ; which now, by no means, no labour, no persuasions, they can avoid, they cannot be rid of, they cannot resist." Something like this "scene turning" I have experienced at the evening parties, at the house of my good Catholic friend Nov ; ^ -who, by the aid of a capital organ, himself the most finished of players, converts his drawing-room uito a chapel, his week days into Sundays, and these latter into minor heavens. When my friend commences upon one of those solemn anthems, which peradventure struck upon my heedless ear, rambling in the side aisles of the dim Abbey, some five-and- thirty years since, waking a new sense, and putting a soul of old religion into my young apprehension — ■ (whether it be that, in which the Psalmist, weary of the persecutions of bad men, wisheth to himself dove's wings — or that other which, with a like measure of so- briety and pathos, inquireth by what means the young man shall best cleanse his mind) — • a holy calm pervadeth me. — I am for the time — rapt above earth, And possess joys not promised at my birth.* ^ trifles ^ almost clownish shame ^ Vincent Novcllo, organist of the Portuguese embassy chapel ■* By an unknown author ; quoted in Walton's Complete Angler. THOMAS CAMPBELL 431 But when this master of the spell, not con- tent to have laid a soul prostrate, goes on, in his power, to intlict more bliss than lies in her capacity to receive — impatient to overcome her "earthly" with his "heavenly," — ^ still pouring in, for protracted hours, fresh waves and fresh from the sea of sound, or from that inexhausted German ocean,^ above which, in triumphant progress, dolphin-seated, ride those Arions - Haydn and Mozart, with their attendant Tritons,^ Bach, Beethoven, and a countless tribe, whom to attempt to reckon up would but plunge me again in the deeps, — I stagger under the weight of harmony, reel- ing to a,nd fro at my wits' end ; — clouds, as of frankincense, oppress me — priests, altars, censers dazzle before me — the gem'us of his religion hath me in her toUs — a shad- owy triple tiara invests the brow of my friend, late so naked, so ingenuous — he is Pope, — and by him sits, Uke as in the anomaly of dreams, a she-Pope too, — tri-coroneted like himself ! — I am converted, and yet a Prot- estant ; — ■ at once malleus hcreticoritm,* and myself grand heresiarch : or three heresies centre in my person : — I am IMarcion, Ebion, and Cerinthus^ — Gog and Magog^ — what not? — till the coming in of the friendly supper-tray .dissipates the figment, and a draught of true Lutheran beer (in which chiefly my friend shows himself no bigot) at once reconciles me to the rationalities of a purer faith ; and restores to me the genuine unterrifying aspects of my pleasant-counte- nanced host and hostess. THE OLD F.AMILIAR FACES I have had playmates, I have had companions, Li my days of childhood, in my joyful school- days ; All, all are gone, the old famihar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 6 ^ of music " Arion, a Greek lyric poet, is fabled to have been thrown into the sea by sailors and carried safely ashore b}- dolphins who had gathered to listen to his music. ^ Cf. note on Wordsworth's sonnet, The world is too much with us, 1. 14. ■* Hammer of Heretics, title of a book by Johann Faber (1478-1541) ° typical heresiarchs ® Cf. Revelation, xx : 8 I loved a love once, fairest among women ; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend,' a kinder friend has no man ; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 12 Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old famihar faces. Friend of my bosom,- thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling ? So might we talk of the old famihar faces — 18 How some they have died, and some they have left me. And some are taken from me ; all are de- parted ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. THOMAS CAMPBELL (i 777-1844) YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND A XAVAL ODE Ye mariners of England That guard our native seas, Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze ! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe, And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow ; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. 10 The spirits of your fathers Shall start frotn every wave! — For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave : Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, Whfle the stormy winds do blow ; Whfle the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. 20 ^ Charles Lloyd ^ Coleridge 432 THOMAS CAMPBELL Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep ; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below — As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow ; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. 30 The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name. When the storm has ceased to blow ; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. 40 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determin'd hand. And the Prince of all the land Led them on. 9 Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine, While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line : It was ten of April morn by the chime : As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time. 18 But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene, And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between — "Hearts of oak," our captains cried, when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. 27 Again ! again ! again ! And the havoc did not slack. Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ; — Their shots along the deep slowly boom : — Then ceased — and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail. Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom. 36 Out spoke the victor then. As he hailed them o'er the wave ; "Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! And we conquer but to save ; So peace instead of death let us bring : But yield, proud foe, thy fleet With the crews at England's feet. And make submission meet To our King." 45 Then Denmark blest our chief, That he gave her wounds repose ; And the sounds of joy and grief. From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day ; While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. * 54 Now joy, old England, raise ! For the tidings of thy might. By the festal cities' blaze. While the wine cup shines in light ; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, FuU many a fathom deep. By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore ! 63 Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true. On the deck of fame that died, — With the gallant good Riou,^ Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! While the billow mournfid rolls. And the mermaid's song condoles. Singing glory to the souls Of the brave ! 7 2 ^ Capt. Edward Riou, distinguished for his skill and courage in this battle, was cut in two by a cannon shot. THOMAS MOORE 433 THOMAS MOORE (1779-185 2 j THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING The time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light, that lies In woman's eyes. Has been my heart's undoing. Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorn'd the lore she brought me, My only books Were woman's looks, And folly's all they've taught me. 10 Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted. Like him the Sprite, Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted. Like him, too, Beauty won me,. But while her eyes were on me ; If once their ray Was turned away, Oh, winds could not outnm me. 20 And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No, vain, alas ! th' endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever ; Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever. When I remember all The friends, so link'd together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather ; I feel hke one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled. Whose garlands dead. And all but he departed ! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. 'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER 'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone ; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred. No rosebud, is nigh To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh ! 8 I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are- sleeping. Go, sleep thou with them ; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. 16 30 OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT Oft, in the stilly night. Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me ; The smiles, the tears. Of boyhood's years. The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay. And from love's shining circle The gems drop away ! When true hearts lie withered. And fond ones are flowTi, O, who would inhabit This bleak world alone ! 24 THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S IL\LLS The harp that once through Tara's halls ^ The soul of music shed, , Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. ^ the palace of the high kings of Ireland 434 THOMAS DE QUINCEY So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more ! 8 No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells ; The chord alone that breaks at night Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. i6 LEIGH HUNT (i 784-1859) RONDEAU. Jenny kissed me when we met. Jumping from the chair she sat in ; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in : Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, 5 Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add, Jenny kissed me. FAIRIES' SONG We the fairies blithe and antic, Of dimensions not gigantic. Though the moonshine mostly keep us Oft in orchards frisk and peep us. 4 Stolen sweets are always sweeter ; Stolen kisses much completer ; Stolen looks are nice in chapels ; Stolen, stolen be your apples. 8 When to bed the world are bobbing, Then's the time for orchard-robbing; Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling Were it not for stealing, stealing. 1 2 THOMAS DE QUINCEY (i 785-1859) From CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER INTRODUCTION TO THE PAINS OF OPIUM If any man, poor or rich, were to say that he would tell us what had been the happiest day in his life, and the why and the wherefore, I suppose that we should all cry out. Hear him ! hear him ! As to the happiest day, that must be very difficult for any wise man to name ; because any event, that could occupy so distinguished a place in a man's retrospect of his life, or be entitled to have shed a special felicity on any one day, ought to be of such an enduring character, as that (accidents apart) it should have continued to shed the same felicity, or one not distinguishably less, on man/ years together. To the happiest lustrum, however, or even to the happiest year, it may be allowed to any man to point without discountenance from wisdom. This year, in my case, reader, was the one which we have now reached ; though it stood, I confess, as a parenthesis between years of a gloomier character. It was a year of brilliant water (to speak after the manner of jewellers), set, as it were, and insulated, in the gloom and cloudy melancholy of opium. Strange as it may sound, I had a little before this time descended suddenly, and without any con- siderable effort, from three hundred and twenty grains of opium (that is, eight thou- sand drops of laudanum) per day, to forty grains, or one-eighth part. Instantaneously, and as if by magic, the cloud of profoundest melancholy which rested upon my brain, like some black vapours that I have seen roll away from the summits of mountains, drew off in one day ; passed off with its murky banners as simultaneously as a ship that has been stranded, and is floated off by a spring tide, — That moveth altogether, if it move at all.^ Now, then, I was again happy ; I now took only one thousand drops of laudanum per day, — and what was that ? A latter spring had come to close up the season of youth : ' Wordsworth, Resolution and Independence, 1. 77; altogether should he all together CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER 435 my brain performed its functions as healthily as ever before. I read Kant ^ again, and again I imderstood him, or fancied that I did. Again my feeUngs of pleasure expanded them- selves to all around me ; and, if any man from Oxford or Cambridge, or from neither, had been announced to me in my unpretending cottage, I should have welcomed him with as sumptuous a reception as so poor a man could offer. Whatever else was wanting to a wise man's happiness, of laudanum I would have given him as much as he wished, and in a golden cup. And, by the way, now that I speak of gi\'ing laudanum away, I remember, about this time, a little incident, which I mention, because, trifling as it was, the reader will soon meet it again in my dreams, which it influenced more fearfully than could be im- agined. One day a IMalay knocked at my door. What business a IMalay could have to transact amongst English mountains, I cannot conjecture ; but possibly he was on his road to a seaport about forty miles distant. The servant who opened the door to him was a young girl, born and bred amongst the mountains, who had never seen an Asiatic dress of any sort : his turban, therefore, con- founded her not a little ; and as it turned out that his attainments in English were exactly of the same extent as hers in the Malay, there seemed to be an impassable gulf fixed between all communication of ideas, if either party had happened to possess any. In this dilemma, the girl, recollecting the reputed learning of her master (and, doubtless, gixang me credit for a knowledge of all the languages of the earth, besides, perhaps, a few of the lunar ones), came and gave me to understand that there was a sort of demon below, whom she clearly imagined that my art would exorcise from the house. I did not immediately go down ; but when I did, the group which pre- sented itself, arranged as it was by accident, though not very elaborate, took hold of my fancy and my eye in a way that none of the statuesque attitudes exhibited in the ballets at the opera-house, though so ostentatiously complex, had ever done. In a cottage kitchen but panelled on the wall with dark wood, that from age and rubbing resembled oak, and look- ing more like a rustic haU of entrance than a kitchen, stood the Malay, his turban and loose trousers of dingy white relieved upon ^ a profound German philosopher (1724-1804) the dark panelling ; he had placed himself nearer to the girl than she seemed to relish, though her native spirit of mountain intrepid- ity contended with the feeling of simple awe which her countenance expressed, as she gazed upon the tiger-cat before her. And a more striking picture there could not be imagined, than the beautiful English face of the girl, and its exquisite fairness, together with her erect and independent attitude, contrasted with the sallow and bilious skin of the ^lalay, enamelled or veneered with mahogany by marine air, his small, fierce, restless eyes, thin lips, slavish gestures, and adorations. Half hidden by the ferocious-looking Malay, was a little cTiild from a neighbouring cottage, who had crept in after him, and was now in the act of reverting its head and gazing upwards at the turban and the fiery eyes beneath it, whilst with one hand he caught at the dress of the young woman for protection. INIy knowledge of the Oriental tongues is not remarkably extensive, being, indeed, confined to two words, — the Arabic word for barley, and the Turkish for opium (madjoon), which I have learnt from Anastasius.^ And, as I had neither a Malay dictionary, nor even Adelung's Mitkridafes,'^ which might have helped me to a few words, I addressed him in some lines from the Iliad; considering that, of such language as I possessed, the Greek, in point of longitude, came geographically nearest to an Oriental one. He worshipped me in a devout manner, and replied in what I suppose was Malay. In this way I saved my reputation with my neigh- bours ; for the Malay had no means of betray- ing the secret. He lay down upon the floor for about an hour, and then pursued his jour- ney. On his departure, I presented him wath a piece of opium. To him, as an Orientahst, I concluded that opium must be familiar, and the expression of his face convinced me that it was. Nevertheless, I was struck with some little consternation when I saw him suddenly raise his hand to his mouth, and (in the school- boy phrase) bolt the whole, divided into three pieces, at one mouthfid. The quantity was enough to kill three dragoons and their horses, and I felt some alarm for the poor creature ; but W'hat could be done? I had given him ^ Anastasius: or, Memoirs of a Greek (1819) by Thomas Hope ^ Mitkridales, oder Mgemeine Sprachenkunde (1806), by J. C. Adelung, contains specimens of many languages. 436 THOMAS DE QUINCEY the opium in compassion for his soUtary Hfe, on recollecting that, if he had travelled on foot from London, it must be nearly three weeks since he could have exchanged a thought with any human being. I could not think of vio- lating the laws of hospitality by having him seized and drenched with an emetic, and thus frightening him into a notion that we were going to sacrifice him to some English idol. No ; there was clearly no help for it. He took his leave, and for some days I felt anxious ; but, as I never heard of any Malay being found dead, I became convinced that he was used to opium, and that I must have done him the service I designed, by giving him one night of respite from the pains of wandering. This incident I have digressed to mention, because this Malay (partly from the pictur- esque exhibition he assisted to frame, partly from the anxiety I connected with his image for some days) fastened afterwards upon my dreams, and brought other Malays with him worse than himself, that ran "a-muck" at me, and led me into a world of troubles. But, to quit this episode, and to return to my inter- calary year of happiness. I have said already, that on a subject so important to us all as happiness, we should listen with pleasure to any man's experience or experiments, even though he were but a ploughboy, who cannot be supposed to have ploughed very deep in such an intractable soil as that of human pains and pleasures, or to have conducted his re- searches upon any very enlightened principles. But I, who have taken happiness, both in a solid and a liquid shape, both boiled and un- boiled, both East India and Turkey, — who have conducted my experiments upon this in- teresting subject with a sort of galvanic bat- tery, — and have, for the general benefit of the world, inoculated myself, as it were, with the poison of eight hundred drops of laudanum per day (just for the same reason as a French surgeon inoculated himself lately with a can- cer, — an English one, twenty years ago, with plague, — and a third, I know not of what nation, with hydrophobia), — I, it will be admitted, must surely know what happiness is, if anybody does. And therefore I will here lay down an analysis of happiness ; and, as the most interesting mode of communicating it, I will give it, not didactically, but wrapt up and involved in a picture of one evening, as I spent every evening during the intercalary year when laudanum, though taken daily, was to me no more than the elixir of pleasure. This done, I shall quit the subject of happi- ness altogether, and pass to a very different one, — the pains of opium. Let there be a cottage, standing in a valley, eighteen mUes from any town ; no spacious valley, but about two miles long by three quarters of a mile in average width, — the benefit of which provision is, that all the fami- lies resident within its circuit will compose, as it were, one larger household, personally familiar to your eye, and more or less interest- ing to your affections. Let the mountains be real mountains, between three and four thou- sand feet high, and the cottage a real cottage, not (as a witty author has it) "a cottage with a double coach-house" ; let it be, in fact (for I must abide by the actual scene), a white cottage, embowered with flowering shrubs, so chosen as to unfold a succession of flowers upon the walls, and clustering around the windows, through all the months of spring, summer, and autumn ; beginning, in fact, with May roses, and ending with jasmine. Let it, however, not be spring, nor summer, nor autumn ; but winter, in its sternest shape. This is a most important point in the science of happiness. And I am surprised to see people overlook it, and think it matter of congratu- lation that winter is going, or, if coming, is not likely to be a severe one. On the contrary, I put up a petition, annually, for as much snow, hail, frost, or storm of one kind or other, as the skies can possibly afford us. Surely every- body is aware of the divine pleasures which attend a winter fireside, — candles at four o'clock, warm hearth-rugs, tea, a fair tea- maker, shutters closed, curtains flowing in ample draperies on the floor, whilst the wind and rain are raging audibly without. And at the doors and windows seem to call As heaven and earth they would together mell ; Yet the least entrance find they none at all ; Whence sweeter grows our rest secure in massy hall. — Castle of Indolence. All these are items in the description of a winter evening which must surely be familiar to everybody born in a high latitude. And it is evident that most of these delicacies, like ice-cream, require a very low temperature of the atmosphere to produce them : they are fruits which cannot be ripened without weather stormy or inclement, in some way or other. I am not ''particular,'" as people say, vvhether CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER 437 it be snow, or black frost, or wind so strong that (as Mr. says) "you may lean your back against it like a post." I can put up even with rain, provided that it rains cats and dogs ; but something of the sort I must have; and if I have not, I think myself in a manner iU used : for why am I called on to pay so heavily for winter, in coals, and candles, and various privations that will occur even to gentlemen, if I am not to have the article good of its kind ? No : a Canadian winter, for my money ; or a Russian one, where every man is but a co-proprietor with the north wind in the fee-simple of his own ears. In- deed, so great an epicure am I in this matter, that I cannot rehsh a winter night fully, if it be much past St. Thomas' day,^ and have de- generated into disgusting tendencies to vernal appearances ; — no, it must be divided by a thick wall of dark nights from all return of light and sunshine. From the latter weeks of October to Christmas-eve, therefore, is the period during which happiness is in season, which, in my judgment, enters the room with the tea-tray; for tea, though ridiculed by those who are naturally of coarse nerves, or are become so from wine-drinking, and are not susceptible of influence from so refined a stim- ulant, will always be the favourite beverage of the intellectual ; and, for my part, I would have joined Dr. Johnson in a bellum intcr- necinum ^ against Jonas Hanway,^ or any other impious person who should presume to dispar- age it. But here, to save myself the trouble of too much verbal description, I wiU intro- duce a painter, and give him directions for the rest of the picture. Painters do not like white cottages, unless a good deal weather-stained; but, as the reader now imderstands that it is a winter night, his sen.'ices will not be re- quired except for the inside of the house. Paint me, then, a room seventeen feet by twelve, and not more than seven and a half feet high. This, reader, is somewhat am- bitiously styled, in my famil)^ the drawing- room ; but being contrived ''a double debt to pay,"^ it is also, and more justly, termed the library ; for it happens that books are the only article of property in which I am richer than my neighbours. Of these I have about five ^ Dec. 21 or Dec. 29 ^ war to the death ^ a violent opponent of tea, who got into conflict on the subject with Dr. Johnson, who was a great tea-drinker ^ Cf. The Deserted Village, 1. 229 thousand, collected gradually since my eigh- teenth year. Therefore, painter, put as many as you can into this room. Make it populous with books, and, furthermore, paint me a good fire ; and furniture plain and modest, befitting the unpretending cottage of a scholar. And near the fire paint me a tea-table ; and (as it is clear that no creature can come to see one, such a stormy night) place only two cups and saucers on the tea-tray ; and, if you know how to paint such a thing symbolically, or otherwise, paint me an eternal tea-pot, — eternal a parte ante, and a parte post ; ^ for I usually drink tea from eight o'clock at night to four in the morning. And, as it is very un- pleasant to make tea, or to pour it out for one's self, paint me a lovely young woman, sitting at the table. Paint her arms like Aurora's,^ and her smUes like Hebe's ; ^ — but no, dear M., not even in jest let me insinuate that thy power to illuminate my cottage rests upon a tenure so perishable as mere personal beauty ; or that the witchcraft of angelic smiles lies within the empire of any earthly pencil. Pass, then, my good painter, to some- thing more within its power ; and the next article brought forward should naturally be myself, — a picture of the Opium-eater, with his "little golden receptacle of the pernicious drug" * lying beside him on the table. As to the opium, I have no objection to see a picture of that, though I would rather see the original ; you may paint it, if you choose ; but I apprise you that no "little" receptacle would, even in 1S16, answer my purpose, who was at a dis- tance from the "stately Pantheon,"* and all druggists (mortal or otherwise). No: .you may as well paint the real receptacle, which was not of gold, but of glass, and as much like a wine-decanter as possible. Into this you may put a quart of ruby-coloured laudanum ; that, and a book of German metaphysics placed by its side, wiU sufficiently attest my being in the neighbourhood ; but as to myself, there I demur. I admit that, naturally, I ought to occupy the foreground of the picture ; that being the hero of the piece, or (if you choose) the criminal at the bar, my body 1 eternal from both directions ^ the goddess of morning ^ the goddess of eternal youth ^ Such as Anastasius had * Cf . Wordsworth, The Power of Music, 11. 3, 4; De Quincey bought his first opium from a druggist near the Pantheon, who seemed to him hardlj^ mortal. 438 THOMAS DE QUINCEY should be had into court. This seems reason- able ; but why should I confess, on this point, to a painter? or, why confess at all? If the public (into whose private ear I am con- fidentially whispering my confessions, and not into any painter's) should chance to have framed some agreeable picture for itself of the Opium-eater's exterior, — should have as- cribed to him, romantically, an elegant per- son, or a handsome face, why should I bar- barously tear from it so pleasing a delusion, — pleasing both to the public and to me ? No : paint me, if at all, accorcUng to your own fancy; and, as a painter's fancy should teem with beautiful creations, I cannot fail, in that way, to be a gainer. And now, reader, we have run through aU the ten categories^ of my con- dition, as it stood about 1816-1817, up to the middle of which latter year I judge myseM to have been a happy man ; and the elements of that happiness I have endeavoured to place before you, in the above sketch of the interior of a scholar's library, — in a cottage among the mountains, on a stormy winter evening. But now farewell, a long farewell, to happi- ness, winter or summer ! farewell to smiles and laughter ! farewell to peace of mmd ! fare- well to hope and to tranquil dreams, and to the blessed consolations of sleep ! For more than three years and a half I am summoned away from these; I am now arrived at an IHad of woes : for I have now to record THE PAINS OF OPIUIM ... as when some great painter dips His pencil in the gloom of earthquake and eclipse. Shelley's Revolt of Islam (V. 23). I now pass to what is the main subject of these latter confessions, to the history and journal of what took place in my dreams ; for these were the immediate and proximate cause of my acutest suffering. The first notice I had of any important change going on in this part of my physical economy, was from the re-awaking of a state of eye generally incident to childhood, or exalted states of irritability. I know not whether my reader is aware that many chil- dren, perhaps most, have a power of painting, 1 .'Vristotle's ten classes into which all things may be distributed as it were, upon the darkness, all sorts of phan- toms : in some that power is simply a me- chanic affection of the eye ; others have a voluntary or semi-voluntary power to dismiss or summon them ; or, as a child once said to me, when I questioned him on this matter, "I can tell them to go, and they go; but sometimes they come when I don't tell them to come." Whereupon I told him that he had almost as unlimited a command over apparitions as a Roman centurion over his soldiers. In the middle of 1817, I think it was, that this faculty became positively dis- tressing to me : at night, when I lay awake in bed, vast processions passed along in mourn- ful pomp ; friezes of never-ending stories, that to my feelings were as sad and solemn as if they were stories drawn from times before (Edipus'^ or Priam,^ before Tyre,^ before Mem- phis.'* And, at the same time, a corresponding change took place in my dreams ; a theatre seemed suddenly opened and lighted up within my brain, which presented, nightly, spectacles of more than earthly splendour. And the four following facts may be mentioned, as notice- able at this time: I. That, as the creative state of the eye increased, a sympathy seemed to arise between the waking and the dreaming states of the brain in one point, — that whatsoever I happened to caU up and to trace by a volun- tary act upon the darkness was very apt to transfer itself to my dreams ; so that I feared to exercise this faculty ; for, as ]\Iidas turned all things to gold, that yet baffled his hopes and defrauded his human desires, so whatso- ever things capable of being visually repre- sented I did but think of in the darkness, im- mediately shaped themselves into phantoms of the eye ; and, by a process apparently no less inevitable, when thus once traced in famt and visionary colours, like writings in sym- pathetic ink, they were drawn out, by the fierce chemistry of my dreams, into insuffer- able splendour that fretted my heart. II. For this, and all other changes in my dreams, were accompanied by deep-seated anxiety and gloomy melancholy, such as are wholly incommunica'ole by words. I seemed every night to descend — not metaphorically, but literally to descend — into chasms and 1 King of Thebes ^ King of Troy ^ already famous in the time of Solomon ■* the ancient capital of Egypt CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER 439 sunless abysses, depths below depths, from which it seemed hopeless that I could ever re- ascend. Nor did I, by waking, feel that I had re-ascended. This I do not dwell upon ; be- cause the State of gloom which attended these gorgeous spectacles, amounting at last to utter darkness, as of some suicidal despondency, cannot be approached by words. III. The sense of space, and in the end the sense of time, were both powerfully affected. Buildings, landscapes, etc., were exhibited in proportions so vast as the bodily eye is not fitted to receive. Space swelled, and was amphfied to an extent of unutterable infinity. This, however, did not disturb me so much as the vast expansion of time. I sometimes seemed to have lived for seventy or one hun- dred years in one night ; nay, sometimes had feelings representative of a millennium, passed in that time, or, however, of a duration far beyond the limits of any human experience. IV. The minutest incidents of childhood, or forgotten scenes of later years, were often re- vived. I could not be said to recollect them ; for if I had been told of them when waking, I should not have been able to acknowledge them as parts of my past experience. But placed as they were before me, in dreams like intuitions, and clothed in aU their evanescent circumstances and accompanying feelings, I recognised them instantaneously. I was once told by a near relative of mine, that having in her childhood fallen into a river, and being on the very verge of death but for the critical assistance which reached her, she saw in a moment her whole hfe, in its minutest inci- dents, arrayed before her simultaneously as in a mirror ; and she had a faculty developed as suddenly for comprehending the whole and every part. This, from some opium experi- ences of mine, I can believe ; I have, indeed, seen the same thing asserted twice in modem books, and accompanied by a remark which I am convinced is true, namely, that the dread book of account, which the Scriptures speak of, is, in fact, the mind of each individual. Of this, at least, I feel assured, that there is no such thing as forgetting possible to the mind; a thousand accidents may and wiU interpose a veil between our present conscious- ness and the secret inscriptions on the mind. Accidents of the same sort will also rend away this veil ; but alike, whether veiled or un- veiled, the inscription remains forever: just as the stars seem to withdraw before the com- mon light of day, whereas, in fact, we all know that it is the light which is drawn over them as a veil ; and that they are waiting to be re- vealed, when the obscuring daylight shall have withdrawn. Having noticed these four facts as memo- rably distinguishing my dreams from those of health, I shall now cite a case illustrative of the first fact ; and shall then cite any others that I remember, either in their chronological order, or any other that may give them more effect as pictures to the reader. I had been in youth, and even since, for occasional amusement, a great reader of Livy, whom I confess that I prefer, both for style and matter, to any other of the Roman his- torians ; and I had often felt as most solemn and appalling sounds, and most emphatically representative of the majesty of the Roman people, the two words so often occurring in Livy — Consid Romantis ; especially when the consul is introduced in his military^ character. I mean to say, that the words king, sultan, regent, etc., or any other titles of those who embody in their o^^•n persons the collective majesty of a great people, had less power over my reverential feelings. I had, also, though no great reader of history, made myself minutely and critically familiar with one period of English histon.', namely, the period of the Parliament an,- War, having been at- tracted by the moral grandeur of some who figured in that day, and by the many interest- ing memoirs which survive those unquiet times. Both these parts of my lighter reading, having furnished me often with matter of reflection, now furnished me with matter for my dreams. Often I used to see, after painting upon the blank darkness, a sort of rehearsal whilst waking, a crowd of ladies, and perhaps a festi- val and dances. And I heard it said, or I said to myself, "These are English ladies from the unhappy times of Charles I. These are the wives and daughters of those who met in peace, and sat at the same tables, and were allied by marriage or by blood ; and yet, after a certain day in August, 1642,^ never smiled upon each other again, nor met but in the field of battle ; and at ^Marston Moor, at Newbury, or at Naseby,- cut asunder all ties of love by the cruel sabre, and washed away in blood the memory of ancient friendship." ^ August 22, 1642, when the war began of the Parliamentary War ■ battles 440 THOMAS DE QUINCEY The ladies danced, and looked as lovely as the court of George IV. Yet I knew, even in my dream, that they had been in the grave for nearly two centuries. This pageant would suddenly dissolve ; and, at a clapping of hands, would be heard the heart-quaking sound of Consul Romanus ; and immediately came "sweeping by,"^ in gorgeous paluda- ments,2 Paul us or Marius,-^ girt around by a company of centurions, with the crimson tunic hoisted on a spear, and followed by the alalag- mos ^ of the Roman legions. Many years ago, when I was looking over Piranesi's Antiquities of Rome, Mr. Coleridge, who was standing by, described to me a set of plates by that artist, called his Dreams,^ and which record the scenery of his own visions during the delirium of a fever. Some of them (I describe only from memory of Mr. Cole- ridge's account) represented vast Gothic halls ; on the floor of which stood all sorts of engines and machinery, wheels, cables, pulleys, levers, catapults, etc., expressive of enormous power put forth, and resistance overcome. Creep- ing along the sides of the walls, you perceived a staircase ; and upon it, groping his way up- wards, was Piranesi himself. Follow the stairs a little further, and you perceive it to come to a sudden, abrupt termination, without any balustrade, and allowing no step onwards to him who had reached the extremity, except into the depths below. Whatever is to be- come of poor Piranesi, you suppose, at least, that his labours must in some way terminate here. But raise your eyes, and behold a second flight of stairs still higher; on which again Piranesi is perceived, by this time stand- ing on the very brink of the abyss. Again elevate your eye, and a still more aerial flight of stairs is beheld ; and again is poor Piranesi busy on his aspiring labours ; and so on, until the unfinished stairs and Piranesi both are lost in the upper gloom of the hall. With the same power of endless growth and self-reproduction did my architecture proceed in dreams. In the early stage of my malady, the splendours of my dreams were indeed chiefly architec- tural ; and I beheld such pomp of cities and palaces as was never yet beheld by the waking eye, unless in the clouds. From a great modern poet I cite the part of a passage which ^ Cf. // Penseroso, 1. 98. - military cloaks ' two famous consuls and generals ^ noise of the war-cries ^ There was no such publication. describes, as an appearance actually beheld in the clouds, what in many of its circumstances I saw frequently in sleep : The appearance, instantaneously disclosed, Was of a mighty city — boldly say A wilderness of building, sinking far And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth, Far sinking into splendour — without end ! Fabric it seemed of diamond, and of gold, With alabaster domes and silver spires. And blazing terrace upon terrace, high Uplifted ; here, serene pavilions bright. In avenues disposed ; there towers begirt With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars — illumination of all gems ! By earthly nature had the effect been wrought Upon the dark materials of the storm Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves. And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto The vapours had receded — taking there Their station under a cerulean sky, etc., etc.^ The sublime circumstance — "battlements that on their restless fronts bore stars" — ■ might have been copied from my architectural dreams, for it often occurred. We hear it re- ported of Dryden, and of Fuseli ^ in modern times, that they thought proper to eat raw meat for the sake of obtaining splendid dreams : how much better, for such a purpose, to have eaten opium, which yet I do not re- member that any poet is recorded to have done, except the dramatist Shadwell ; ^ and in ancient days. Homer is, I think, rightly re- puted to have known the virtues of opium. • To my architecture succeeded dreams of lakes, and silvery expanses of water : these haunted me so much, that I feared (though possibly it will appear ludicrous to a medical man) that some dropsical state or tendency of the brain might thus be making itself (to use a metaphysical word) objective, and the sentient organ project itself as its own object. For two months I suffered greatly in my head — a part of my bodily structure which had hitherto been so clear from all touch or taint of weakness (physicaUy, I mean), that I used to say of it, as the last Lord Orford ^ said of his stomach, that it seemed likely to survive the rest of my person. Till now I had never felt ^ From Wordsworth's Excursion ^ a Swiss painter (1741-1825), who painted many subjects from Milton's Paradise Lost 'a second-rate dramatist of the Restoration period * Horace Walpolc, a distinguished dilettante (1717-97) CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER 441 a headache even, or any the slightest pain, except rheumatic pains Caused by my own folly. However, I got over this attack, though it must have been verging on something very dangerous. The waters now changed their character, — from translucent lakes, shining like mirrors, they now became seas and oceans. And now came a tremendous change, which, unfolding itself slowly like a scroll, through many months, promised an abiding torment ; and, in fact, it never left me until the winding up of my case. Hitherto the human face had often mixed in my dreams, but not despoti- cally, nor with any special power of tormenting. But now that which I have called the tyranny of the human face, began to imfold itself. Perhaps some part of my London life might be answerable for this. Be that as it may, now it was that upon the rocking waters of the ocean the human face began to appear; the sea appeared paved with innumerable faces, upturned to the heavens ; faces, im- ploring, \\Tathful, despairing, surged upwards by thousands, by myriads, by generations, by centuries : my agitation was infinite, my mind tossed and surged with the ocean. May, 1818. — The Malay has been a fear- ful enemy for months. I have been every night, through his means, transported into Asiatic scenes. I know not whether others share in my feelings on this point ; but I have often thought that if I were compelled to forego England, and to live in China, and among Chinese manners and modes of life and scenery-, I should go mad. The causes of my horror lie deep, and some of them must be common to others. Southern Asia, in general, is the seat of awful images and asso- ciations. As the cradle of the human race, it would alone have a dim and reverential feel- ing connected with it. But there are other reasons. No man can pretend that the wild, barbarous, and capricious superstitions of Africa, or of savage tribes elsewhere, affect him in the way that he is affected by the ancient, monumental, cruel, and elaborate religions of Indostan, etc. The mere antiq- uity of Asiatic things, of their institutions, histories, modes of faith, etc., is so impressive, that to me the vast age of the race and name overpowers the sense of youth in the indi- vidual. A yoimg Chinese seems to me an antediluvian man renewed. Even English- men, though not bred in any knowledge of such institutions, cannot but shudder at the mystic sublimity of castes that have flowed apart, and refused to mix, through such im- memorial tracts of time ; nor can any man fail to be awed by the names of the Ganges, or the Euphrates. It contributes much to these feelings, that Southern Asia is, and has been for thousands of years, the part of the earth most swarming with human life, the great ojjicina gentium} IVIan is a weed in those regions. The vast empires, also, into which the enormous population of Asia has always been cast, give a further sublimity to the feelings associated with all oriental names or images. In China, over and above what it has in common with the rest of Southern Asia, I am terrified by the modes of life, by the manners, and the barrier of utter abhor- rence, and want of sympathy, placed between us by feelings deeper than I can analyse. I could sooner live with lunatics, or brute ani- mals. All this, and much more than I can say, or have time to say, the reader must enter into, before he can comprehend the unimaginable horror which these dreams of oriental imagery, and mythological tortures, impressed upon me. Under the connecting feeling of tropical heat and vertical sunlights, I brought together all creatures, birds, beasts, reptiles, all trees and plants, usages and ap- pearances, that are found in all tropical regions, and assembled them together in China or Indostan. From kindred feelings, I soon brought Egypt and aU her gods under the same law. I was stared at, hooted at, grinned at, chattered at, by monkeys, by paro- quets, by cockatoos. I ran into pagodas, and was fixed, for centuries, at the summit, or in secret rooms : I was the idol ; I was the priest ; I was worshipped; I was sacrificed. I fled from the wrath of Brama^ through all the forests of Asia : Vishnu hated me ; Seeva laid wait for me. I came suddenly upon Isis and Osiris : ^ I had done a deed, they said, which the ibis and the crocodile trembled at. I was buried, for a thousand years, in stone coffins, with mummies and sphinxes, in narrow cham- bers at the heart of eternal pyramids. I was kissed, with cancerous kisses, by crocodiles; and laid, confoimded with all imutterable ^ laboratory of the nations ^ Brahma, A'ishnu, and Siva, Hindu deities embodying the creative, preservative, and destructive principles ^ Cf. Milton's Hymn on the Nativity, 11. 212, 213. 442 THOMAS DE QUINCEY slimy things, amongst reeds and Nilotic mud. I thus give the reader some slight abstrac- tion of my oriental dreams, which always filled me with such amazement at the mon- strous scenery, that horror seemed absorbed, for a while, in sheer astonishment. Sooner or later came a reflux of feeling that swallowed up the astonishment, and left me, not so much in terror, as in hatred and abomination of what I saw. Over every form, and threat, and punishment, and dim sightless incarcera- tion, brooded a sense of eternity and infinity that drove me into an oppression as of mad- ness. Into these dreams only, it was, with one or two slight exceptions, that any circum- stances of physical horror entered. AU before had been moral and spiritual terrors. But here the main agents were ugly birds, or snakes, or crocodiles, especially the last. The cursed crocodile became to me the object of more horror than almost all the rest. I was compelled to live with him ; and (as was always the case, almost, in my dreams) for centuries. I escaped sometimes, and found myself in Chinese houses with cane tables, etc. All the feet of the tables, sofas, etc., soon became instinct with life : the abominable head of the crocodile, and his leering eyes, looked out at me, multipHed into a thousand repetitions ; and I stood loathing and fasci- nated. And so often did this hideous reptUe haunt my dreams, that many times the very same dream was broken up in the very same way : I heard gentle voices speaking to me (I hear everything when I am sleeping), and instantly I awoke : it was broad noon, and my children were standing, hand in hand, at my bedside , come to show me their coloured shoes, or new frocks, or to let me see them dressed for going out. I protest that so awful was the transition from the damned crocodile, and the other unutterable monsters and abor- tions of my dreams, to the sight of innocent Imman natures and of infancy, that, in the mighty and sudden revulsion of mind, I wept, and could not forbear it, as I kissed their faces. June, 1819. ****** 1 thought that it was a Sunday morning in May ; that it was Easter Sunday, and as yet very early in the morning. I was standing, as it seemed to me, at the door of my own cottage. Right before me lay the very scene which could really be commanded from that situation, but exalted, as was usual, and solemnised by the power of dreams. There were the same mountains, and the same lovely valley at their feet ; but the mountains were raised to more than Alpine height, and there was interspace far larger between them of meadows and forest lawns ; the hedges were rich with white roses ; and no living creature was to be seen, excepting that in the green church-yard there were cattle tranquilly repos- ing upon the verdant graves, and particularly romad about the grave of a child whom I had tenderly loved, just as I had really beheld them, a little before sunrise, in the same summer, when that child died. I gazed upon the well-known scene, and I said aloud (as I thought) to myself, "It yet wants much of sunrise ; and it is Easter Sunday ; and that is the day on which they celebrate the first fruits of resurrection. I will walk abroad ; old griefs shall be forgotten to-day ; for the air is cool and still, and the hills are high, and stretch away to heaven ; and the forest glades are as quiet as the church-yard ; and with the dew I can wash the fever from my forehead, and then I shall be unhappy no longer." And I turned, as if to open my garden gate ; and immediately I saw upon the left a scene far different ; but which yet the power of dreams had reconciled into harmony with the other. The scene was an oriental one ; and there also it was Easter Sunday, and very early in the morning. And at a vast distance were visible, as a stain upon the horizon, the domes and cupolas of a great city — an image or faint abstraction, caught, perhaps, in childhood, from some picture of Jerusalem. And not a bow-shot from me, upon a stone, and shaded by Judean palms, there sat a woman ; and I looked, and it was — Ann ! ^ She fixed her eyes upon me earnestly ; and I said to her, at length, "So, then, I have found you, at last." I waited ; but she answered me not a word. Her face was the same as when I saw it last, and yet, again, how different ! Seven- teen years ago, when the lamp-light fell upon her face, as for the last time I kissed her lips (lips, Ann, that to me were not polluted!), her eyes were streaming with tears ; — her tears were now wiped away ; ^ she seemed more beautiful than she was at that time, but in all other points the same, and not older. Her ^ a poor girl who had befriended him when he ran away from school and came to London ^ Cf. Revelation, vii: 17 and xxi: 4. LORD BYRON 443 looks were tranquil, but with unusual solem- nity of expression, and I now gazed upon her with some awe ; but suddenly her counte- nance grew dim, and, turning to the moimtains, I perceived vapours rolling between us ; in a moment, all ha,d vanished; thick darkness came on ; and in the twinkling of an eye I was far away from mountains, and by lamp- light in Oxford-street, walking again with Ann — just as we walked seventeen years before, when we were both children. As a final specimen, I cite one of a different character, from 1820. The dream commenced with a music which now I often heard in dreams — a music of preparation and of awakening suspense ; a music like the opening of the Coronation Anthem,^ and which, like that, gave the feeling of a vast march, of infinite cavalcades filing ofif, and the tread of innumerable armies. The morning was come of a mighty day — a day of crisis and of final hope for human nature, then suffering some mysterious eclipse, and labouring in some dread extremity. Somewhere, I knew not where — somehow, I knew not how — by some beings, I knew not whom — a battle, a strife, an agony, was con- ducting, — was evolving Kke a great drama, or piece of music ; with which my sympathy was the more insupportable from my confusion as to its place, its cause, its nature, and its possible issue. I, as is usual in dreams (where, of necessity, we make ourselves central to every movement), had the power, and yet had not the power, to decide it. I had the power, if I could raise myself, to will it ; and yet again had not the power, for the weight of twenty Atlantics was upon me, or the oppres- sion of inexpiable guilt. "Deeper than ever plummet sounded," ^ I lay inactive. Then, like a chorus, the passion deepened. Some greater interest was at stake; some mightier cause than ever yet the sword had pleaded, or trum- pet had proclaimed. Then came sudden alarms ; hurrymgs to and fro ; trepidations of innumerable fugitives. I knew not whether from the good cause or the bad ; darkness and lights ; tempest and human faces ; and at last, with the sense that all was lost, female forms, and the features that were worth all the world to me, and but a moment allowed, — and ^ The music was written in 1727 by Handel for the coronation of George II. ^ Cf. The Tem- pest, III, iii, loi. clasped hands, and heart-breaking partings, and then — everlasting farewells ! and, with a sigh, such as the caves of hell sighed when the incestuous mother uttered the abhorred name of death,^ the sound was reverberated — everlasting farewells ! and again , and yet again reverberated — everlasting farewells ! And I awoke in struggles, and cried aloud — ''I will sleep no more!" GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON (i 788-1824) From ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS A man must serve his time to every trade, Save censure — critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller,- got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote; 66 A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault ; A turn for punnmg, call it Attic salt ; To Jeffrey ^ go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet : Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit ; 71 Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit : Care not for feeling — • pass your proper jest, And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. And shall we own such judgment ? no — as soon Seek roses in December, ice in June ; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff, Believe a woman, or an epitaph. Or any other thing that's false, before You trust in critics who themselves are sore ; Or yield one single thought to be misled 81 By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's ■* Boeotian head.* Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew. For notice eager, pass in long review ; Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace. And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race, 1 Par. Lost, II, 648-814. ^ Joe Miller's Jest- book, pub. 1730 and taany times reprinted — proverbial for stale jokes ^ Francis Lord Jeffrey, editor of the Edinburgh Review '' Byron said : "Messrs. Jeffrey and Lambe are the Alpha and Omega of the Edinburgh Review." *The Boeotians were proverbial for stupidity. 444 LORD BYRON Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 141 And tales of terror jostle on the road ; Immeasurable measures ^ move along ; For simpering Folly loves a varied song, To strange mysterious Dullness still the friend, Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. Thus Lays of Minstrels — may they be the last! On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast. While mountain spirits prate to river sprites. That dames may listen to their sound at night ; And goblin brats of Gilpin Horner's brood,- 151 Decoy young border-nobles through the wood. And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, And frighten fooUsh babes, the Lord knows why; While high-born ladies in their magic ceU, Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, And fight with honest men to shield a knave. Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan. The golden -crested haughty Marmion, 160 Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, The gibbet or the field prepared to grace — A mighty mixture of the great and base. And think'st thou, Scott ! by vain conceit per- chance. On public taste to foist thy stale romance. Though Murray with his Miller ^ may combine To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? No! when the sons of song descend to trade. Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 171 Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame : Low may they sink to merited contempt, And scorn remunerate the mean attempt! Such be their meed, such still the just reward Of prostituted muse and hireling bard! For this we spurn Apollo's venal son. And bid a long "good night to Marmion."* These are the themes that claim our plau- dits now ; These are the bards to whom the muse must bow : 1 80 ^ A jibe at the metres of Scott, Coleridge, etc. ^ Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel was suggested by a folk-tale of a goblin called Gilpin Horner. ^ Constable, Murray, and Miller were Scott's publishers. '' Originally spoken with sorrow by Henry Blount on reading the death of Marmion While Milton, Dry den, Pope, alike forgot, Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. With eagle pinions soaring to the skies, 195 Behold the ballad monger, Southey, rise ! To him let Camoens,^ Milton, Tasso,^ yield. Whose annual strains, like armies, take the • field.. First in the ranks see Joan of Arc ' advance, The scourge of England, and the boast of France ! 200 Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, Behold her statue placed in glory's niche. Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, A virgin Phoenix from her ashes risen. Next see tremendous Thalaba^ come on, Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous son ; Domdaniel's'* dread destroyer, who o'erthrew More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'ercome. Forever reign — ■ the rival of Tom Thumb ! Since startled metre fled before thy face, 211 Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence. Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! Now, last and greatest, Madoc^ spreads his sails. Cacique ^ in Mexico, and Prince in Wales ; Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do. More old than JNIandeviUe's, and not so true. Oh ! Southey, Southey ! cease thy varied song! A Bard may chaunt too often and too long 1220 As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare ! A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear. But if, in spite of all the world can say. Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way ; If still in Berkley ballads,^ most uncivil, Thou wilt devote old women to the devil. The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue; "God help thee," Southey, and thy readers too. Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, That mild apostate from poetic rule, 230 ^ a famous Portuguese epic poet (1524-80) ^ a famous Italian epic poet (1544-95) ^ epics by Southey * a seminary for evil magicians held in a cave in Arabia ; its destruction is the theme of Thalaba ^ chief « " The Old Woman of Berkley, a ballad by Southey, wherein an aged gentle- woman is carried away by Beelzebub, on a 'high- trotting horse.'" — Byron's note. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 44S The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay- As soft as evening in his favourite May ; Who warns his friend "to shake off toil and trouble ; And quit his books, for fear of growing double;" \\'ho, both by precept and example, shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose, Convincing all, by demonstration plain. Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; And Christmas stories, tortured into rhyme. Contain the essence of the true subUme : 240 Thus when he teUs the^tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of "an idiot Boy;" A moon-struck silly lad who lost his way. And, like his bard, confounded night with day ; So close on each pathetic part he dwells. And each adventure so sublimely tells. That all who view the "idiot in his glory," Conceive the Bard the hero of the story. ShaU gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear? 250 Though themes of innocence amuse him best, Yet stiU obscurity's a welcome guest. If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a Pixy for a JMuse,^ Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass The bard who soars to elegize an ass. How well the subject suits his noble mind ! "A feUow-feeUng makes us wondrous kind!" CfflLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIjVIAGE THE FAREWELL: From CANTO I Oh, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth. Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will! Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill; Yet there I've wander 'd by thy vaunted rill; Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine. Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 8 To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. ^ In Songs of the Pixies; one of the poems is entitled To a Young Ass. Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth Who ne in virtue's ways did take deUght ; But spent his days in riot most uncouth. And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight, Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; Few earthly things found favour in his sight Save concubines and carnal companie 17 And flaunting wassailers of high and low de- gree. Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day : But one sad losel soils a name for aye. However mighty in the olden time ; Nor all that heralds rake from coffin 'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honey'd lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, 28 Disporting there like any other fly. Nor deem'd before his little day was done One blast might chill him into misery. But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; He felt the fuUness of satiety : Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell. 36 For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, Nor made atonement when he did amiss. Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one, And that lov'd one, alas, could ne'er be his. Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bHss, And spoil'd her goodty lands to gild his waste. Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste. 45 And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart. And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 446 LORD BYRON But Pride congeal'd the drop within his e'e ; Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, And from his native land resolv'd to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea : With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe. And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below. 54 The Childe departed from his father's hall ; It was a vast and venerable pile ; So old, it seemed only not to fall, Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. Monastic dome! condemn'd to uses vile! Where Superstition once had made her den. Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile; 6i And monks might deem their time was come agen. If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy Yet ofttimes, in his maddest mirthful mood, Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow. As if the memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; For his was not that open, artless soul That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow ; Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control. 72 And none did love him — though to hall and bower He gather'd revellers from far and near. He knew them flatterers of the festal hour ; The heartless parasites of present cheer. Yea! none did love him — not his lemans dear — But pomp and power alone are woman 's care. And where these are light Eros finds a feere ; Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 80 And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot. Though parting from that mother he did shun : A sister whom he loved, but saw her not Before his weary pilgrimage begun : If friends he had, he bade adieu to none, Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel ; Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon A few dear objects, wiU in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. 90 His house, his home, his heritage, his lands. The laughing dames in whom he did delight. Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands. Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, And long had fed hij youthful appetite ; His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, And all that mote to luxury invite, Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line. The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, 100 As glad to waft him from his native home ; And fast the white rocks faded from his view. And soon were lost in circumambient foam ; And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept 105 The silent thought, nor from his lips did come One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept. And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. But when the sun was sinking in the sea. He seized his harp, which he at times could string, no And strike, albeit with untaught melody, When deem'd he no strange ear was listen- ing ; And now his fingers o'er it he did fling. And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight, While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, And fleeting shores receded from his sight, Thus to the elements he pour'd his last " Good Night." 117 Adieu, adieu ! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue ; The night -winds sigh, the breakers roar, And_ shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight ; Farewell awhile to him and thee. My native land — Goodnight! 125 CHILDE IL^ROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 447 A few short hours, and he will rise, To give the morrow birth ; And I shall hail the main and skies. But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate ; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, My dog howls at the gate. 133 And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea ; But why should I for others groan. When none will sigh for me ? Perchance my dog will whine in vain, Till fed by stranger hands ; But long ere I come back again He'd tear me where he stands. 189 With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine ; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves ! i\.nd when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! My native land — Good night ! 197 WATERLOO: From C-\NT0 III There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell. Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! ■ 189 Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind. Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleas- ure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. — But hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more. As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's open- nig roar Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brmiswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear. And when they smUed because he deem'd it near. His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier. And roused the vengeance blood alone could queU. 206 He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fight- ing, fell. Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of dis- tress. And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveli- ness ; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out yoimg hearts, and chok- ing sighs WTiich ne'er might be repeated : who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! 216 And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed. The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; .\nd the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; WTiile tlurong'd the citizens with terror dumb. Or whispering ^^ith white lips — "The foe! They come ! they come !" 225 And wild and high the "Cameron's Gather- ing" rose, The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes; 448 LORD BYRON How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clans- man s ears 234 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 243 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay. The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife. The morn the marshalling in arms — the day Battle's magnificently stern array ! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is cover'd thick with other clay. Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent ! 252 MAN AND NATURE: From CANTO III Lake Leman ^ woos me with its crystal face. The mirror where the stars and mountains view The stillness of their aspect in each trace Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue; There is too much of man here, to look through With a fit mind the might which I behold ; But soon in me shall Loneliness renew Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old. Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. 612 ^ Lake Geneva To lly from, need not be to hate, mankind ; All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Nor is it discontent to keep the mind Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil In the hot throng, where we become the spoU Of our infection, till too late and long We may deplore and struggle with the coil, In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. 621 There, in a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears, And colour things to come with hues of Night : The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness ; on the sea The boldest steer but where their ports in- vite. But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. 630 Is it not better, then, to be alone, And love Earth only for its earthly sake? By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake. Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froAvard infant her own care. Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — Is it not better thus our lives to wear, Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to in- flict or bear ? 639 I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me : and to me. High mountains are a feelmg, but the hum Of human cities torture ; I can see Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 645 Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee. And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life : I look upon the peopled desert past. As on a place of agony and strife, Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, To act and suffer, but remount at last With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring, CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 449 Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. 657 And when, at length, the mind shall be all free From what it hates in this degraded form, Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be Existent happier in the fly and worm, — When elements to elements conform. And dust is as it should be, shall I not Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? ' Of which, even now, I share at times the im- mortal lot ? 666 Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Of me and of my sold, as I of them ? Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion ? should I not contemn All objects, if compared with these? and stem A tide of suffering rather than forego Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow? 675 ROME: From CANTO IV O Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee. Lone mother of dead empires ! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, — Ye! Whose agonies are evils of a day — A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 702 The Niobe ^ of nations ! there she stands. Childless anc^crownless in her voiceless woe ; An empty urn within her wither'd hands. Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 711 The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride : She saw her glories star by star expire. And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, Where the car ^ climb 'd the Capitol ; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light. And say, "Here was, or is," where all is doubly night? 720 LOVE: From CANTO IV Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, — A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see. The naked eye, thy form, as it should be : The mind hatla made thee, as it peopled heaven. Even with its own desiring phantasy, And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied — wrung — and riven. 1089 Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. And fevers into false creation ; — where. Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? Where are the charms and virtues which we dare- Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, The unreach'd Paradise of our despair. Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen. And overpowers the page where it would bloom again? 1098 Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but the cure Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwinds ^ The children of Niobe were slain by Apollo. ^ chariot 45° LORD BYRON Which robed our idols, and we see too sure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds ; The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun. Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest when most undone. 1107 We wither from our youth, we gasp away — Sick — sick ; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst. Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the same — Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst — For all are meteors with a different name, And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 1116 Few — none — find what they love or could have loved : Though accident, blind contact, and the strong Necessity of loving, have removed Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong ; And Circumstance, that unspiritual god And miscreator, makes and helps along Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod. Whose touch turns Hope to dust — the dust we all have trod. 11 25 MAN AND NATURE: From CANTO IV Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling-place With one fair Spirit for my minister. That I might all forget the human race. And, hating no one, love but only her ! Ye Elements ! — in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted — can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 1593 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore. There is society where none intrudes. By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : I love not man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before. To mingle with the Universe, and feel 1601 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all con- ceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his con- trol Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth re- main A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd and unknown, 16 11 His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields , For earth's destruction thou dost all de- spise. Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray. And howhng, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth — there let him lay. 1620 The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals. The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafal- gar.i • ' The uninjured ships of the Armada are con- trasted with those broken in the battle of Tra- falgar. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 451 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 1630 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters washed them power while they were free, And many a tyrant since : their shores obey The stranger, slave or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests : in all tim.e, 1640 Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm. Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime — The image of Eternity — the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathom- less, alone. 1647 And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me Were a deUght ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear. For I was as it were a child of thee. And trusted to thy billows far and near. And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. . 1656 SONNET ON. CHILLON Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! Brightest in dimgeons. Liberty ! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart — The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. Their country conquers uath their martyr- dom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon ! ^ thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod. Until his ver}'^ steps have left a trace 1 1 Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! For they appeal from tyranny to God. THE PRISONER OF CHLLLON My hair is gray, but not from years ; Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears : I\Iy limbs are bow'd, though net with toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For the\^ have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are bann'd, and barr'd — - forbidden fare ; lo But this was for my father's faith I suffer'd chains and courted death : That father perish'd at the stake For tenets he would not forsake ; And for the same his lineal race In darkness foimd a dwelling-place. We were seven — who now are one ; Six in youth, and one in age, Finish'd as they had begun. Proud of Persecution's rage ; 20 One in fire, and two in field. Their belief with blood have seal'd Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied ; — Three were in a dungeon cast, Of whom this wreck is left the last. There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, In Chillon 's dungeon deep and old ; There are seven columns, massy and gray. Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 30 A sunbeam which hath lost its way, And through the crevice and the cleft Of the thick wall is fallen and left : Creeping o'er the floor so damp, Like a marsh's meteor lamp : And in each pillar there is a ring, And in each ring there is a chain ; That iron is a cankering thing. For in these limbs its teeth remain, ^ The castle of Chillon covers a huge rock at the eastern end of Lake Geneva (Lake Leman). 452 LORD BYRON With marks that will not wear away, 40 Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes. Which have not seen the sun so rise For years — I cannot count them o'er ; I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother droop'd and died, And I lay living by his side. They chain'd us each to a column stone, And we were three — yet each alone ; We could not move a single pace, 50 We could not see each other's face, But with that pale and livid light That made us strangers in our sight : And thus together — yet apart, Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 'Twas still some solace in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth. To hearken to each other's speech, And each turn comforter to each. With some new hope, or legend old, 60 Or song heroically bold ; But even these at length grew cold. Our voices took a dreary tone. An echo of the dungeon-stone, A grating sound — not full and free, As they of yore were wont to be : It might be fancy — but to me They never sounded like our own. I was the eldest of the three ; And to uphold and cheer the rest 70 I ought to do — and did — my best, And each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, — For him my soul was sorely moved. And truly might it be distress'd To see such bird in such a nest ; For he was beautiful as day — (When day was beautiful to me 80 As to young eagles, being free) — A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone, Its sleepless summer of long light. The snow-clad offspring of the sun : And thus he was as pure and bright. And in his natural spirit gay. With, tears for naught but others' ills, And then they flow'd like mountain rills. Unless he could assuage the woe 90 Which he abhorr'd to view below. The other was as pure of mind. But form'd to combat with his kind ; Strong in his frame, and of a mood Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, And perish'd in the foremost rank With joy — but not in chains to pine : His spirit wither'd with their clank, I saw it silently decline — And so perchance in sooth did mine ; 100 But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills. Had foUow'd there the deer and wolf ; To him this dungeon was a gulf, And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow ; Thus much the fathom line was sent no From Chillon's snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave enthralls : A double dungeon wall and wave Have made — and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay. We heard it ripple night and day ; Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were high And wanton in the happy sky ; 121 And then the very rock hath rock'd, And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free. I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined. He loathed and put away his food : It was not that 'twas coarse and rude. For we were used to hunters' fare, 130 And for the like had little care : The milk drawn from the mountain goat Was changed for water from the moat ; Our bread was such as captives' tears Have moisten 'd many a thousand years, Since man first pent his fellow-men Like brutes within an iron den ; But what were these to us or him? These wasted not his heart or limb ; My brother's soul was of that mould 140 Which in a palace had grown cold, Had his free-breathing been denied The range of the steep mountain's side. But why delay the truth? — he died. I saw, and could not hold his head, ■ THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 453 Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead — Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. He died — and they unlock'd his chain And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 150 Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine — it was a foolish thought, But then within my brain it wrought. That even in death his free-born breast In such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer — They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there : The flat and turfless earth above 160 The being we so much did love ; His empty chain above it leant. Such murder's fitting monument ! But he, the favourite and the flower, Most cherish'd since his natal hour, His mother's image in fair face. The infant love of all his race, His martyr'd father's dearest thought, My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be 170 Less wretched now, and one day free ; He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspired — He, too, was struck, and day by day Was wither'd on the stalk away. O God ! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood : — I've seen it rushing forth in blood, I've seen it on the breaking ocean 180 Strive with a swoll'n convulsive motion, I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of Sin delirious with its dread : But these were horrors — this was woe Unmix'd with such, — but sure and slow : He faded, and so calm and meek. So softly worn, so sweetly weak. So tearless, yet so tender, — kind, And grieved for those he left behind ; ' With all the while a cheek whose bloom 190 Was as a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray — An eye of most transparent light. That almost made the dungeon bright, And not a word of murmur — not A groan o'er his untimely lot ! A little talk of better days, A little hope my own to raise, For I was sunk in silence — lost 200 In this last loss, of all the most : And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness. More slowly drawn, grew less and less. I hsten'd, but I could not hear — I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished ; I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — I burst my chain with one strong bound, 210 And rush'd to him ; — I found him not ; / only stirr'd in this black spot, / only lived — / only drew The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; The last, — the sole, — the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink Which bound me to my failing race, Was broken in this fatal place. One on the earth, and one beneath — My brothers — both had ceased to breath : I took that hand which lay so still ; 221 Alas, my own was full as chill ; I had not strength to stir or strive, But felt that I was still alive — A frantic feeling, when we know That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die ; I had no earthly hope — but faith, And that forbade a selfish death. 230 What next befell me then and there I know not well — I never knew : — First came the loss of light, and air, And then of darkness too : I had no thought , no feeling — none — Among the stones I stood a stone. And was scarce conscious what I wist. As shrubless crags within the mist ; For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, It was not night — • it was not day ; 240 It was not even the dungeon-light, So hateful to my heavy sight. But vacancy absorbing space. And fixedness, without a place : There were no stars, — no earth, — no time, — No check, • — no change, — no good, — no crime, — But silence, and a stirless breath Which neither was of life nor death ; A sea of stagnant idleness. Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 250 A Hght broke in upon my brain — It was the carol of a bird ; 454 LORD BYRON It ceased, and then it came again, The sweetest song ear ever heard ; And mine was thankful, till my eyes Ran over with the glad surprise, And they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery ; But then by duU degrees came back My senses to their wonted track, 260 I saw the dungeon walls and floor Close slowly round me as before, I saw the glimmer of the sun Creeping as it before had done. But through the crevice where it came That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame,- And tamer than upon the tree ; A lovely bird, with azure wings, And song that said a thousand things. And seem'd to say them all for me! 270 I never saw its hke before, I ne'er shall see its likeness more : It seem'd, like me, to want a mate, But was not half so desolate. And it was come to love me when None lived to love me so again, And cheering from my dungeon's brink, Had brought me back to feel and think. I know not if it late were free. Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280 But knowing well captivity. Sweet bird, I could not wish for thine ! Or if it were, in winged guise, A visitant from Paradise ; For — Heaven forgive that thought, the while Which made me both to weep and smile — I sometimes deem'd that it might be My brother's soul come down to me ; But then at last away it flew, And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 290 For he would never thus have flown. And left me twice so doubly lone — Lone, — as the corse within its shroud ; Lone, — as a solitary cloud, A single cloud on a sunny day. While all the rest of heaven is clear, A frown upon the atmosphere. That hath no business to appear When skies are blue and earth is gay. A kind of change came in my fate. My keepers grew compassionate : I know not what had made them so, They were inured to sights of woe ; But so it was — my broken chain With links unfasten'd did remain, And it was liberty to stride 300 320 Along my cell from side to side, And up and down, and then athwart. And tread it over every part ; And round the pillars one by one, 310 Returning where my walk begun, Avoiding only, as I trod, My brothers' graves without a sod ; For if I thought with heedless tread My step profaned their lowly bed, My breath came gaspingly and thick. And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. I made a footing in the wall, It was not therefrom to escape. For I had buried one and all Who loved me in a human shape ; And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me : No child — no sire — no kin had I, No partner in my misery ; I thought of this, and I was glad. For thought of them had ^ made me mad ; But I was curious to ascend To my barr'd windows, and to bend Once more, upon the mountains high, 330 The quiet of a loving eye. I saw them ^ and they were the same. They were not changed like me in frame ; I saw their thousand years of snow On high — their wide long lake below, And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; I heard the torrents leap and gush O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; I saw the white-wall'd distant town. And whiter sails go skimming down ; 340 And then there was a little isle, Which in my very face did smile. The only one in view : A small green isle, it seem'd no more, Scarce broader than my dungeon floor ; But in it there were three tall trees. And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing. Of gentle breath and hue. 350 The fish swam by the castle wall, And they seem'd joyous, each and all; The eagle rode the rising blast, Mcthought he never flew so fast As then to me he seem'd to fly, And then new tears came in my eye, And I felt troubled — and would fain ^ would have ODE 455 I had not left my recent chain ; And when I did descend again, The darkness of my dim abode 360 Fell on me as a heavj^ load ; It was as is a new-dug grave, Closing o'er one we sought to save. And yet my glance, too much opprest, Had almost need of such a rest. It might be months, or years, or days, I kept no count — I took no note, I had no hope my eyes to raise. And clear them of their dreary mote ; At last men came to set me free, 370 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where ; It was at length the same to me, Fetter'd or fetterless to be, I learn'd to love despair. And thus, when they appear'd at last, And all my bonds aside were cast. These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage — and all my own ! And half I felt as they were come To tear me from a second home : 380 With spiders I had friendship made. And watch'd them in their sullen trade, Had seen the mice by moonlight play, And why should I feel less than they ? We were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends 390 To make us what we are : — even I Regain 'd my freedom with a sigh. ODE I Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls Are level with the waters, there shaU be A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, What should thy sons do ? — any thing but weep : And yet they only murmur in their sleep. In contrast with their fathers — as the slime, The dull green ooze of the receding deep, Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam. That drives the sailor shipless to his home. Are they to those that were ; and thus they creep, 12 Crouching and crab-like, through their sap- ping streets. Oh ! agony — that centuries should reap No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hvmdred years Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears ; And every monument the stranger meets, Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; And even the Lion all subdued appears. And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 2 1 The echo of thy tyrant's voice along The soft waves, once all musical to song. That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng Of gondolas — and to the busy hum Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds Were but the overheating of the heart, And flow of too much happiness, which needs The aid of age to turn its course apart From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 30 Of sweet sensations battling with the blood. But these are better than the gloomy errors. The weeds of nations in their last decay. When -vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, And mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; And hope is nothing but a false delay, The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death. When faintness, the last mortal birth of pain, And apathy of limb, the dull beginning Of the cold staggering race which death is winning, 40 Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away ; Yet so relieving the o'ertortured clay. To him appears renewal of his breath. And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ; — And then he talks of life, and how again He feels his spirit soaring, albeit weak. And of the fresher air, which he would seek ; And as he whispers knows not that he gasps. That his thin finger feels not what it clasps. And so the film comes o'er him — and the dizzy 50 Chamber swims round and round — and shadows busy, At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam. Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream. And all is ice and blackness, — and the earth That which it was the moment ere our birth. II There is no hope for nations ! Of many thousand years — Search the page the daily scene, 456 LORD BYRON The flow and ebb of each recurring age, The everlasting to be which hath been, Hath taught us nought or little : still we lean 60 On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear Our strength away in wrestling with the air ; For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the beasts Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts Are of as high an order — they must go Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter. Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, What have they given your children in return ? A heritage of servitude and woes, A blindfold bondage where your hire is blows. What? do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, 71 O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, And deem this proof of loyalty the real ; Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars. And glorying as you tread the glowing bars? All that your sires have left you, all that time Bequeaths of free, and history of sublime. Spring from a different theme ! — Ye see and read. Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed ! Save the few spirits, who, despite of all, 80 And worse than all, the sudden crimes en- gender'd By the down-thundering of the prison-wall. And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd, Gushing from freedom's fountains — when the crowd. Madden 'd with centuries of drought, are loud, And trample on each other to obtain The cup which brings olilivion of a chain Heavy and sore, — in v/hich long yoked they plough 'd The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow grain, 'Twas not for them, their necks were too much bow'd, 90 And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain : — Yes! the few spirits — who, despite of deeds Which they abhor, confound not with the cause Those momentary starts from Nature's laws. Which, like the pestUence and earthquake, smite But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth With all her seasons to repair the blight With a few summers, and again put forth Cities and generations — fair, when free — For, tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee! Ill Glory and empire ! once upon these towers With freedom — godlike triad ! how ye sate ! The league of mightiest nations, in those hours When Venice was an envy, might abate. But did not quench, her spirit — in her fate All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate. Although they humbled — with the kingly few The many felt, for from all days and climes She was the voyager's worship ; — even her crimes 1 1 o Were of the softer order — born of love. She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, But gladden 'd where her harmless conquests spread ; For these restored the cross, that from above Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which in- cessant . Flew between earth and the unholy crescent, Which, if it waned and dwindled, earth may thank The city it has clothed in chains, which clank Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe The name of freedom to her glorious struggles ; Yet she but shares with them a common woe. And call'd the "kingdom" of a conquering foe, — 122 But knows what all — and, most of all, we know — With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! IV The name of commonwealth is past and gone O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own A sceptre, and endures the purple robe ; If the free Switzcr yet bestrides alone His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time, For tyranny of late is cunning grown, 131 And in its own good season tramples down The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, Whose vigorous offspring by dividuig ocean, so, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING 457 Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion Of freedom, which their fathers fought for, and Bequeath'd — a heritage of heart and hand, And proud distinction from each other land, Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 140 Full of the magic of exploded science — StiU one great clime, in full and free defiance, Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime. Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught Her Esau-brethren ^ that the haughty flag, The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, May strike to those whose red right hands have bought Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, forever Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, 149 That it should flow, and overflow, than creep Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, Damn'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, Three paces, and then faltering : — better be Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free. In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep Fly, and one current to the ocean add. One spirit to the souls our fathers had. One freeman more, America, to thee! 160 KNOW YE THE LAND? Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime ? W^here the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,^ Now melt Into sorrow, now madden to crime ? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine. Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul ^ in her bloom ; ^ Those who have sold their birth-right, Liberty. * dove ^ the rose W^here the citron and olive are fairest of fruit. And the voice of the nightingale never is mute : 10 Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie. And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine. And aU, save the spirit of man, is divine? 'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the Sun — Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. 19 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; And all that's best of dark and bright j\Ieet in her aspect and her eyes : Thus mellow'd to that? tender light 5 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less. Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 10 Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart w^hose love is innocent ! 18 SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night. Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, s And the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. 45^ PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon. CHARLES WOLFE (i 791-1823) THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 4 We buried him darkly at dead of night. The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light. And the lantern dimly burning. 8 No useless cofifin enclosed his breast. Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. 12 • Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 16 We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed. And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, . And we far away on the billow ! 20 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 24 But half of our weary task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. 28 Slowly and sadly we laid him down. From the field of his fame fregh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — But we left him alone with his glory. 32 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822) FromALASTOR; OR, THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE Nondum amabam, at amare amabam, quaerebam quid amarem, amans amare,^ — Confess. St. August. There was a Poet whose untimely tomb 50 No human hands with pious reverence reared, But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilder- ness : — A lovely youth, — no mourning maiden decked 55 With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath, The lone couch of his everlasting sleep : — Gentle, and brave, and generous, — no lorn bard Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh : He lived, he died, he simg, in solitude. 60 Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes, And virgins, as unknown he passed, have pined And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes. The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn, And Silence, too enamoured of that voice, 65 Locks its mute music in her rugged cell. By solemn vision, and bright silver dream, His infancy was nurtured. Every sight And sound from the vast earth and ambient air, Sent to his heart its choicest impulses. 70 The fountains of divine philosophy Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of great. Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past In truth or fable consecrates, hp felt And knew. When early youth had passed, he left 75 His cold fireside and alienated home To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands. Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness Has lured his fearless steps; and he has bought With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men, 80 ^ I was not yet in love, and I was in love with love, I was seeking what I might love, loving love. HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY 459 His rest and food. Nature's most secret steps He like her shadow has pursued, where'er The red volcano overcanopies Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice With burning smoke, or where bitumen lakes • 8 s On black bare pointed islets ever beat With sluggish surge, or where the secret caves Rugged and dark, winding among the springs Of fire and poison, maccessible To avarice or pride, their starrj' domes 90 Of diamond and of gold expand above Numberless and immeasurable halls. Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysolite. Nor had that scene of ampler majesty 95 Than gems or gold, the varying roof of heaven And the green earth, lost in his heart its claims To love and wonder ; he woxild linger long In lonesome vales, making the wild his home. Until the doves and squirrels would partake From his innocuous hand his bloodless food, Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks, 102 And the wild antelope, that starts whene'er The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend Her timid steps to gaze upon a form 105 More graceful than her own. His wandering step, Obedient to high thoughts, has visited The awfid ruins of the days of old : Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec,^ and the waste Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers no Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids, Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of strange Sculptured on alabaster obelisk. Or jasper tomb, or mutilated sphinx, Dark ^F^thiopia in her desert hills 115 Conceals. Among the ruined temples there, Stupendous columns, and wild images Of more than man, where marble daemons watch The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls around, 120 He lingered, poring on memorials Of the world's youth, through the long burn- ing day Gazed on those speechless shapes, nor, when the moon ^ Baalbec, an ancient SjTian city, sacred to the worship of Baal, the sun god Filled the mysterious halls with floating shades, Suspended he that task, but ever gazed i -5 And gazed, tUl meaning on his vacant mind Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw The thrilling secrets of the birth of time. HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY The awful shadow of some unseen Power Floats though unseen amongst us, — visiting This various world with as inconstant wing As summer winds that creep from flower to flower ; — Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower,* 5 It visits with inconstant glance Each human heart and countenance; Like hues and harmonies of evening, — Like clouds in starhght widely spread, — Like memory of music fled, — 10 Like aught that for its grace may be Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate With thine own hues aU thou dost shine upon Of human thought or form, — where art thou gone ? • 15 W^hy dost thou pass away and leave our state, This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate ? Ask why the sunlight not forever Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river. Why aught should fail and fade that once is shown, 20 Why fear and dream and death and birth Cast on the daylight of this earth Such gloom, — why man has such a scope For love and hate, despondency and hope? No voice from some sublimer world hath ever To sage or poet these responses given — 26 Therefore the names of Daemon, Ghost, and Heaven, Remain the records of their vain endeavour. Frail spells — whose uttered charm might not avail to sever. From all we hear and aU we see, 30 Doubt, chance, and mutability. * Observe that "shower" is a verb. 460 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Thy light alone — like mist o'er mountains driven, Or music by the night wind sent, Through strings of some still instrument, Or moonlight on a midnight stream, 35 Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds depart And come, for some uncertain moments lent. Man were immortal, and omnipotent, 39 Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art. Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his heart. Thou messenger of sympathies, That wax and wane in lovers' eyes — Thou — that to human thought art nourish- ment. Like darkness to a dying flame! 45 Depart not as thy shadow came, Depart not — lest the grave should be, Like life and fear, a dark reality. While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin, 50 And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing Hopes of high talk with the departed dead. I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed, I was not heard — I saw them not — When musing deeply on the lot 55 Of life, at the sweet time when winds are wooing All vital things that wake to bring News of birds and blossoming, — Sudden, thy shadow fell on me ; I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy ! I vowed that I would dedicate my powers 61 To thee and thine — have I not kept the vow? With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now I call the phantoms of a thousand hours Each from his voiceless grave : they have in vision ed bower 65 Of studious zeal or love's delight Outstretched with me the envious night — They know that never joy illumed my brow Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free This world from its dark slavery, 70 That thou — O awful Loveliness, Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot express. The day becomes more solemn and serene When noon is past — • there is a harmony In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, 75 Which through the summer is not heard or seen, As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! Thus let thy power, which like the truth Of nature on my passive youth Descended, to my onward life supply 80 Its calm — to one who worships thee. And every form containing thee. Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind To fear himself, and love all human kind. SONNET OZYMANDIAS I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown. And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command. Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, (stamped on these life- less things,) 7 The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed : And on the pedestal these words appear : "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings : 10 Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair ! " Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. From LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS Many a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of misery. Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on Day and night, and night and day, 5 Drifting on his dreary way. With the solid darkness black Closing round his vessel's track ; Whilst, above, the sunless sky, Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 10 LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS 461 And behind, the tempest fleet Hurries on with Hghtning feet, Riving sail, and cord, and plank, Till the ship has almost drank Death from the o'er-brimming deep ; 15 And sinks down, down, like that sleep When the dreamer seems to be Weltering through eternity ; And the dim low line before Of a dark and distant shore 20 Still recedes, as ever still Longing with divided will, But no power to seek or shun, He is ever drifted on O'er the unreposing wave 25 To the haven of the grave. What if there no friends will greet ; What if there no heart will meet His with love's impatient beat ; Wander wheresoe'er he may, 30 Can he dream before that day To find refuge from distress In friendship's smile, in love's caress? Lo, the sim floats up the sky Like thought-winged Liberty, Till the universal light Seems to level plain and height ; From the sea a mist has spread, 210 And the beams of morn lie dead On the towers of Venice now. Like its glory long ago. By the skirts of that gray cloud Many-domed Padua proud 215 Stands, a peopled solitude, 'Mid the harvest-shining plain, Where the peasant heaps his grain In the garner of his foe. And the milk-white oxen slow 220 With the purple vintage strain, Heaped upon the creaking wain, That the brutal Celt may swill Drunken sleep with savage will ; And the sickle to the sword 225 Lies unchanged, though many a lord, Like a weed whose shade is poison. Overgrows this region's foison, Sheaves of whom are ripe to come To destruction's harvest home : 230 Men must reap the things they sow, Force from force must ever flow, Or worse ; but 'tis a bitter woe That love or reason cannot change The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. 235 Padua, thou within whose walls Those mute guests at festivals. Son and Mother, Death and Sin, Played at dice for Ezzelin, Till Death cried, "I win, I win! " 240 And Sin cursed to lose the wager. But Death promised, to assuage her, That he would petition for Her to be made Vice-Emperor, When the destined years were o'er, 245 Over all between the Po And the eastern Alpine snow. Under the mighty Austrian. Sin smiled so as Sin only can, And since that time, aye, long before, 250 Both have ruled from shore to shore. That incestuous pair, who follow Tyrants as the sun the swallow. As Repentance follows Crime, And as changes follow Time. 255 In thine halls the lamp of learning, Padua, now no more is burning; Like a meteor, whose wild way Is lost over the grave of day. It gleams betrayed and to betray: 260 Once remotest nations came To adore that sacred flame, When it lit not many a hearth On this cold and gloomy earth : Now new fires from antique light 265 Spring beneath the wide world's might ; But their spark lies dead in thee. Trampled out by tyranny. As the Norway woodman quells. In the depth of piny dells, 270 One light flame among the brakes. While the boundless forest shakes. And its mighty trunks are torn By the fire thus lowly born : The spark beneath his feet is dead, 275 He starts to see the flames it fed Howling through the darkened sky With a myriad tongues victoriously, And sinks down in fear : so thou, O Tyranny, beholdest now 280 Light around thee, and thou hearest The loud flames ascend, and fearest : Grovel on the earth : aye, hide In the dust thy purple pride ! Noon descends aromid me now : 285 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, When a soft and purple mist Like a vaporous amethyst. 462 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Or an air-dissolved star Mingling light and fragrance, far 290 From the curved horizon's bound To the point of heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky ; And the plains that silent lie Underneath, the leaves unsodden 295 Where the infant frost has trodden With his morning-winged feet. Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; And the red and golden vines, Piercing with their trellised lines 300 The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; The dun and bladed grass no less, Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air ; the flower Glimmering at my feet ; the line 305 Of the olive-sandalled Apennine In the south dimly islanded ; And the Alps, whose snows are spread High between the clouds and sun ; And of living things each one ; 310 And my spirit which so long Darkened this swift stream of song, Interpenetrated lie By the glory of the sky : Be it love, light, harmony, 315 Odour, or the soul of all Which from heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe. Noon descends, and after noon 320 Autumn's evening meets me soon, Leading the infantine moon, And that one star, which to her Almost seems to minister Half the crimson liglit she brings 325 From the sunset's radiant springs : And the soft dreams of the morn, (Which like winged winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies 'Mid remembered agonies, 330 The frail bark of this lone being,) Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, And its ancient pilot. Pain, Sits beside the helm again. Other flowering isles must be In the sea of life and agony : Other spirits float and flee O'er that gulph : even now, perhaps, On some rock the wild wave wraps, With folded wings they waiting sit For my bark, to pilot it To some calm and blooming cove. 335 340 Where for me, and those I love, May a windless bower be built. Far from passion, pain, and guilt, 345 In a dell 'mid lawny hills. Which the wild sea-murmur fills. And soft sunshine, and the sound Of old forests echoing round. And the light and smell divine 350 Of all flowers that breathe and shine : We may live so happy there, That the spirits of the air. Envying us, may even entice To our healing paradise 355 The polluting multitude ; But their rage would be subdued By that clime divine and calm. And the winds whose wings rain balm On the uplifted soul, and leaves 360 Under which the bright sea heaves ; While each breathless interval In their whisperings musical The inspired soul supplies With its own deep melodies, 365 And the love which heals all strife Circling, hke the breath of life, AH things in that sweet abode With its own mild brotherhood : They, not it, would change; and soon 370 Every sprite beneath the moon Would repent its envy vain. And the earth grow young again. ODE TO THE WEST WIND O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being. Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red. Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O, thou, $ Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low. Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 1 Icr clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 10 (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill : THE INDIAN SERENADE 463 Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ; Destroyer and preserver ; hear, O, hear ! II Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, 15 Loose clouds Hke earth's decaying leaves are shed. Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning : there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20 Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25 Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst : hear ! Ill O, Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30 Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 35 So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 40 Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: 0, hear ! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free 46 Than thou, O, imcontrollable ! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 50 Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 55 One too Hke thee : tameless, and swift, and proud. V Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : What if my leaves are falling like its own ! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, 61 My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth ! And, by the incantation of this verse, 65 Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy ! 0, wind. If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 70 THE INDIAN SERENADE I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low. And the stars are shining bright : I arise from dreams of thee, 5 And a spirit in my feet Hath led me — who knows how ? To thy chamber window, Sweet ! 464 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream — 10 The Champak ^ odours fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart ; — As I must on thine, 15 O ! beloved as thou art ! lift me from the grass ! 1 die ! I faint ! I fail ! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. 20 My cheek is cold and white, alas ! My heart beats loud and fast ; — Oh ! press it to thine own again. Where it will break at last. THE CLOUD I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams ; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noon-day dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 5 The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, 10 And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below. And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 15 While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers. Lightning my pilot sits ; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, — It struggles and howls at fits ; 20 Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me. Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the i)urple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 25 Over the lakes and the plains. Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains ; a tree of India, belonging to the magnolia family And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 30 The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. And his burning plumes outspread. Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag, 35 Which an earthquake rocks and swings. An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath. Its ardours of rest and of love, 40 And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove. That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 45 Whom mortals call the moon. Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her imseen feet. Which only the angels hear, 50 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. The stars peep behind her and peer ; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. Like a swarm of golden bees. When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 56 Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. Are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 61 When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 65 The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow. When the powers of the air are chained to my chair. Is the million-coloured bow ; 70 The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove. While the moist earth was laughing below. TO A SKYLARK 465 I am the daughter of earth and water, And the nurshng of the sky ; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 75 I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain when, with never a stain, The pavihon of heaven is bare. And the winds and sunbeams with their con- vex gleams Build up the blue dome of air, 80 I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. TO A SKYLARK Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert, Tliat from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 5 Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire ; The blue deep thou wingest. And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. lo In the golden Hghtning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightning. Thou dost float and run ; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even 16 Melts around thy flight ; Like a star of heaven In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, 20 Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere. Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 25 All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare. From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 30 What thou art we know not ; What is most like thee ? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 35 Like a poet hidden In the hght of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : 40 Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower. Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : 45 Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view : 50 Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves. By warm winds deflowered, TiU the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy- winged thieves. 55 Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass,. Rain-awakened flowers. All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 60 Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine ; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine : 65 Chorus Hymenasal, Or triumphal chaunt, Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 70 466 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain ? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain ? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain: 75 With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be — Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee : Thou lovest — but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 80 Waking or asleep. Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream. Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 85 We look before and after And pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught ; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 90 Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 95 Better than all measures Of delightful sound — Better than all treasures That in books are found — Thy skill to poet were, thou scomer of the ground ! 100 Teach mc half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then — as I am listening now. 105 TO Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory — Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead, 5 Are heaped for the beloved's bed ; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone. Love itself shall slumber on. ADONAIS I weep for Adonais — he is dead ! O, weep for Adonais ! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head ! And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure com- peers, 5 And teach them thine own sorrow, say : "With me Died Adonais ; till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity." Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, 10 When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies In darkness ? where was lorn Urania When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, 'Mid listening Echoes, m her Paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath, 15 Rekindled all the fading melodies. With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath. He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death. O, weep for Adonais — he is dead ! Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep Yet wherefore? Quench within their burn- ing bed Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; For he is gone, where all things wise and fair Descend ; — oh, dream not that the amo- rous Deep 25 Will yet restore him to the vital air ; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. Most musical of mourners, weep again ! Lament anew, Urania ! — He died, — Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, 31 ADONAIS 467 The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified. Into the gulph of death ; but his clear Sprite _ 35 Yet reigns o'er earth ; the third among the sons of light. ]Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! Not all to that bright station dared to climb ; And happier they their happiness who knew% Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time 40 In which suns perished ; others more sublime. Struck by the envious wrath of man or God, Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime ; And some yet live, treading the thorny road, Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode. 45 But now, thy youngest, dearest one has perished, The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished. And fed with true love tears, instead of dew ; Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 50 Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last. The bloom, whose petals, nipped before they blew, Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; The broken lily lies — the storm is overpast. To that high Capital, where kingly Death Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay. He came ; and bought, with price of purest breath, 57 A grave among the eternal. — Come away ! Haste, while the vault of blue ItaUan day Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while stiU 60 He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay ; Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. He will awake no more, oh, never more ! — Within the twilight chamber spreads apace The shadow of white Death, and at the door 66 Invisible Corruption waits to trace His extreme way to her dim dwelhng-place ; The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw. 72 O, weep for Adonais ! — The quick Dreams, The passion -winged Ministers of thought, Who were his flocks, whom near the Uving streams 75 Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught The love which was its music, wander not, — Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain, But droop there, whence they sprung ; and mourn their lot Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain, 80 They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home again. And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head. And fans him with her moonUght wings, and cries : "Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead ; See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, 85 Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain." Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise ! She knew not 'twas her own ; as with no stain She faded, like a cloud which had out wept its rain. 90 One from a lucid urn of starry dew Washed his light hmbs as if embalming them ; Another clipped her profuse locks, and threw The wreath upon him, like an anadem, Which frozen tears instead of pearls be- gem ; _ 95 Another in her wilful grief would break Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem A greater loss with one which was more weak ; And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek. 468 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Another Splendour on his mouth aUt, loo That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, And pass into the panting heart beneath With hghtning and with music : the damp death Quenched its caress upon his icy hps ; 105 And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath Of moonhght vapour, which the cold night chps, It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse. And'others came . . . Desires and Adora- tions, Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies, Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations iii Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies ; And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 115 Came in slow pomp ; — the moving pomp might seem Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. All he had loved, and moulded into thought, From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound. Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 1 20 Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground, Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day ; Afar the' melancholy thunder moaned. Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, 125 And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless moun- tains. And feeds her grief with his remembered lay, And will no more reply to winds or foun- tains. Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray, 130 Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day ; Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear Than those for whose disdain she pined away Into a shadow of aU sounds : — a drear Murmur, between their songs, is aU the wood- men hear. 135 Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were. Or they dead leaves ; since her delight is flown. For whom should she have waked the sullen year? To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear, 140 Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both Thou, Adonais : wan they stand and sere Amid the faint companions of their youth, With dew aU turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth. Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale. Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain ; 1 46 Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain. Soaring and screaming round her empty nest, 150 As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast, And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest ! Ah, woe is me ! Winter is come and gone, But grief returns with the revolving year; The airs and streams renew their joyous tone; 156 The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear ; Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons' bier ; The amorous birds now pair m every brake. And build their mossy homes in field and brere ; 160 And the green lizard, and the golden snake. Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake. Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean A quickening Ufe from the Earth's heart has burst, ADONAIS 469 As it has ever done, with change and mo- tion, 165 From the great morning of the world when first God dawned on Chaos ; in its stream im- mersed The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light ; All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst ; Diffuse themselves ; and spend in love's delight 170 The beauty and the joy of their renewed might. The leprous corpse touched by this spirit tender Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath ; Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour 174 Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath ; Naught we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows Be as a sword consumed before the sheath By sightless lightning? — th' intense atom glows A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose. 180 Alas ! that all we loved of him should be, But for our grief, as if it had not been. And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene The actors or spectators ? Great and mean Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow. 186 As long as skies are blue, and fields are green, Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow. Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow. He will awake no more, oh, never more ! "Wake thou," cried Aliser}^ "childless JNIother, rise 191 Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core, A wound more fierce than his with tears and sighs." And all the Dreams that watched Urania's eyes, 194 AE And all the Echoes whom their sister's song Had held in holy silence, cried : " Arise ! " Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung, From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung. She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs 199 Out of the East, and follows wild and drear The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania ; 204 So saddened round her like an atmosphere Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her way Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. Out of her secret Paradise she sped, Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel, And human hearts, which to her aery tread Yielding not, wounded the invisible 210 Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell : And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they, Rent the soft Form they never could repel, Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May, 215 Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way. In the death chamber for a moment Death, Shamed by the presence of that living Might, Blushed to annihilation, and the breath Revisited those lips, and life's pale light 220 Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight. "Leave me not wild and drear and com- fortless, As silent lightning leaves the starless night ! Leave me not !" cried Urania : her distress Roused Death : Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress. 225 " Stay yet awhile ! speak to me once again ; _ Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live ; And in my heartless breast and burning brain That word, that kiss shall all thoughts else survive. With food of saddest memory kept alive, 4ro PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 231 Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give All that I am to be as thou now art ! But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart ! "Oh gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men 236 Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart Dare the unpastured dragon in his den? Defenceless as thou wert, oh where was then Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear : 240 Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when Thy spirit should have fUled its crescent sphere. The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer. "The herded wolves, bold only to pursue; The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead ; 245 The vultures to the conqueror's banner true. Who feed where Desolation first has fed, And whose wmgs rain contagion ; — how they fled, When like Apollo, from his golden bow, The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 250 And smiled ! — The spoilers tempt no second blow ; They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low. "The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn ; He sets, and each ephemeral insect then Is gathered into death without a dawn, 255 And the immortal stars awake again ; So is it in the world of living men : A godlike mincl soars forth, in its delight Waking earth bare and vciUng heaven, and when It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light 260 Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful night." Thus ceased she : and the mountain shep- herds came, Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent ; The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like Heaven is bent. An early but enduring monument, 266 Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow ; from her wilds lerne sent The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue. 270 Midst others of less note, came one frail Form, A phantom among men, companionless As the last cloud of an expiring storm Whose thunder is its knell ; he, as I guess, Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray 276 With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey. A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift — • A Love in desolation masked ; — a Power Girt round with weakness ; — it can scarce uplift 2S2 The weight of the superincumbent hour ; It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, A breaking billow ; — even whilst v/e speak Is it not broken? On the withering flower 286 The killing sim smiles brightly ; on a cheek The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break. His head was bound with pansies over- blown. And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue ; 290 And a light spear topped with a cypress cone. Round whose rude shaft dark ivy tresses grew Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew, Vibrated, as the cvcr-beating heart Shook the weak hand that grasped it ; of that crew 295 He came the last, neglected and apart ; A herd-abandoned deer, struck by the hunter's dart. All stood aloof, and at his partial moan Smiled through their tears ; well knew that gentle band ADONAIS 471 Who in another's fate now wept his own; As, in the accents of an unknown land, 301 He sung new sorrow ; sad Urania scanned The Stranger's mien, and murmured : "Who art thou?" He answered not, but with a sudden hand Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow, 305 Which was Hke Cain's or Christ's — Oh ! that it should be so ! WTiat softer voice is hushed over the dead ? Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown ? What form leans sadly o'er the white death- bed. In mockery of monumental stone, 310 The heav>' heart heaving without a moan? If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the de- parted one. Let me not vex with inharmonious sighs The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. Our Adonais has drunk poison — -oh! 316 WTiat deaf and viperous murderer could crown Life's early cup with such a draught of woe ? The nameless worm ^\■ould now itself disown : It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 320 Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong. But what was howling in one breast alone, Silent with expectation of the song, Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre imstrung. Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame ! Live ! fear no heavier chastiseitient from mc, 326 Thou noteless blot on a remembered name ! But be thyself, and know thyself to be ! And ever at thy season 'oe thou free To spQl the venom when thy fangs o'er- flow : 330 Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee ; Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt — as now. Nor let us weep that our delight is fled Far from these carrion kites that scream below ; 335 He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ; Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, 339 A portion of the Eternal, wliich must glow Through time and change, unquenchably ' the same, Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame. Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — He hath awakened from the dream of Hfe — 'Tis vi'e who, lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, 346 And in mad trance strike with oiu: spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings. — We decay Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief Con\adse us and consume us day by day, And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay. 351 He has outsoared the shadow of our night ; En\y and calumny and hate and pain. And that mirest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again ; From the contagion of the world's slow stam 356 He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain ; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, 359 With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, not he ; Moiu-n not for Adonais. — Thou young Dawn, Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee The spirit thou lamentcst is not gone ; Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan ! Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air, 366 Which like a moiu-ning veil thy scarf hadst thrown O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars \\-hich smile on its despair ! 472 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY He is made one with Nature: there is heard 37° His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move 375 Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; Which wields the world with never wearied love. Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. He is a portion of the loveliness Which once he made more lovely : he doth bear 380 His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress Sweeps through the dull dense world, com- pelling there All new successions to the forms they wear ; Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight 384 To its own likeness, as each mass may bear ; And bursting in its beauty and its might From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light. The splendours of the firmament of time May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not ; Like stars to their appointed height they climb, 390 And death is a low mist which cannot blot The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, And love and life contend in it, for what Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there 395 And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air. The inheritors of unfulfilled renown Rose from their thrones, built beyond mor- tal thought. Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 400 Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he fought And as he fell and as he lived and loved, Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot, Arose ; and Lucan, by his death ap- proved : Oblivion, as they rose, shrank like a thing reproved. 405 And many more, whose names on Earth are dark But whose transmitted effluence cannot die So long as fire outlives the parent spark. Rose, robed m dazzling immortality. 409 "Thou art become as one of us," they cry "It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long Swung blind in unascended majesty. Silent alone amid an Heaven of Song. Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng ! " Who mourns for Adonais? oh come forth. Fond wretch ! and know thyself and him aright. 416 Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth ; As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might Satiate the void circumference : then shrink 420 Even to a point within our day and night ; And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee sink. When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to the brink. Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, O, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis naught 425 That ages, empires, and religions there Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought ; For such as he can lend, — they borrow not Glory from those who made the world their prey ; And he is gathered to the kings of thought Who waged contention with their time's decay, 431 And of the past are all that cannot pass away. Go thou to Rome, — • at once the Paradise, The grave, the city, and the wilderness ; And where its wrecks like shattered moun- tains rise, 435 And flowering weeds and fragrant copses dress The bones of Desolation's nakedness Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead Thy footsteps to a slope of green access Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead, A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread. 441 FINAL CHORUS FROM HELLAS 473 And grey walls moulder round, on which dull Time Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, Pavilioning the dust of him who planned This refuge for his memory, doth stand 446 Like flame transformed to marble ; and beneath, A field is spread, on which a newer band Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death, Welcoming him we lose with scarce extin- guished breath. 450 Here pause : these graves are all too young as yet To have outgrown the sorrow which con- signed Its charge to each ; and if the seal is set, Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind. Break it not thou ! too sm-ely shalt thou find 455 Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. What Adonais is, why fear we to become? The One remains, the many change and pass ; 460 Heaven's light forever shines. Earth's shadows fly ; Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass. Stains the white radiance of Eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die, If thou woiddst be with that which thou dost seek ! 465 Follow where aU is fled ! — Rome's azure sky. Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart ? Thy hopes are gone before : from all things here 470 They have departed ; thou shouldst now depart ! A light is past from the revolving year, And man, and woman ; and what still is dear Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whis- pers near; 4 — 'Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither, No more let Life divide what Death can join together. That Light whose smile kindles the Uni- verse, That Beauty in which all things work and move, That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse 480 Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love WTuch, through the web of being blindly wove By man and beast and earth and air and sea, Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me, 485 Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. The breath whose might I have invoked in song Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven Far from the shore, far from the trerhbling throng 489 WTiose sails were never to the tempest given ; The massy earth and sphered skies are riven ! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar: Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star, 494 Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. FINAL CHORUS FROM HELLAS The world's great age begins anew, The golden years return. The earth doth like a snake renew Her winter weeds outworn : Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam, Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. 6 A brighter Hellas rears its mountains From waves serener far ; A new Peneus rolls his fountains Against the morning-star. 10 Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. 474 JOHN KEATS A loftier Argo cleaves the main, Fraught with a later prize ; Another Orpheus sings again, 15 And loves, and weeps, and dies. A new Ulysses leaves once more Calypso for his native shore. O, write no more the tale of Troy, If earth Death's scroll must be ! 20 Nor mix with Laian rage the joy Which dawns upon the free : Although a subtler Sphinx renew Riddles of death Thebes never knew. Another Athens shall arise, 25 And to remoter time Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, The splendour of its prime ; And leave, if naught so bright may live. All earth can take or Heaven can give. 30 Saturn and Love their long repose Shall burst, more bright and good Than all who fell, than One who rose, Than many unsubdued : Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers, 35 But votive tears and symbol flowers. O cease ! must hate and death return ? Cease ! must men kill and die ? Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy. 40 The world is weary of the past, O might it die or rest at last ! TO NIGHT Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, Spirit of Night ! Out of the misty eastern cave, Where all the long and lone daylight Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, 5 Which make thee terrible and dear, — ■ Swift be thy flight ! Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, Star in-wrought ! Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; 10 Kiss her until she be wearied out ; Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land. Touching all with thine opiate wand — Come, long sought ! When I arose and saw the dawn, 15 I sighed for thee ; Wlien light rode high, and the dew was gone. And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. And the weary Day turned to his rest. Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noon-tide bee. Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me ? — And I replied, No, not thee ! 4 25 30 35 Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon — Sleep will come when thou art fled ; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night — Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon ! TO One word is too often profaned For me to profane it. One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it. One hope is too like despair For prudence to smother. And pity from thee more dear Than that from another. I can give not what men caU love, But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not, — The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow. The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow? JOHN KEATS (1795-1821) ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 475 But being too happy in thine happiness, — That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O for a draught of vintage ! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provengal song, and sunburnt mirth ! for a beaker fidl of the warm South, 15 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the v/orld unseen, xA-nd with thee fade away into the forest dim : 20 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget, What thou among the leaves hast never known. The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; 26 \\Tiere but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs. Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to- morrow. 30 Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee. Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and re- tards : Already with thee ! tender is the night. 35 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starr>' Fays ; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 40 1 cannot see what flowers are at my feet. Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs. But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglan- tine ; 46 Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; And mid-May's eldest child. The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of fhes on summer eves. 50 Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeftd Death, CaU'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than. ever seems it rich to die, 55 To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy ! StiU wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod. 60 Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! No himgry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : . Perhaps the self-sam.e song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 66 She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70 Forlorn ! the ver>' word is like a beU To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 75 Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley -glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 79 Fled is that music : — - Do I wake or sleep ? ODE ON A GRECIAN URN Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time. Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flower>^ tale more sweetly than our rhyme : What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape 5 476 JOHN KEATS Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempo or the dales of Arcady ? What men or gods are these ? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape ? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy ? lo Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear 'd. Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 1 5 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal — yet, do. not grieve ; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss. Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 20 Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu : And, happy melodist, unwearied, Forever piping songs forever new ; More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! Forever warm and still to be enjoy'd, 26 Forever panting, and forever young ; All breathing human passion far above. That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30 • Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? What little town by river or sea shore, 35 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Win silent be ; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40 O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought. With forest branches and the trodden weed ; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 45 When old age shall this generation waste. Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is aU, Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 50 TO AUTUMN Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch- eaves run ; 4 To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fiU aU fruit with ripeness to the core ; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more. And still more, later flowers for the bees. Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells. 1 1 Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor. Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 16 Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers : And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 20 Or by a cider-press, with patient look. Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river saUows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 30 Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft ; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 477 ODE Bards of Passion and of ]\Iirth, Ye have left your souls on earth ! Have ye souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new ? Yes, and those of heaven commune s With the spheres of sun and moon ; With the noise of fountains wond'rous, And the parle of voices thund'rous ; With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, in soft ease lo Seated on Elysian lawns Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns; Underneath large bluebells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented. And the rose herself has got 15 Perfume which on earth is not ; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing. But divine melodious truth ; Philosophic numbers smooth ; 20 Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries. Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again ; And the souls ye left behind you 25 Teach us, here, the way to find you Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their Httle week ; 30 Of their sorrows and delights ; Of their passions and their spites ; Of their glory and their shame ; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day, 35 Wisdom, though fled far away. Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth ! Ye have souls in heaven too. Double-lived in regions new ! 40 LINES OX THE AIERMAID TAVERN Souls of Poets dead and gone. What Elysium have ye kno-vMi, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the IMermaid Tavern ? Have ye tippled drink more fine 5 Than mine host's Canary wine? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of venison ? O generous food ! Drest as though bold Robin Hood 10 Would, with his maid Marian, Sup and bowse from horn and can. I have heard that on a day Mine host's sign-board flew away, Nobody knew whither, till 15 An astrologer's old quiU To a sheepskin gave the story, Said he saw you in your glory, Underneath a new old-sign Sipping beverage divine, 20 And pledging with contented smack The ^lermaid in the Zodiac. Souls of Poets dead and gone, WTiat Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, 25 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering ? The sedge has wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing, 4 what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. 8 1 see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew, x\nd on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. 12 "I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful — a faery's child ; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. 16 "I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love. And made sweet moan. 20 "I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long. For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song. 24 47^ JOHN KEATS "She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said — 'I love thee true.' 28 "She took me to her elfm grot. And there she wept and sigh'd full sore, And there I shut her wild, wild eyes, With kisses four. 32 "And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dream'd — ah ! woe betide ! — The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side. 36 "I saw pale kings and princes too. Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; They cried — ' La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall 1 ' 4° "I saw their starved lips in the gloom, With horrid warning gaped wide ; And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill's side. 44 " And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing." 48 SONNETS THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET The poetry of earth is never dead : When all the birds are faint with the hot sun. And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead In summer luxury, — he has never done 6 With his delights ; for when tired out with fun He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never : On a lone winter evening, when the frost 10 Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowf^iness half lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hUls. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAP- MAN'S HOMER Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 5 That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne ; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; 10 Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — Silent, upon a peak in Darien. TO SLEEP O soft embalmer of the stiU midnight ! Shutting with careful fingers and benign Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine ; O soothest Sleep ! if so it please thee, close, 5 In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws Aroimd my bed its iuUing charities ; Then save me, or the passed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; 10 Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength for darkness,*burrowing hke a mole ; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul. ON THE SEA It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often 'tis in such gentle temper found 5 That scarcely will the veiy smallest shell Be mov'd for days from whence it sometime fell. When last the winds of heaven were unbound. ENDYMION 479 Oh, ye, who have vour eve-balls vex'd and tir'd. Feast them upon the wideness of the sea ; lo O, ye, whose ears are dinn'd with uproar rude, Or fed too much with cloying melody, — Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quir'd ! WHEN I HAVE FEARS When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain. Before high piled books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain ; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, 5 Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance ; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour ! That I shall never look upon thee more, 10 Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love ! — then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Tin love and fame to nothingness do sink. BRIGHT STAR! Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art — Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart. Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task 5 Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors — No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel forever its soft fall and swell, 1 1 Awake forever in a sweet unrest. Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath. And so live ever — or else swoon to death. ENDYMION From BOOK I A thing of beauty is a joy forever : Its loveliness increases ; it will never Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep A bower quiet for iis, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 5 Therefore, on every morrow, are we ^vreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth. Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all, 11 Some shape of beauty moves away the paU From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon. Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 1 5 With the green world they live in ; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season ; the mid forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms : And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 20 We have imagined for the mighty dead ; AU lovely tales that -we have heard or read : An endless fount^ia of immortal drink. Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. Nor do we merely feel these essences ^5 For one short hour ; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon. The passion poesy, glories infinite. Haunt us till they become a cheering light 30 Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'er- cast. They alway must be with us, or we die. ******* "This river does not see the naked sky, 540 Till it begins to progress silverly Around the western border of the wood, Whence, from a certain spot, its winding flood Seems at the distance like a crescent moon : And in that nook, the very pride of Jime, 545 Had I been us'd to pass my weary eyes; The rather for the sun unwilling leaves So dear a picture of his sovereign power, And I could witness his most kingly hour, WTien he doth tighten up the golden reins, 550 And paces leisurely down amber plains His snorting four. Now when his chariot last Its beams against the zodiac-hon^ cast, ^ the zodiacal sign Leo, in which the sun travels from July 21 to August 21 48o JOHN" KEATS There blossom 'd suddenly a magic bed Of sacred ditamy/ and poppies red : 555 At which I wondered greatly, knowing well That but one night had wrought this flowery spell ; And, sitting down close by, began to muse What it might mean. " And lo ! from opening clouds, I saw emerge The loveUest moon that ever sUver'd o'er A shell for Neptune's goblet : she did soar So passionately bright, my dazzled soul 594 Commingling with her argent spheres did roll Through clear and cloudy, even when she went At last into a dark and vapoury tent — Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train Of planets all were in the blue again. To commune with those orbs, once more I rais'd 600 My sight right upward: but it was quite dazed By a bright something, sailing down apace, Making me quickly veil my ,eyes and face : Again I look'd, and, O ye deities, Who from Olympus watch our destinies ! 605 Whence that completed form of aU complete- ness? Whence came that high perfection of all sweet- ness? Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O where Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair? 609 Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun; Not — thy soft hand, fair sister ! let me shun Such follying before thee — yet she had. Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad ; And they were simply gordian'd up and braided, Leaving, in naked comehness, unshaded, 615 Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow ; The which were blended in, I know not how, With such a paradise of lips and eyes, Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest sighs, That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings And plays about its fancy, till the stings 621 Of human neighbourhood envenom aU. Unto what awful power shall I call? ^ a flower of Greece, supposed to possess magi- cal properties To what high fane ? — Ah ! see her hovering feet, More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely sweet 625 Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose From out her cradle shell. The wind out- blows Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion ; 'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed 630 Over the darkest, lushest bluebell bed, Handfuls of daisies." — "Endymion, how strange ! Dream within dream!" — "She took an airy range. And then, towards me, like a very maid. Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid. And press'd me by the hand : Ah ! 'twas too much ; 636 Methought I fainted at the charmed touch. Yet held my recollection, even as one Who dives three fathoms where the waters run Gurgling in beds of coral: for anon, 640 I felt upmounted in that region Where falling stars dart their artillery forth, And eagles struggle with the buffeting north That balances the heavy meteor-stone ; — Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone ; 645 But lapp'd and luU'd along the dangerous sky. Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying high, And straightway into frightful eddies swoop'd ; Such as ay muster where grey time has scoop'd Huge dens and caverns in a movmtain's side: There hollow sounds arous'd me, and I sigh'd To faint once more by looking on my bHss — I was distracted ; madly did I kiss 653 The wooing arms which held me, and did give My eyes at once to death : but 'twas to live, To take in draughts of hfe from the gold fount Of kind and passionate looks ; to count, and count The moments, by some greedy help that seem'd A second self, that each might be redeem'd And plunder'd of its load of blessedness. 660 Ah, desperate mortal! I e'en dar'd to press Her very cheek against my crowned lip, And, at that moment, felt my body dip Into a warmer air : a moment more. Our feet were soft in flowers. There was store Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes 666 A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, Loiter'd arovmd us ; then of honey cells. Made delicate from all white-flower bells ; And once, above the edges of our nest, 670 An arch face peep'd, — an Oread as I guess'd. HYPERION 481 HYPERION A FRAGMENT From Book I Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of mom, Far from the fier>'' noon, and eve's one star, Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone. Still as the sUence roimd about his lair ; 5 Forest on forest hung about his head Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass. But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more 11 By reason of his fallen divirdty Spreading a shade : the Naiad 'mid her reeds Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips. Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went, 15 No further than to where his feet had stray'd, And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred ; and his reaknless eyes were closed ; While his bow'd head seem'd hst'ning to the Earth, 20 His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. It seem'd no force could wake him from his place ; But there came one, who with a kindred hand Touch'd his Avide shoulders, after bending low With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 26 She was a Goddess of the infant world ; By her in stature the tail ^^^xnazon Had stood a pigmy's height : she would have ta'en Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ; Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. 30 Her face was large as that of Memphian I sphinx, Pedestal'd haply in a palace court, When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. But oh ! how unlike marble was that face : How beautiful, if sorrow had not made 35 Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. There was a listening fear in her regard, As if calamity had but begun ; As if the vanward clouds of evil days Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 40 Was with its stored thunder labouring up. One hand she press'd upon that aching spot W'here beats the human heart, as if just there, Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain : The other upon Saturn's bended neck 45 She laid, and to the level of his ear Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake In solemn tenor and deep organ tone : Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue Would come in these like accents ; O how fraU To that large utterance of the early Gods ! 51 "Saturn, look up ! — though wherefore, poor old King? I have no comfort for thee, no, not one : I cannot say, 'O wherefore sleepest thou?' For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God; 56 And ocean too, with all its solemn noise, Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all the air Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. Thy thunder, conscious of the new command. Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 61 And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands Scorches and burns our once serene domain. O aching time ! O moments big as years ! .All as ye pa§s swell out the monstrous truth, -And press it so upon our weary griefs 66 That unbelief has not a space to breathe. Saturn, sleep on : — O thoughtless, why did I Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude? W^hy should I ope thy melancholy eyes? 70 Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I wefep." As when, upon a tranced summer night. Those green-rob'd senators of mighty woods. Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars. Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, Save from one gradual solitary gust 76 Which comes upon the silence, and dies off. As if the ebbing air had but one wave ; So came these words and went ; the while in tears She touch'd her fair large forehead to the ground, 80 Just where her falling hair might be outspread A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. One moon, with alteration slow, had shed Her silver seasons four upon the night, And still these two were postured motionless, Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ; 86 482 JOHN KEATS The frozen God still couchant on the earth, And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet : Until at length old Saturn lifted up His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone, 90 And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, And that fan: kneeling Goddess; and then spake, As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard Shook horrid with such aspen-malady : "O tender spouse of gold Hyperion, 95 Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face ; Look up, and let me see our doom in it ; Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape Is Saturn's ; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice Of Saturn ; tell me, if this wrinkling brow, 100 Naked and bare of its great diadem. Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had power To make me desolate ? whence came the strength ? How was it nurtur'd to such bursting forth. While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous grasp? 105 But it is so ; and I am smother'd up, And buried from all godlike exercise Of influence benign on planets pale. Of admonitions to the winds and seas. Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting, no And all those acts which Deity supreme Doth ease its heart of love in. — I am gone Away from my own bosom : I have left My strong identity, my real self, Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit, 115 Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, search ! Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round L^pon all space : space starr'd, and lorn of light ; Space region 'd with life-air ; and barren void ; Spaces of lire, and all the yawn of hell. — 120 Search, Thea, search ! and tell me, if thouseest A certain shape or shadow, making way With wings or chariot iierce to repossess A heaven he lost erewhile : it must — it must Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be Kmg. Yes, there must be a golden victory ; 126 There must be Gods thrown down, and trum- pets blown Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival Upon the gold clouds metropolitan. Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 130 Of .strings in hollow shells ; and there shall be Beautiful things made new, for the surprise Of the sky-children ; I will give command : Thea! Thea! Thea! where is Saturn?" THE EVE OF ST. AGNES St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass. And silent was the flock in woolly fold : Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told 5 His rosary, and while his frosted breath. Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death. Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 9 His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan. Along the chapel aisle b)^ slow degrees : The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : 15 Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries. He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails, To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. Northward he turneth through a little door. And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 20 Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor ; But no — - already had his deathbell rung ; The joys of all his life were said and sung : His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: Another way he went, and soon among 25 Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide From hurry to and fro. Soon, vip aloft, 30 The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 35 With hair blown back, and wings put cross- wise on their breasts. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 483 • At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay 40 Of old romance. These let us wish away, And turn, sole-t bought ed, to one Lady there, Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care, As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 45 They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honeyed middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright ; 50 As, supperless to bed they must retire. And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of 'Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. Full of this whim was thoughtful IMadeline : The music, yearning like a God in pain, 56 She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 60 And back retir'd; not cool'd by high dis- dain, But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere : She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short : 65 The hallowed hour was near at hand : she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwink'd^ with fairy fancy ; all amort,- 70 Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. So, purposing each moment to retire. She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors. Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire _ 75 For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have been. 81 He ventures in : let no buzzed whisper tell : All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords WiU storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel : For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 85 Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, \\'Tiose very dogs woifld execrations howl Against his lineage : not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion fotd, Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 90 Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 94 The sound of merriment and chorus bland : He startled her ; but soon she knew his face. And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. Saying, "]\Iercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place ; They are aU here to-night, the whole blood- thirsty race ! " Get hence ! get hence ! there's dwarfish Hildebrand ; 100 He had a fever late, and in the tit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit jNIore tame for his grey hairs — Alas me ! flit!. Flit like a ghost away." — "All, Gossip ^ dear, 105 We're safe enough ; here in this armchair sit, And teU me how" — "Good Saints I not here, not here ; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." blinded dead ^ godmother 484 JOHN KEATS He follow'd through a lowly arched way, Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; And as she mutter'd "Well-a — well-a- day!" iii He found him in a little moonlight room, Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb. "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 115 Which none but secret sisterhood may see, When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." "St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve — Yet men will murder upon holy days : Thou must hold w'ater in a witch's sieve, 1 20 And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, To venture so : it fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays This very night : good angels her deceive ! But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve." 126 Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, While Porphyro upon her face doth look, Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book. As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 131 But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook ^ Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold. And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 135 Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot : then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame ^ start : "A cruel man and impious thou art: 140 Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream Alone with her good angels, far apart From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! — I deem Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." 144 "1 will not harm her, by all saints I swear," Quoth Porphyro : " O may I ne'er find grace When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, ^ hold back ^ old woman If one of her soft ringlets I displace, Or look with ruffian passion in her face : Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; Or I win, even in a moment's space, 151 Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears." "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? A poor, weak, pals3^-stricken, churchyard thing,— _ 15s Whose passing-bell^ may ere the midnight toll; Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. Were never miss'd." — Thus plaining,^ doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing, 160 That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy 165 That he might see her beauty unespied, 7\nd win perhaps that night a peerless bride. While legioned fairies pac'd the coverlet. And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met, 1 70 Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. =5 "It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame : " All cates ■* and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night : by the tam- bour frame Her own liite thou wilt see : no time to spare. For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 177 Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer The whUe. .All! thou must needs the lady wed. Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." iSo So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear ' bell rung when one is dying ^ lamenting ^ Merlin the Magician, of Arthurian romance, was deceived and bespelled by Vivien, his mistress, cf. Tennyson's Merlin and Vivien. * delicacies THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 485 To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 1S5 Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, and chaste ; Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain .^ His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, 190 Old Angela was feeling for the stair. When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware: With silver taper's light, and pious care. She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 196 Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 199 Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died : She closed the door, she panted all akin To spirits of the air, and visions, wide : No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! But to her heart, her heart was voluble, Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 205 As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. A casement high and triple-arched there was, All garlanded with carven imag'ries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- grass, 210 And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings ; And in the midst, 'mong thousand herald- ries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. 216 Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules ^ on Madeline's fair breast , As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, ^ greatly ^ red color And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 221 And on her hair a glory, like a saint : She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew faint : She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 225 Anon his heart revives : her vespers done. Of aU its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 233 But dares not look behind, or aU the charm is fled. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, 236 Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; Flown, like a thought, until the morrow- day; Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; ^ 241 Blinded ali^e from sunshine and from rain. As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, Prophyro gazed upon her empty dress, 245 And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanc'd To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. And breath'd himself : then from the closet crept. Noiseless as fear ^ in a wide wilderness, 250 And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept. And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! — how fast she slept. Then by the bedside, where the faded moon Made a dim, sflver twilight, soft he set 254 A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, ' A mass-book would not be opened by devout pagans. ^ i.e., a person in fear 486 JOHN KEATS The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — The hall door shuts again, and aU the noise is gone. 261 And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd. While he from forth the closet brought aheap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; 265 With jellies soother^ than the creamy curd. And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. These delicates he heap'd v/ith glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night, 274 Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake. Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 279 Thus whispering, his warm, imnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream : The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : It seem'd he never, never could redeem 286 From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tender- est be, 290 He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute. In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci," - Close to her ear touching the melody ; — Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan : He ceased — she panted quick — and sud- denly 295 ?Ier ])lue affrayed eyes wide open shone : Upo!i his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculp- tured stone. * smoother ^ Cf. Keats' poem with the same title. Her eyes v/ere open, but she still beheld. Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : There was a painful change, that night expell'd 300 The blisses of her dream so pure and deep. At which fair Madeline began to weep, And moan forth witless Avords with many a sigh; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 305 Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dream- ingly. "Ah, Porphyro !" said she, " but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: How chang'd thou art ! how pallid, chiU, and drear ! • 311 Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far At these voluptuous accents, he arose. Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; Into her dream he melted, as the rose 3 20 Blendeth its odour with the violet, — Solution sweet : meantime the frost -wmd blows Like Love's alarum, pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: 325 " This is no dream, my bride, my IMadeline ! " 'Tis dark : the iced gusts still rave and beat : "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! Porphyro wiU leave me here to fade and pine. — Cruel ! v/hat traitor could thee hither bring? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 331 Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride ! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 335 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 487 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest , A famished pUgrim, — sav'd by miracle. 339 Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest Saving of thy sweet self ; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. "Hark! 'tis an elfui-storm from fairy- land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 344 Arise — • arise ! the morning is at hand ; — The bloated wassaUers will never heed : — Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — Drown'dallin Rhenish and the sleepy mead : Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 350 For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all aroimd, At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. — 355 In all the house was heard no human soimd. A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door ; The arras, rich v/ith horseman, hawk, and hound, 358 Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar ; And the long carpets rose along the gusty_ floor. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide haU ; " Like phantoms, to the iron porch they glide ; Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. With a huge em.pty flagon by his side : The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 365 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : By one, and one, the bolts fvdl easy slide : — The chains lie sUent on the footworn stones; — The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. And they are gone : ay, ages long ago 370 These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe. And all his warrior-guests, with siiade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm. Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old Died palsy-twitch 'd, with meagre, face deform ; 376 The Beadsman, after thousand aves told. For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR ' (1775-1864) iESOP AND RHODOPE SECOND CONA^ERSATION Msop. And so, our fellow-slaves are given to contention on the score of dignity ? RJiodope. I do not believe they are much addicted to contention: for, whenever the good Xanthus hears a signal of such misbe- haviour, he either brings a scourge into the midst of them or sends our lady to scold them smartly for it. Jisop. Admirable evidence against their propensity 1 Rliodope. I will not have you find them out so, nor laugh at them. ^-Esop. Seeing that the good Xanthus and our lady are equally fond of thee, and always visit thee both together, the girls, however envious, cannot well or safely be arrogant, but must of necessity yield the first place to thee. Rliodope. They indeed are observant of the kindness thus bestowed upon me : j-et they afflict m« by taunting me continually with what I am unable to deny. JEsop. If it is true, it ought little to trouble thee ; if untrue, less. I know, for I have looked into nothing else of late, no evil can thy heart have admitted : a sigh of thine be- fore the gods would remove the heaviest that could faU on it. Pray teU me what it may be. Come, be courageous ; be cheerful. I can easily pardon a smile if thou impleadest me of ciu-iosity. Rliodope. They remark to me that enemies or robbers took them forcibly from their par- ents . . . and that . . . and that . . . Msop. Likely enough : what then ? Why desist from speaking? why cover thy face Avith thy hair and hands? Rhodope ! Rhodope ! dost thou weep moreover? Rhodope. It is so sure ! .Esop. Was the fault thine? Rhodope. O that it were ! ... if there was any. 438 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR Jisflp. While it pains thee to tell it, keep thy sUence ; but when utterance is a solace, then impart it. Rhodopc. The}' remind me (oh ! who could have had the cruelty to relate it?) that my father, my own dear father . . . Msop. Say not the rest : I know' it : his day was come. Rhodope. . . '. sold me, sold me. You start : you did not at the lightning last night, nor at the rolling sounds above. And do you, generous ^^sop ! do you also call a misfortune a disgrace? Msop. If it is, I am among the most dis- graceful of men. Didst thou dearly love thy father? Rhodope. All loved him. He was very fond of me. yEsop. And yet sold thee ! sold thee to a stranger ! Rhodope. He was the kindest of all kind fathers, nevertheless. Nine summers ago, you may have heard perhaps, there was a grievous famine in our land of Thrace. j-Esop. I remember it perfectly. Rhodope. poor ^-Esop ! and were you too famishing in your native Phrygia? /Esop. The calamity extended beyond the narrow sea that separates our countries. ]My appetite was sharpened; but the appetite and the wits are equally set on the same grindstone. Rhodope. I was then scarcely five years old : my mother died the year before : ijiy father sighed at every funeral, but he sighed more deeply at every bridal, song. He loved me because he loved her who bore me : and yet I made him sorrowful whether I cried or smiled. If ever I vexed him, it was because I would not play when he told me, but made him, by my weeping, weep again. /Esop. And yet he could endure to lose thee ! he, thy father ! Could any other ? could any who lives on the fruits of the earth, endure it? O age, that art incumbent over me ! blessed be thou ; tlirice blessed ! Not that thou stillest the tumults of the heart, and promisest eternal calm, but that, pre- vented by thy beneficence, I never shall experience this only intolerable wretchedness. Rhodope. Alas ! alas ! Msop. Thou art now happy, and shouldst not utter that useless exclamation. Rhodope. You said something angrily and vehemently when you stepped aside. Is it not enough that the handmaidens doubt the kindness of my father ? Must so virtuous and so wise a man as .i^isop blame him also ? /Esop. Perhaps he is little to be blamed ; certainly he is much to be pitied. Rhodopc. Kind heart ! on which mine must never rest ! Msop. Rest on it for comfort and for counsel when they fail thee : rest on it, as the deities on the breast of mortals, to console and purify it. Rhodope. Could I remove any sorrow from it, I shoidd be contented. Msop. Then be so; and proceed in thy narrative. Rhodopc. Bear with me a little yet. ]\Iy thoughts have overpowered my vv^ords, and now themselves are overpowered and scattered. Forty-seven days ago (this is only the forty- eighth since I beheld you first) I was a child ; I was ignorant, I was careless. Msop. If these qualities are signs of child- hood, the imiverse is a nursery-. Rhodope. .\fiiiction, which makes many wiser, had no such effect on me. But rever- ence and love (why should I hesitate at the one avowal more than at the other?) came over me, to ripen my understanding. Msop. O Rhodope ! we must loiter no longer upon this discourse. RJiodope. Why not? Msop. Pleasant is yonder beanfield, seen over the high papyrus when it waves and bends : deep laden with the sweet heaviness of its odour is the listless air that palpitates diz- zily above it : but Death is lurking for the slumberer beneath its blossoms. Rhodope. You must not love then ! . . . but may not I? Msop. We will . . . but . . . Rhodope. We ! O sound that is to vibrate on my breast forever ! O hour 1 happier than aU other hours since time began ! O gracious Gods ! who brought me into bondage ! Msop. Be calm, be composed, be circum- spect. We must hide our treasure that we may not lose it. RJiodope. I do not think that you can love me ; and I fear and tremble to hope so. Ah, yes ; you have said you did. But again you only look at me, and sigh as if you repented. Msop. Unworthy as I may be of thy fond regard, I am not unworthy of thy fullest con- fidence: why distrust me? Rhodope. Never will I . . . never, never. JESOF AND RHODOPE 489 To know that I possess your love, surpasses all other knowledge, dear as is all that I receive from you. I should be tired of my own voice if I heard it on aught beside : and, even yours is less melodious in any other sound than Rliodope. yEsop. Do such little girls learn to flatter? Rhodope. Teach me how to speak, since you could not teach me how to be silent. ^■Esop. Speak no longer of me, but of thy- self ; and only of things that never pain thee. Rhodope. Nothing can pain me now. JLsop. Relate thy story then, from infancy. Rhodope. I must hold your hand : I am afraid of losing you again. jEsop. Now begin. Why silent so long? Rhodope. I have dropped all memory of what is told by me and what is untold. yEsop. Recollect a little. I can be patient with this hand in mine. Rhodope. I am not certain that yours is any help to recollection. Msop. Shall I remove it ? Rhodope. O ! now I think I can recall the whole story. What did you say ? did 3^ou ask any question? .Esop. None, excepting what thou hast answered. RJtodope. Never shall I forget the morning v/hen my father, sitting in the coolest part of the house, exchanged his last measure of grain for a chlamys of scarlet cloth fringed with silver. He watched the merchant out of the door, and then looked wistfully into the corn- chest. I, who thought there was something worth seemg, looked in also, and, finding it empty, expressed my disappointment, not thinking however about the corn. A faint and transient smile came over his countenance at the sight of mine. He unfolded the chlamys, stretched it out with both hands before me, and then cast it over mj' shoulders. I looked down on the ghttering fringe and screamed with joy. He then went out ; and I know not what flowers he gathered, but he gathered many ; and some he placed in my bosom, and some in my hair. But I told him with cap- tious pride, first that I could arrange them better, and again that I would have only the white. However, when he had selected all the white, and I had placed a few of them according to my fancy, I told him (rising in my slipper) he might crown me with the remainder. The splendour of my apparel gave me a sensation of authority. Soon as the flowers had taken their station on my head, I expressed a dignified satisfaction at the taste displayed by my father, just as if I could have seen how they appeared ! But he knew that there was at least as much pleasure as pride in it, and perhaps we divided the latter (alas ! not both) pretty equally. He now took me into the market-place, where a concourse of people was waiting for the pur- chase of slaves. jMerchants came and looked at me ; some commending, others disparaging ; but aU agreeing that I was slender and delicate, that I could not live long, and that I should give much trouble. ]\Iany would have bought the chlamys, but there was something less salable in the chfld and flowers. ^Esop. Had thy features been coarse and thy voice rustic, they would all have patted thy cheeks and found no fault in thee. Rhodope. As it was, every one had bought exactly such another in time past, and been a loser by it. At these speeches I perceived the flowers tremble slightly on my bosom, from my father's agitation. Although he scoffed at them, knowingmy healthiness, he was troubled internally, and said many short prayers, not ver\' imlike imprecations, turning his head aside. Proud was I, prouder than ever, when at last several talents were offered for me, and by the very man who in the beginning had undervalued me the most, and proph- esied the worst of me. My father scowled at him, and refused the money. I thought he was playing a game, and began to wonder what it could be, since I never had seen it played before. Then I fancied it might be some celebration because plenty had returned to the city, insomuch that my father had bartered the last of the corn he hoarded. I grew more and more delighted at the sport. But soon there advanced an elderly man, who said gravely, "Thou hast stolen this chUd: her vesture alone is worth above a hundred drachmas. Carry' her home again to her parents, and do it directly, or Nemesis ^ and the Eumenides- wUl overtake thee." Knowing the estimation in which my father had always been holden by his fellow-citizens, I laughed again, and pinched his ear. He, although naturally choleric, burst forth into no resentment at these reproaches, but said calmly, ''I think I know thee by name, O ^ the goddess who avenges wrongs - the Furies, who also are regarded as avengers 490 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR guest ! Surely thou art Xanthus the Samian. DeUver this child from famine." Again I laughed aloud and heartily; and, thinking it was now my part of the game, I held out both my arms and protruded my whole body towards the stranger. He would not receive me from my father's neck, but he asked me with benignity and solicitude if I was hungry: at which I laughed again, and more than ever : for it was early in the morning, soon after the first meal, and my father had nourished nie most carefully and plentifully in all the days of the famine. But Xanthus, waiting for no answer, took out of a sack, which one of his slaves carried at his side, a cake of wheaten bread and a piece of honey-comb, and gave them to me. I held the honey-comb to my father's mouth, thinking it the most of a dainty. He dashed it to the ground ; but, seizing the bread, he began to devour it ferociously. This also I thought was in play ; and I clapped my hands at his distortions. But Xanthus looked on him like one afraid, and smote the cake from him, crying aloud, "Name the price." My father now placed me in his arms, naming a price much below what the other had offered, say- ing, "The gods are ever with thee, O Xanthus ; therefore to thee do I consign my child." But while Xanthus was coimting out the silver, my father seized the cake again, which the slave had taken up and was about to replace in the wallet. His hunger was exasperated by the taste and the delay. Suddenly there arose much tumult. Turning round in the old woman's bosom who had received me from Xanthus, I saw my beloved father struggling on the ground, livid and speechless. The more violent my cries, the more rapidly they hurried me away; and many were soon between us. Little was I suspicious that he had suffered the pangs of famine long before : alas ! and he had suffered them for mc. Do I weep while I am tellmg you they ended? I could not have closed his eyes ; I was too young ; but I might have received his last l^reath ; the only comfort of an orphan's bosom. Do you now think him blamable, O ^.sop? Aisop. It was sublime h iimanity: it was for- bearance and self-denial which even the im- mortal gods have never shown us. He could endure to perish by those torments which alone arc both acute and slow; he could number the steps of death and miss not one : but he could never see thy tears, nor let thee see his. O weakness above all fortitude! Glory to the man who rather bears a grief corroding his breast, than permits it to prowl beyond, and to prey on the tender and com- passionate ! Women commiserate the brave, and men the beautiful. The dominion of Pity has usually this extent, no wider. Thy father was exposed to the obloquy not only of the malicious, but also of the ignorant and thoughtless, who condemn in the unfortunate what they applaud in the prosperous. There is no shame in poverty or in slavery, if we neither make ourselves poor by our improvi- dence nor slaves by our venality. The lowest and highest of the human race are sold : most of the intermediate are also slaves, but slaves who bring no m^oney in the market. Rhodope. Surely the great and powerful are never to be purchased : are they ? Msop. It may be a defect in my vision, but I cannot see greatness on the earth. What they tell me is great and aspiring, to me seems little and crawling. Let me meet thy question with another. What monarch gives his daughter for nothing? Either he receives stone walls and unwilling cities in retiirn, or he barters her for a parcel of spears and horses and horsemen, waving away from his declining and helpless age young joyous life, and tramp- ling down the freshest and the sweetest memo- ries. Midas ^ in the highth of prosperity would have given his daughter to Lycaon,- rather than to the gentlest, the most virtuous, the most intelligent of his subjects. Thy father threw wealth aside, and, placing thee under the protection of Virtue, rose up from the house of Famine to partake ui the festivals of the Gods. Release my neck, O Rhodope! for I have other questions to ask of thee about him. Rhodope. To hear thee converse on him in such a manner, I can do even that. /Esop. Before the day of separation was he never sorrowfid? Did he never by tears or silence reveal the secret of his soid ? Rhodope. I was too infantine to perceive or imagine his intention. The night before I became the slave of Xanthus, he sat on the edge of my bed. I pretended to be asleej) : he moved away silently and softly. 1 saw him collect in the hollow of his hand the crumbs I ^ the type of avarice ^ a king of Arcadia noted for his impiety ^SOP AND RHODOPfi 491 had wasted on the floor, and then eat them, and then look if any were remaining. I thought he did so out of fondness for me, remembering that, even before the famine, he had often swept up oS the table the bread I had broken, and had made me put it be- tween his lips. I would not dissemble very long, but said : "Come, now you have wakened me, you must sing me asleep again, as you did when I was little." He smiled faintly at this, and, after some delay, when he had walked up and down the chamber, thus began : "I will sing to thee one song more, my wakeful Rhodope! my chirping bird! over whom is no mother's wing ! That it may lull thee asleep, I will celebrate no longer, as in the days of wine and plenteousness, the glory of Mars, guiding in their invisibly rapid onset the dappled steeds of Rhassus.- What hast thou to do, my little one, with arrows tired of clustering in the quiver? How much quieter is thy pallet than the tents which whitened the plain of Simois ! ^ What knowest thou about the river Eurotas ? ^ What knowest thou about its ancient palace, once trodden by assembled Gods, and then polluted by the Phrygian? What knowest thou of perfidious men or of sanguinarj^ deeds? ''Pardon me, O goddess* who presidest in Cytheral I am not irreverent to thee, but ever gratefvd. ISIay she upon whose brow I lay my hand, praise and bless thee for ever- more! "Ah, yes! continue to hold up above the coverlet those fresh and rosy palms clasped together : her benefits have descended on thy beauteous head, my child 1 The Fates also have sung, beyond thy hearing, of pleasanter scenes than snow-fed Hebrus ; ^ of more than dim grottos and sky-bright waters. Even now a low murmur swells upward to my ear : and not from the spindle comes the sound, but from those who sing slowly over it, bending all three their tremulous heads together. I wish thou couldst hear it ; for seldom are their voices so sweet. Thy pillow intercepts the song perhaps: lie down again, lie down, my Rhodope I I will repeat what they are saying : '"Happier shalt thou be, nor less glorious, ^ A Thracian hero ; Rhodope was from Thrace. ^ a river near Troy ^ a river near Sparta * Venus * Cf. Lycidas, 1. 63. than even she,^ the truly beloved, for whose return to the distaff and the lyre the portals of Ta^narus flew open. In the woody dells of Ismarus, and when she bathed among the swans of Strymon, the nymphs called her Eurydice. Thou shalt behold thai fairest and that fondest one hereafter. But first thou must go unto the land of the lotos, where famine never cometh, and where alone the works of man are immortal.' "O my child! the undeceiving Fates have uttered this. Other powers have visited me, and have strengthened my heart with dreams and visions. We shall meet again, my Rhodope, in shady groves and verdant mead- ows, and we shall sit by the side of those who loved us." He was rising : I threw my arms about his neck, and, before I W'ould let him go, I made him promise to place me, not by the side, but between them : for I thought of her who had left us. At that time there were but two, O ^sop. You ponder : you are about to reprove my assurance in having thus repeated my own praises. I would have omitted some of the words, only that it might have disturbed the measure and cadences, and have put me out. They are the very words my dearest father sang ; and they are the last : yet, shame upon me! the nurse (the same who stood listening near, who attended me into this comitrjO could remember them more perfectly : it is from her I have learnt them since ; she often smgs them, even to herself. Msop. So shall others. There is much both in them and in thee to render them memorable. Rhodope. Who flatters now? ^Esop. Flatteiy often rvms beyond Truth, in a hurry to embrace her; but not here. The duUest of mortals, seeing and hearing thee, would never misinterpret the prophecy of the Fates. If, turning back, I could overpass the vale of years, and coidd stand on the mountain- top, and could look again far before me at the bright ascending morn, we would enjoy the prospect together ; we would walk along the summit hand in hand, O Rhodope, and we woidd only sigh at last when we found ovu*- selves below with others. 1 Eurydice ; for her story, see Gayley's Classic Myths, pp. 185-8. 492 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR ROSE AYLMER Ah, what avails the sceptred race, Ah, what the form divine ! What every virtue, every grace ! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. A FIESOLAN IDYL Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires. And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em, And softer sighs that know not what they want. Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree, Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones Of sights in Fiesole right up above, While I was gazing a few paces off At what they seem'd to show me with their nods, lo Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, A gentle maid came down the garden-steps And gathered the pure treasure in her lap. I heard the branches rustle, and stepp'd forth To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat. Such I believed it must be. How could I Let beast o'erpower them? when hath wind or rain Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me, And I (however they might bluster round)- Walk'd off ? 'Twere most ungrateful : for sweet scents 20 Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, And nurse and pillow the duU memory That would let drop without them her best stores. They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, And 'tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die (Whene'er their Genius bids their souls de- part) Among their kindred in their native place. I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head Hath shaken with my breatli upon its bank 30 And not reproach 'd me; the ever-sacred cup Of the pure lily hath between my hands Felt safe, unsofl'd, nor lost one grain of gold. I saw the light that made the glossy leaves More glossy ; the fair arm, the fairer cheek Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit ; I saw the foot that, although half-erect From its grey slipper, could not lift her up To what she wanted : I held down a branch And gather'd her some blossoms ; since their hour 40 Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies Of harder wing were working their way thro' And scattering them in fragments under foot. So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved. Others, ere broken off, fell into sheUs, For such appear the petals when detach'd. Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun: Yet every one her gown received from me Was fairer than the first. I thought not so, 50 But so she praised them to reward my care. I said, "You find the largest." "This in- deed," Cried she, "is large and sweet." She held one forth. Whether for me to look at or to take She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubt. I dared not touch it ; for it seemed a part Of her own self ; fresh, full, the most mature Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch To fall, and yet unfaUen. She drew back 60 The boon she tender'd, and then finding not The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, Dropp'd it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. TO ROBERT BROWNING There is delight in singing, though none hear Beside the singer ; and there is delight In praising, though the praiser sit alone And see the prais'd far off him, far above. Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, • Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for thee. Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, No man hath walk'd along our roads with step So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue So varied in discourse. But warmer climes 10 Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the breeze Of Alpine highths thou playest with, borne on THE SONG OF THE SHIRT 493 Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi/ where The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. WHY Why do our joys depart For cares to seize the heart? I know not. Nature says, Obey ; and Man obeys. I see, and know not why, Thorns live and roses die. ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY I strove with none, for none was worth my strife, Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art ; I warmed both hands before the fire of life, It sinks, and I am ready to depart. ON DEATH Death stands above me, whispering low I know not what into my ear : Of his strange language aU I know Is, there is not a word of fear. THOMAS HOOD (i 798-1845) THE SONG OF THE SHIRT With fingers weary and worn. With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt." 8 "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof ! And work — work — work. Till the stars shine through the roof ! It's Oh ! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save. If this is Christian work ! 16 ' Towns of southern Italy, whither Browning was going. "Work — work — work. Till the brain begins to swim ; Work — work — - work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream ! 24 "Oh, Men, with Sisters dear ! Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives ! It is not linen you're wearing out But human creatures' lives ! Stitch — stitch — stitch. In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt. 32 "But why do I talk of Death? That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear its terrible shape, It seems so like my own — It seems so like my own. Because of the fasts I keep ; Oh, God ! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap ! 40 "Work — work — work ! My labour never flags ; And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, A crust of bread — and rags. That shatter'd roof — this naked floor — A table — a broken chair — And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there ! 48 "Work — work — work ! From weary chime to chime. Work — work — work. As prisoners work for crime ! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand. 56 "Work — work — work, In the duU December light, And work — work — work. When the weather is warm and bright — While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring. • 64 494 WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED "Oh ! but to breathe the breath Of the cowshp and primrose sweet — With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet ; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal. 72 "Oh ! but for one short hour ! A respite however brief ! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief ! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread !" .80 With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — W^ould that its tone could reach the Rich ! — She sang this "Song of the Shirt !" 89 RUTH She stood breast-high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun. Who many a glowing kiss had won. 4 On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripen 'd ; — such a blush In the midst of brown was bom. Like red poppies grown with corn. 8 Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veiled a light. That had else been all too bright. 12 And her hat, with shady brim. Made her tressy forehead dim ; — Thus she stood amid the stooks. Praising God v/ith sweetest looks. 16 Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean. Where I reap thou should'st but glean ; Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home. 20 WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED (1802-1839) THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM Years — years ago, — ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty, — Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty ^ ; — Years — years ago, — while all my joy Was in my fowling-piece and fiUy, — In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lily. . 8 I saw her at the County Ball : There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and dov.-n the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that set young hearts romancing ; She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 15 And then she danced — O Heaven, her dancing ! Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; Her voice was exquisitely tender ; Her eyes were full of liquid light ; I never saw a waist so slender ! Her every look, her every smile. Shot right and left a score of arrows ; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, 23 And wondered where she'd left her sparrows. She talked, — of politics or prayers, — Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's son- nets, — Of danglers — or of dancing bears, Of battles — or the last new bonnets, By candlelight, at twelve o'clock, To me it mattered not a tittle ; If those bright lips had quoted Locke,'^ 31 I might have thought they murmured Little.3 Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal ; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal : My mother laughed ; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling : My father frowned ; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling? 4.0 ^ a writer on law - a philosopher, cf. p. 238 ^ a pseudonym of Thomas Moore, writer of love songs DEATHS JEST-BOOK 495 She was the daughter of a Dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; She had one brother, just thirteen, Whose colour was extremely hectic ; Her grandmother for many a year Had fed the parish with her bounty ; Her second cousin was a peer, And Lord Lieutenant of the County. 48 But titles, and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes, and rents. Oh, what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks — Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses ; He cares as little for the Stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. 56 She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew loveHer from her pencil's shading : She botanised ; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading : She warbled Handel ; ^ it was grand ; She made the Catalan!- jealous : She touched the organ ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows. 64 She kept an album, too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories ; Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories ; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter ; And autographs of Prince Leboo,^ And recipes for elder-water. 72 And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted, Her poodle dog was quite adored. Her sayings were extremely quoted ; She laughed, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolished ; She frowned, and every look was sad, As if the Opera were demolished. 80 She smiled on many, just for fun, — I knev/ that there was nothing in it ; I was the first — the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute. — I knew it, for she told me so. In phrase w'hich was divinely moulded ; ^ Handel's music was popular in England at this time ^ an Italian prima donna ^ Prince Le Beau, a distinguished Belgian diplomat She wrote a charming hand, — and oh ! How sweetly all her notes were folded ! 88 Our love was like most other loves ; — A little glow, a little shiver, A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves. And "Fly not yet" — upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted ; A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows, — and then we parted. 96 We parted ; months and years rolled by ; We met again four summers after : Our parting was all sob and sigh ; Our meeting was all mirth and laughter : For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers ; And she was not the ball-room's belle. But only — Mrs. Something Rogers ! 104 THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES (1803-1849) From DEATH'S JEST-BOOK SONG Old Adam, the carrion crow, The old crow of Cairo ; He sat in the shower, and let it flow . Under his tail and over his crest ; And through every feather' Leaked the wet weather ; And the bough swung under his nest ; For his beak it was heavy with marrow. Is that the wind dying ? O no ; It's only two devils, that blow Through a murderer's bones, to and fro, In the ghosts' moonshine. 1 2 Ho ! Eve, my grey carrion wife. When we have supped on kings' marrow, Where shall we drink and make merry our life? Our nest it is Queen Cleopatra's skidl, Tis cloven and cracked. And battered and hacked. But with tears of blue eyes it is full : Let us drink then, my raven of Cairo. Is that the wind dying ? O no ; It's only two devils, that blow Through a murderer's bones, to and fro, In the ghosts' moonshine. 24 496 THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES DREAM-PEDLARY If there were dreams to sell, What would you buy ? Some cost a passing bell ; Some a light sigh, That shakes from Life's fresh crown Only a rose-leaf down. If there were dreams to sell, Merry and sad to tell, And the crier rang the bell. What would you buy ? A cottage lone and still. With bowers nigh, Shadowy, my woes to still, Until I die. Such pearl from Life's fresh crown Fain would I shake me down. Were dreams to have at will. This would best heal my ill, This would I buy. But there were dreams to sell 111 didst thou buy ; Life is a dream, they tell, Waking, to die. 19 Dreaming a dream to prize, Is wishing ghosts to rise ; And, if I had the spell To call the buried well, Which one would I ? 28 If there are ghosts to raise, What shall I call, Out of hell's murky haze, Heaven's blue pall ? Raise my loved long-lost boy To lead me to his joy. — There are no ghosts to raise ; Out of death lead no ways ; Vain is the call. 37 Know'st thou not ghosts to sue. No love thou hast. Else lie, as I will do. And breathe thy last. So out of Life's fresh crown Fall like a rose-leaf down. Thus are the ghosts to woo ; Thus are all dreams made true. Ever to last ! 46 THE VICTORIAN AGE THOMAS CARLYLE (i 795-1881) SARTOR RESARTUS BOOK II, CHAPTER \1I The Everlasting No Under the strange nebulous envelopment, wherein our Professor has now shrouded him- self, no doubt but his spiritual nature is nev- ertheless progressive, and growing : for how can the "Son of Time," in any case, stand still? We behold him, through those dim years, in a state of crisis, of transition : his mad Pilgrimings, and general solution into aimless Discontinuity, what is all this but a mad Fermentation ; wherefrom, the fiercer it is, the clearer product will one day evolve itself? Such transitions are ever full of pain : thus the Eagle when he moults is sickly ; and, to attain his new beak, must harshly dash-off the old one upon rocks. What Stoicism so- ever our Wanderer, in his individual acts and motions, may affect, it is clear that there is a hot fever of anarchy and misery raving within ; coruscations of which Hash out : as, indeed, hpw could there be other? Have w^e not seen him disappointed, bemocked of Destiny, through long years? AH that the young heart might desire and pray for has been denied ; nay, as in the last w'orst instance, offered and then snatched away. Ever an "excellent Passivity"; but of usefid, reason- able Activity, essential to the former as Food to Hunger, nothing granted : till at length, in this wild Pilgrimage, he must forcibly seize for himself an Activity, though useless, unreason- able. Alas, his cup of bitterness, which had been filling drop by drop, ever since the first "ruddy morning" in the ITinterschlag Gym- nasium,! was at the very lip ; and then with that poison-drop, of the Towgood-and- ^ Smite-behind Highschool (Annan Academy, where Carlyle went to school) Blumine^ business, it runs over, and even hisses over in a deluge of foam. He himself says once, with more justice than originality : " Man is, properly speaking, based upon Hope, he has no other possession but Hope; this world of his is emphatically the Place of Hope." What then was our Pro- fessor's possession? We see him, for the present, quite shut-out from Hope; looking not into the golden orient, but vaguely all around into a dim copper firmament, pregnant with earthquake and tornado. Alas, shut-out from Hope, in a deeper sense than we yet dream of ! For, as he wanders wearisomely through this world, he has now lost all tidings of another and higher. Full of religion, or at least of religiosity, as our Friend has since exhibited himself, he hides not that, in those days, he was whoUy irreligious : ''Doubt had darkened into Unbelief," says *he ; " shade after shade goes grimly over your soul, till you have the fixed, starless, Tartarean black." To such readers as have reflected, what can be called reflecting, on man's life, and happily discovered, in contradiction to much Profit-and-Loss Philosophy, speculative and practical, that Soul is not synonymous with Stomach ; w'ho understand, therefore, in our Friend's words, "that, for man's well- being. Faith is properly the one thing needful ; how, wdth it. Martyrs, otherwise weak, can cheerfully endure the shame and the cross; and without it, Worldlings puke-up their sick existence, by suicide, in the midst of luxury" : to such, it wUl be clear that, for a pure moral nature, the loss of his religious Belief was the loss of everything. Unhapp}' young man ! AH wounds, the crush of long-continued Des- titution, the stab of false Friendship, and of false Love, all wounds in thy so genial heart, wovdd have healed again, had not its life- warmth been withdra\\'n. Well might he ex- claim, in his wild way: "Is there no God, ^ Towgood, a friend of Teufelsdrockh's ; Blumine (from Ger. Blnrae, a flower) , the girl whom both loved 497 498 THOMAS CARLYLE then; but at best an absentee God, sitting idle, ever since the first Sabbath, at the out- side of his Universe, and seeing it go? Has the word Duty no meaning ; is what we call Duty no divine Messenger and Guide, but a false earthly Fantasm, made-up of Desire and Fear, of emanations from the Gallows and from Doctor Graham's Celestial Bed ? ^ Hap- piness of an approving Conscience ! Did not Paul of Tarsus, whom admiring men have since named Saint, feel that he was ' the chief of sinners,' and Nero of Rome, jocund in spirit {Wohlgemuth), spend much of his time in fiddling? Foolish Wordmonger, and Mo- tive-grinder, who in thy Logicrmill hast an earthly mechanism for the Godlike itself, and wouldst fain grind me out Virtue from the husks of Pleasure, — I tell thee, Nay ! To the unregenerate Prometheus Vinctus^ of a man, it is ever the bitterest aggravation of his wretchedness that he is conscious of Virtue, that he feels himself the victim not of suffer- ing only, but of injustice. What then? Is the heroic inspiration we name Virtue but some Passion ; some bubble of the blood, bubbling in the direction others profit by? I know not : only this I know, if what thou namest Happiness be our true aim, then are we all astray. With Stupidity and sound" digestion man may front much. But what, in these dull unimaginative days are the terrors of Conscience to the diseases of the Liver 1 Not on Morality, but on Cooker}^, let us build our stronghold : there brandishing our frying- pan, as censer, let us offer sweet incense to the Devil, and live at ease on the fat things he has provided for his Elect !" Thus has the bewildered Wanderer to stand, as so many have done, shouting question after question into the Sibyl-cave-^ of Destiny, and receive no Answer but an Echo. It is all a grim Desert, this once-fair world of his ; wherein is heard only the howling of wild- beasts, or the shrieks of despairing, hate-filled men ; and no Pillar of ("loud by day, and no Pillar of Fire by night,'' any longer guides the Pilgrim. To such length has the spirit of Inquiry carried him. "But what boots it {was thiit's) ? " cries he ; " it is but the common ^ the invention of a quack for curing sterility ^ Prometheus Bound — the victim of the wrath of Zeus because he stole fire from heaven for man- kind ^ visited by Aeneas {Aeneid, VI, 36 ff.) ^ Cf. Exodus, xiii : 21, 22 lot in this era. Not having come to spiritual majority prior to the Siede de Louis Quinze,^ and not being born purely a Loghead {Dumni' kopj), thou hadst no other outlook. The whole world is, like thee, sold to Unbelief ; their old Temples of the Godhead, v/hich for long have not been rainproof, crumble down ; and men ask now : Where is the Godhead ; our eyes never saw him?" Pitifid enough were it, for all these wild utterances, to call our Diogenes ^ wicked. Un- profitable servants as we all are, perhaps at no era of his life was he more decisively the Servant of Goodness, the Servant of God, than even now when doubting God's existence. "One circumstance I note," says he: "after all the nam^eless woe that Inquiry, which for me, what it is not always, was genuine Love of Truth, had wrought me, I nevertheless still loved Truth, and would bate no jot of my allegiance to her. ' Truth ! ' I cried, ' though the Heavens crush me for following her : no Falsehood ! though a whole celestial Lubber- land 3 were the price of Apostasy.' In conduct it was the same. Had a divine Messenger from the clouds, or miraculous Handwriting on the wall, convincingly proclaimed to me This thou shalt do, with what passionate readi- ness, as I often thought, would I have done it, had it been leaping into the infernal Fire. Thus, in spite of all Motive-grinders, and Mechanical Profit-and-Loss Philosophies, with the sick ophthalmia and hallucination they had brought on, was the Infinite nature of Duty stiU dimly present to me : living without God in the world, of God's light I was not utterly bereft ; if my as yet sealed eyes, with their unspeakable longing, could nowhere see Him, nevertheless in my heart He was present, and His heaven-written Law stUl stood legible and sacred -there." Meanwhile, under all these tribulations, and temporal and spiritual destitutions, what must the Wanderer, in his silent soul, have en- dured ! "The painfullcst feeling," writes he, "is that of your own Feebleness {Unkraft)', ever as the EngHsh Milton says, to be weak is the true misery. And yet of your Strength there is and can be no clear feeling, save by what you have prospered in, by what you have ^ Age of Louis XV, the age of scepticism ^ an ■ eccentric Greelc philosopher ^ the fabulous land of the lazy, where food grew read}' cooked on the trees and the vines flowed witli wine SARTOR RES.\RTUS 499 done. Between vague wavering Capability and fixed indubitable Performance, what a difference ! A certain inarticulate Self-con- sciousness dwells dimly in us ; which only our Works can render articulate and decisively discernible. Our Works are the mirror wherein the spirit first sees its natural lineaments. Hence, too, the foUy of that impossible Precept, Know thyself ; tiU it be translated into this partially possible one, Know what thou canst work at. "But for me, so strangely unprosperous had I been, the net-result of my Workings amounted as yet simply to — Nothing. How- then could I believe in my Strength, when there was as yet no mirror to see it in? Ever did this agitating, yet, as I nov,' perceive, quite frivolous question, remain to me insoluble: Hast thou a certain Faculty, a certain W^orth, such even as the most have not ; or art thou the completest Dullard of these modern times ? .Mas ! the fearful Unbelief is unbelief in yourself; and how could I believe? Had not my first, last Faith in myself, when even to me the Heavens seemed laid open, and I dared to love, been aU-too cruelly belied? The specidative Mystery of Life grew ever more mysterious to me ; neither in the prac- tical Mystery had I made the slightest pro- gress, but been everywhere buffeted, foiled, and contemptuously cast out. A feeble unit in the middle of a threatening Infinitude, I seemed to have nothing given me but eyes, whereby to discern my own wTetchedness. Invisible yet impenetrable walls, as of En- chantment, divided me from aU living : was there, in the wide world, any true bosom I could press trustfully to mine? O Heaven, No, there was none ! I kept a lock upon my lips: why should I speak much with that shifting variety of so-called Friends, in whose withered, vain and too-hungry souls, Friend- ship was but an incredible tradition? In such cases, your resource is to talk little, and that little mostly from the Newspapers. Now when I look back, it was a strange iso- lation I then lived in. The men and women around me, even speaking with me, were but Figures : I had, practically, forgotten that they were alive, that they were not merely automatic. In the midst of their crowded streets, and assemblages, I walked solitary ; and (except as it was my own heart, not an- other's, that I kept devouring) savage also, as the tiger in his jungle. Some comfort it would have been, could I, like a Faust, have fancied myself tempted and tormented of the DevU ; for a Hell, as I imagine, without Life, though only diabolic Life, were more frightful : but in our age of Down-pulling and Disbelief, the very Devil has been pulled down, you cannot so much as believe in a Devil. To me the Universe was aU void of Life, of Purpose, of Volition, even of Hostility : it was one huge, dead, immeasurable Steam-engine, rolling on, in its dead indift'erence, to grind me limb from limb. O, the vast gloomy, solitary Golgotha,' and MiU of Death ! Why was the Living banished thither companionless, conscious? Why, if there is no Devil; nay, imless the Devil is your God?" A prey incessantly to such corrosions, might not, moreover, as the worst aggravation to them, the iron constitution even of a Teufels- drockh threaten to fail ? We conjecture that he has known sickness ; and, in spite of his locomotive habits, perhaps sickness of the chronic sort. Flear this, for example : "How beautiful to die of broken-heart, on Paper ! Quite another thing in practice; every win- dow of your Feeling, even of your Intellect, as it were, begrimed and mud-bespattered, so that no pure ray can enter ; a whole Drugshop in your inwards ; the foredone soul drowning slowly in quagmires 'of Disgust ! " Putting all which external and internal miseries together, may we not find in the following sentences, quite in our Professor's stiU vein, significance enough? "From Sui- cide a certain aftershine {N achscJiein) of Chris- tianity withheld me : perhaps also a certain indolence of character; for, was not that a remedy I had at any time within reach? Often, however, was there a question present to me: Should some one now, at the turning of that corner, blow thee suddenly out of Space, into the other World, or other No- world, by pistol-shot, — how were it? On which ground, too, I have often, in sea-storms and sieged cities and other death-scenes, ex- hibited an imperturbability, which passed, falsely enough, for courage." " So had it lasted," concludes the Wanderer, "sohadit lasted, as in bitter protracted Death- agony, through long years. The heart within me, unvisited by any heavenly dewdrop, was smoiddering in sulphurous, slow-constuning fire. Almost since earliest memory I had shed ' Place of skuUs 500 THOMAS CARLYLE no tear; or once only when I, murmuring half-audibly, recited Faust's Deathsong, that wUd Sclig der den er im Siegesglanzc fitidei (Happy whom he finds in Battle's splendour), and thought that of this last Friend even I was not forsaken, that Destiny itself could not doom me not to die. Having no hope, neither had I any definite fear, were it of Man or of Devil : nay, I often felt as if it might be solacing, could the Arch-Devil himself, though in Tartarean terrors, but rise to me, that I might tell him a little of my mind. And yet, strangely enough, I lived in a continual, indefinite, pining fear ; tremulous, pusillanimous, apprehensive of I knew not what : it seemed as if all things in the Heavens above and the Earth beneath would hurt me ; as if the Heavens and the Earth were but boundless jaws of a devouring monster, wherein I, palpitating, waited to be devoured. " Full of such humour, and perhaps the miserablest man in the whole French Capital or Suburbs, was I, one sultry Dog-day, after much perambidation, toUing along the dirty little Rue Saint-Thomas dc VEnjcr, among civic rubbish enough, in a close atmosphere, and over pavements hot as Nebuchadnezzar's Furnace; whereby doubtless my spirits were little cheered ; when, all at once, there rose a Thought in me, and I asked myself: 'What art thou afraid of? Wherefore, like a coward, dost thou forever pip and whimper, and go cowering and trembling? Despicable biped! what is the sum-total of the worst that lies before thee? Death? Well, Death; and say the pangs of Tophet too, and all that the Devil and Man may, will, or can do against thee ! Hast thou not a heart ; canst thou not suffer whatsoever it be ; and, as a ChUd of Freedom, though outcast, trample Tophet itself under thy feet, while it consumes thee? Let it come, then ; I will meet it and defy it ! ' And as I so thought, there rushed like a stream of fire over my whole soid ; and I shook base Fear away from me forever. I was strong of unknown strength ; a spirit, almost a god. Ever from that time, the temper of my misery was changed : not Fear or whining Sorrow was it, but Indignation and grim fire-eyed Defiance. "Thus had the Everlasting No {das ewige Nein) pealed authoritatively through all the recesses of my Being, of my Me ; and then was it that my whole Me stood up, in native God- created majesty, and with emphasis recorded its Protest. Such a Protest, the most impor- tant transaction in Life, may that same Indig- nation and Defiance, in a psychological point of view, be fitly called. The Everlasting No had said: 'Behold, thou art fatherless, out- cast, and the Universe is mine (the Devil's) ' ; to which my whole Me now made answer : '/ am not thine, but Free, and forever hate thee ! ' "It is from this hour that I incline to date my Spiritual New-birth, or Baphometic' Fire-baptism ; perhaps I directly thereupon began to be a Man." CHAPTER VIII Centre of Indifference Though, after this "Baphometic Fire-bap- tism" of his, our Wanderer signifies that his Unrest was but increased ; as, indeed, "Indig- nation and Defiance," especially against things in general, are not the most peaceable inmates; yet can the Psychologist surmise that it was no longer a quite hopeless Unrest ; that henceforth it had at least a fixed centre to revolve round. For the fire-baptised soul, long so scathed and thunder-riven, here feels its own Freedom, which feeling is its Bapho- metic Baptism : the citadel of its whole king- dom it has thus gained by assault ; and will keep inexpugnable ; outwards from which the remaining dominions, not indeed without hard battling, wiU doubtless by degrees be conquered and pacificated. Under another figure, we might say, if in that great moment, in the Rue Saint-Thomas de VEnfcr, the old inward Satanic School was not yet thrown out of doors, it received peremptory judicial notice to quit; — whereby, for the rest, its howl-chantings, ErniUphus-cursings,^ and re- bellious gnashings of teeth, might, in the meanwhile, become only the more tumultuous, and diflicult to keep secret. Accordingly, if we scrutinise these Pilgrim- ings well, there is perhaps discernible hence- forth a certain incipient method in their mad- ness. Not wholly as a Spectre does Teufels- drockh now storm through the world ; at worst as a spectre-fighting Man, nay who will ^ originally connected with mysterious rites attributed to the Templars; here, spiritually illuminating - elaborate and voluminous cursings, cf. Tristram Shandy, bk. iii, ch. xi SARTOR RESARTUS 501 one day be a Spectre-queller. If pilgriming restlessly to so many " Saints' Wells," ^ and ever without quenching of his thirst, he neverthe- less finds little secular wells, whereby from time to time some alleviation is ministered. In a word, he is now, if not ceasing, yet inter- mitting to "eat his own heart" ; and clutches round him outwardly on the Not-Me for wholesomer food. Does not the following glimpse exhibit him in a much more natural state ? "Towns also and Cities, especially the an- cient, I faUed not to look upon VN-ith interest. How beautiful to see thereby, as through a long vista, into the remote Time ; to have, as it were, an actual section of almost the earliest Past brought safe into the Present, and set before your eyes ! There, in that old City, was a live ember of Culinary Fire put down, say only two-thousand years ago ; and there, burning more or less triumphantly, v.ith such fuel as the region yielded, it has burnt, and still burns, and thou thyself seest the very smoke thereof. Ah ! and the far more mys- terious live ember of Vital Fire was then also put down there ; and still miraculously burns and spreads ; and the smoke and ashes thereof (in these Judgment-Halls and Church- yards), and its bellows-engines (in these Churches), thou still seest; and its flame, looking out from every kind countenance, and every hateful one, still warms thee or scorches thee. "Of Man's Activity and Attainment the chief residts are aeriform, mystic, and pre- served in Tradition only : such are his Forms of of Government, with the Authority they rest on ; his Customs, or Fashions both of Cloth- Habits and of Soul-Habits ; much more his collective stock of Handicrafts, the whole Faculty he has acquired of manipulating Nature: all these things, as indispensable and priceless as they are, cannot in any way be fixed mider lock and key, but must flit, spirit-like, on impalpable vehicles, from Father to Son ; if you demand sight of them, they are nowhere to be met with. Visible Ploughmen and Hammermen there have been, ever from Cain and Tubalcain- downwards: but where does your accumulated Agricul- tural, Metallurgic, and other Manufacturing Skill lie warehoused? It transmits itself on ' where people go to be cured of disease by miracle ^ Cf. Genesis, iv: 22 AE the atmospheric air, on the sun's rays (by Hearing and Vision) ; it is a thing aeriform, impalpable, of quite spiritual sort. In like manner, ask me not. Where are the Laws; v.'here is the Government ? In vain wilt thou go to Schonbrunn.i to Downing Street,- to the Palais Bourbon : ^ thou findest nothing there, but brick or stone houses, and some bundles of Papers tied with tape. Where, then, is that same cunningly-devised or mighty Govern- ment of theirs to be laid hands on? Every- where, yet nowhere : seen only in its w-orks, this too is a thing aeriform, invisible; or if you win, mystic and miraculous. So spirit- ual (gcisiig) is our whole daily Life : aU that we do springs out of JNlystery, Spirit, invisible Force; only like a little Cloud-image, or Armida's Palace* air-built, does the Actual body itself forth from the great mystic Deep. "Visible and tangible products of the Past, again, I reckon-up to the extent of three: Cities, with their Cabinets and Arsenals; then tilled Fields, to either or to both of which divisions Roads with their Bridges may be- long ; and thirdly — Books. In which third truly, the last-invented, lies a worth far sur- passing that of the two others. Wondrous indeed is the virtue of a true Book. Not like a dead city of stones, yearly crumbling, yearly needing repair ; m.ore like a tilled field, but then a spiritual field : like a spiritual tree, let me rather say, it stands from year to year, and from age to age (we have Books that already number some hundred-and-fifty human ages) ; and yearly comes its new produce of leaves (Commentaries, Deductions, Philosophical, Political Systems ; or were it only Sermons, Pamphlets, Journalistic Essays), every one of which is talismanic and thaumaturgic, for it can persuade men. O thou who art able to write a Book, which once in the two centuries or oftener there is a man gifted to do, envy not him whom they name City- builder, and inexpressibly pity him whom they name Conqueror or City-burner ! Thou too art a Conqueror and Victor ; but of the true sort, namely over the Devil : thou too hast bmlt what will outlast all marble and metal, ^ a palace near Vienna, the seat of the Austrian government ^ a street in London, where the chief government offices are ^ in Paris, now the Cham- ber of Deputies ■* Bower of Bliss in which the sorceress Armida holds the knight Rinaldo en- chanted, in Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered 502 THOMAS CARLYLE and be a wonder-bringing City of the Mind, a Temple and Seminary and Prophetic Mount, whereto all 'kindreds of the Earth will pilgrim. — Fool ! why journeyest thou wearisomely, in thy antiquarian fervour, to gaze on the stone pyramids of Geeza or the clay ones of Sacchara ? ^ These stand there, as I can tell thee, idle and inert, looking over the Desert, foolishly enough, for the last three-thousand years : but canst thou not open thy Hebrew Bible, then, or even Luther's Version thereof?" No less satisfactory is his sudden appear- ance not in Battle, yet on some Battle-field ; which, we soon gather, must be that of Wagram : ^ so that here, for once, is a certain approximation to distinctness of date. Omit- ting much, let us impart what follows : "Horrible enough! A whole Marchfeld^ strewed with shell-splinters, cannon-shot, ruined tumbrUs, and dead men and horses ; stragglers still remaining not so much as buried. And those red mould heaps: ay, there lie the Shells of Men, out of which all the Life and Virtue has been blown ; and now they are swept together, and crammed-down out of sight, like blown Egg-shells ! — Did Nature, when she bade the Donau** bring down his mould-cargoes from the Carinthian and Carpathian Heights, and spread them out here into the softest, richest level, — ■ intend thee, O Marchfeld, for a corn-bearing Nursery, whereon her children might be nursed ; or for a Cockpit, wherein they might the more commodiously be throttled and tattered? Were thy three broad highways, meeting here from the ends of Europe, made for Ammunition-wagons, then? Were thy Wagrams and Stillfrieds ^ but so many ready- built Case-mates, wherein the house of Hapsburg might batter with artillery, and with artillery be battered? Konig Ottokar, amid yonder hillocks, dies under Rodolf's'^ truncheon; here Kaiser Franz ^ falls a-swoon under Napoleon's : within which five cen- turies, lo omit the others, how has thy breast, fair Plain, been defaced and defiled ! The greensward is torn-up and trampled- ' Ghizeh or Gizeh, and Sakkara, in Egypt * in Austria, fought in 1809 * the plain of Wagraru * Danube ^ a village near Wagraru ^ Ottocar, king of Bohemia was defeated in this plain by Rudolf of Hapsburg, 1278. "^ Francis I of Austria, de- feated here by Napoleon dov/n ; man's fond care of it, his fruit-trees, hedge-rows, and pleasant dwellings, blown- away with gunpowder ; and the kind seed- field lies a desolate, hideous Place of Skulls. — ■ Nevertheless, Nature is at work ; neither shall these Powder-Devil kins with their utmost devUry gainsay her : but all that gore and carnage wUi be shrouded-in, absorbed into manure; and next year the ISIarchfeld will be green, nay greener. Thrifty un- wearied Nature, ever out of our great waste educing some little profit of thy own, — how dost thou, from the very carcass of the Killer, bring Life for the Living ! ^ "What, speaking in quite unofficial Ian-, guage, is the net-purport and upshot of v.ar? To my own knowledge, for example, there dwell and toil, in the British village of Dum- drudge,2 usually some five-hundred souls. From these, by certain 'Natural Enemies' of the French, there are successively selected, during the French war, say thirty able-bodied m.en : Dumdrudge, at her own expense, has suckled and nursed them ; she has, not with- out difficidty and sorrow, fed them up to man- hood, and even trained them to crafts, so that one can weave, another buUd, another ham- mer, and the weakest can stand under thirty stone avoirdupois. Nevertheless, amid much weeping and swearing, they are selected; all dressed in red ; and shipped away, at the public charges, some two-thousand miles, or say only to the south of Spain ; and fed there till wanted. And now to that same spot in the south of Spain, are thirty similar French arti- sans, from a French Dumdrudge, in like man- ner wending : till at length, after infinite effort, the two parties come into actual juxtaposi- tion ; and Thirty stands fronting Thirty, each v/ich a gun in his hand. Straightv/ay the word ' Fire ! ' is given : and they blow the souls out of one another ; and in place of sixty brisk useful craftsmen, the world has sixty dead carcasses, which it must bury, and anew shed tears for. Had these men any quarrel? Busy as the Devil is, not the smallest ! They lived far enough apart ; were the entirest strangers ; nay, in so wide a Universe, there was even unconsciously, by Commerce, some mutual helpfulness between them. How then ? Simpleton ! their Gov- ernors had fallen-out ; and, instead of shoot- ^ Cf. Judges, xiv : 8, 14 - a fictitious name = dumb drudge SARTOR RESARTUS 503 ing one another, had the cunning to make these poor blockheads shoot. — Alas, so is it in Deutschland, and hitherto in all other lands ; still as of old, ' what devilry soever Kings do, the Greeks must pay the piper! ' * — In that fiction of the English Smollett, it is true, the final Cessation of War is perhaps prophetically shadowed forth ; where the two Natural Enemies, in person, take each a Tobacco-pipe, tilled with Brimstone ; light the same, and smoke in one another's faces till the Yv^eaker gives in : but from such pre- dicted Peace-Era, what blood-filled trenches, and contentious centuries, may still divide us ! " Thus can the Professor, at least in lucid intervals, look away from hris own sorrows, over the many-coloured world, and pertin- ently enough note what is passing there. We may remark, indeed, that for the matter of spiritual culture, if for nothing else, perhaps few periods of his life were richer than this. Internally, there is the most momentous instructive Course of Practical Philosophy, with Experiments, going on; towards the right comprehension of which his Peripatetic habits, favourable to Meditation, might help him rather than hinder. Externally, again, as he wanders to and fro, there are, if for the longing heart little substance, yet for the seeing eye sights enough : in these so bound- less Travels of his, granting that the Satanic School was even partially kept down, what an incredible knowledge of oiu* Planet, and its Inhabitants and their Works, that is to say, of all knowable things, might not Teufels- drockh acquire ! 'T have read in most Public Libraries," says he, "including those of Constantinople and Samarcand : in most Colleges, except the Chinese Mandarin ones, I have studied, or seen that there was no studying. Unknown languages have I oftenest gathered from their natural repertor>', the Air, by my organ of Hearing; .Statistics, Geographies, Topo- graphies came, through the Eye, almost of their own accord. The ways of JSIan, how he seeks food, and warmth, and protection for himself, in most regions, are ocularly known to me. Like the great Hadrian,^ I meted-out ^ "They who dance must pay the piper," and Horace, Epist. I, ii, 14: "Quicquid delirant reges, plectuntur Achivi." ^ The emperor Hadrian, at the head of his army, paced out on foot the circle of his empire, as Carlyle says elsewhere. much of the terraqueous Globe with a pair of Compasses that belonged to myself only. " Of great Scenes, why speak ? Three sum- mer days, I lingered reflecting, and composing (dichkte), by the Pine-chasms of Vaucluse;^ and in that clear lakelet moistened my bread. I have sat under the Palm-trees of Tadmor; smoked a pipe among the ruins of Babylon. The great Wall of China I have seen ; and can testify that it is of gray brick, coped and covered with granite, and shows only second- rate masonry. — Great events, also, have not I witnessed? Kings sweated-down (ausge- mergelt) into Berliu-and-Milan Customhouse- Officers ; the World well won, and the World well lost ; oftener than once a hundred-thou- sand individuals shot (by each other) m one day. All kindreds and peoples and nations dashed together, and shifted and shovelled into heaps, that they might ferment there, and in time unite. The birth-pangs of De- mocracy, wherewith convulsed Europe was groaning in cries that reached Heaven, could not escape me. "For great Men I have ever had the warmest predilection ; and can perhaps boast that few such in this era have wholly escaped me. Great Men are the inspired (speaking and acting) Texts of that divine Book of Revelations, whereof a Chapter is completed from epoch to epoch, and b}' some named His- tory ; to which inspired Texts your numerous talented men, and your inniunerable un- talented men, are the better or worse exegetic Commentaries, and wagonload of too-stupid, heretical or orthodox, weekly Sermons. For my study, the mspired Texts themselves I Thus did not I, in very early days, having dis- guised me as a tavern-waiter, stand behind the field-chairs, under that shady Tree at Treisnitz ^ by the Jena Highway ; waiting upon the great SchUler and greater Goethe; and hearing what I have not forgotten. For — " — But at this point the Editor recalls his principle of caution, some time ago laid down, and must suppress much. Let not the sacred- ness of Laurelled, still more, of Crowned Heads, be tampered with. Should we, at a future day, find circumstances altered, and the time come for Publication, then may these glimpses into the privacy of the Illustrious be conceded ; which for the present were little ^ where Petrarch lived for a time, near A\agnoii ^ correctly, Triesnitz, where the poets used to meet 504 THOMAS CARLYLE better than treacherous, perhaps traitorous Eavesdroppings. Of Lord Byron, therefore, of Pope Pius,^ Emperor Tarakwang,- and the "White Water- roses " (Chinese Carbonari 3) with their mysteries, no notice here ! Of Na- poleon himself we shall only, glancing from afar, remark that Teufelsdrockh's relation to him seems to have been of very varied char- acter. At first we find our poor Professor on the point of being shot as a spy ; then taken into private conversation, even pinched on the ear, yet presented with no money ; at last indignantly dismissed, almost thrown out of doors, as an "Ideologist." "He himself," says the Professor, " was among the completest Ideologists, at least Ideopraxists * : in the Idea {in der Idee) he lived, moved, and fought. The man was a Divine Missionary, though unconscious of it ; and preached, through the cannon's throat, that great doctrine. La carrierc ouverte aux talens (The Tools to him that can handle them), which is our ultimate Political Evangel, wherein alone can Liberty lie. Madly enough he preached, it is true, as Enthusiasts and first IMissionaries are wont, with imperfect utterance, amid much frothy rant ; yet as articulately perhaps as the case admitted. Or call him, if you will, an Ameri- can Backwoodsman, v.ho had to fell unpene- trated forests, and battle with innumerable wolves, and did not entirely forbear strong liquor, rioting, and even theft ; whom, not- withstanding, the peaceful Sower will follow, and, as he cuts the boundless harvest, bless." More legitimate and decisively authentic is Teufelsdrockh's appearance and emergence (we know not well whence) in the solitude of the North Cape, on that June Midnight. He has a "light-blue Spanish cloak" hanging round him, as his "most commodious, princi- pal, indeed sole upper-garment" ; ancl stands there, on the World-promontory, looking over the infinite Brine, like a little blue Belfry (as we figure), now motionless indeed, yet ready, if stirred, to ring quaintest changes. " Silence as of death," writes he ; " for Mid- night, even in the Arctic latitudes, has its character: nothing but the granite cHffs ruddy- tinged, the peaceable gurgle of that slow- heaving Polar Ocean, over which in the utmost ^ Pius VII, died 1823 ^ Taou-Kwang, began to reign in 1820 ' a secret society in Italy, working for a republic, in the early part of the nineteenth century "^ those who put ideas into practice North the great Sun hangs low and lazy, as if he too were slumbering. Yet is his cloud- couch wrought of crimson and cloth-of-gold ; yet does his light stream over the mirror of waters, like a tremulous fire-pUlar, shooting downwards to the abyss, and hide itself under my feet. In such moments. Solitude also is invaluable ; for who would speak, or be looked on, when behind him lies all Europe and Africa, fast asleep, except the watchmen ; and before him the silent Immensity, and Palace of the Eternal, whereof our Sun is but a porch-lamp ? "Nevertheless, in this solemn moment, comes a man, or monster, scrambling from among the rock-hollows ; and, shaggy, huge as the Hyperborean Bear, haOs me in Russian speech : most probably, therefore, a Russian Smuggler. With courteous brevity, I signify my indifference to contraband trade, my hu- mane intentions, yet strong wish to be private. In vain : the monster, counting doubtless on his superior stature, and minded to make sport for himself, or perhaps profit, were it with murder, continues to advance ; ever assailing me with his importunate train-oil breath ; and now has advanced, till we stand both on the verge of the rock, the deep Sea rippling greedily down below. What argument will avail? On the thick Hyperborean, cherubic reasoning, seraphic eloquence were lost. Pre- pared for such extremity, I, deftly enough, whisk aside one step ; draw out, from my interior reservoirs, a sufficient Birmingham Horse-pistol, and say, ' Be so obliging as retire, Friend {Erziciie sich zuriick, Freund), and with promptitude ! ' This logic even the Hyper- borean understands : fast enough, with apolo- getic, petitionary growl, he sidles off ; and, except for suicidal as well as homicidal pur- poses, need not return. " Such I hold to be the genuine use of Gun- powder : that it makes all men alike tall. Nay, if thou be cooler, cleverer than I, if thou have more Mind, though all but no Body what- ever, then canst thou kill me first, and art the taller. Hereby, at last, is the Goliath power- less, and the David resistless ; savage Animal- ism is nothing, inventive Spiritualism is all. "With respect to Duels, indeed, I have my own ideas. Few things, in this so surprising world, strike me with more surprise. Two little visual Spectra of men, hovering with insecure enough cohesion in the midst of the Unfathomable, and to dissolve therein, at any rate, very soon, — make pause at the distance SARTOR RESARTUS 505 of twelve paces asunder; whirl round; and, simultaneously by the cunningest mechanism, explode one another into Dissolution ; and off- hand become Air, and Non-extant ! Deuce on it (vcrdammi), the little spitfires! — Nay, I think with old Hugo von Trimberg : ^ ' God must needs laugh outright, could such a thing be, to see his wondrous Manikins here below.' " But amid these specialities, let us not forget the great generality, which is our chief quest here : How prospered the inner man of Teu- felsdrockh under so much outward shifting? Does Legion 2 still lurk in him, though re- pressed, or has he exorcised that Devil's Brood ? We can answer "that the symptoms continue promising. Experience is the grand spiritual Doctor ; and with him Teufelsdrockh has now been long a patient, swallowing many a bitter bolus. Unless our poor Friend belong to the numerous class of Incurables, which seems not likely, some cure will doubtless be effected. We should rather say that Legion, or the Satanic School, was now pretty well extirpated and cast out, but next to nothing introduced in its room ; whereby the heart remains, for the while, in a quiet but no comfortable state. "At length, after so much roasting," thus writes our Autobiographer, "I was what you might name calcined. Pray only that it be not rather, as is the more frequent issue, re- duced to a caput-mortiium! ^ But in any case, by mere dint of practice, I had grown familiar with many things. Wretchedness was still wretched ; but I could now partly see through it, and despise it. Which highest mortal, in this inane Existence, had I not found a Shadow-hunter or Shadow-hunted ; and, when I looked through his brave garnitures, miser- able enough? Thy wishes have all been sniffed aside, thought I : but what, had they even been all granted ! Did not the Boy Alexander* weep because he had not two Planets to conquer ; or a whole Solar System ; or after that, a whole Universe? Ach Gott, when I gazed into these Stars, have they not looked-down on me as if with pity, from their serene spaces; like Eyes glistening with heavenly tears over the little lot of man ! Thousands of human generations, all as noisy as our own, have been swallowed-up of Time, and there remains no wreck of them any more ; * a thirteenth century German poet and moral- ist 2 Cf. Mark, V : 9 ^ worthless remains ^ Alex- ander the Great and Arcturus and Orion and Sirius and the Pleiades are still shining in their courses, clear and young, as when the Shepherd ^ first noted them in the plain of Shinar. Pshaw ! what is this paltry little Dog-cage ^ of an Earth ; what art thou that sittest whining there? Thou art still Nothing, Nobody : true ; but who, then, is Something, Somebody? For thee the Family of Man has no use ; it rejects thee ; thou art wholly as a dissevered limb : so be it; perhaps it is better so !" Too-heavy-laden Teufelsdrockh ! Yet surely his bands are loosening ; one day he will hurl the burden far from him, and bound forth free and with a second youth. " This," says our Professor, " was the Centre of Indifference I had now reached ; through which whoso travels from the Negative Pole to the Positive must necessarily pass." CHAPTER IX The Everlasting Yea "Temptations in the Wilderness!" ex- claims Teufelsdrockh: "Have we not all to be tried with such ? Not so easily can the old Adam, lodged in us by birth, be dispossessed. Our Life is compassed round with Necessity ; yet is the meaning of Life itself no other than Freedom, than Voluntary Force : thus have we a warfare ; in the beginning, especially, a hard-fought battle. For the God-given man- date. Work thou in Welldoing, lies mysteriously written, in Promethean * Prophetic Characters, in our hearts ; and leaves us no rest, night or day, till it be deciphered and obeyed ; till it burn forth, in our conduct, a visible, acted Gospel of Freedom. And as the clay-given mandate. Eat thou and be filed, at the same time persuasively proclaims itself through every nerve, — must there not be a confusion, a contest, before the better Influence can become the upper? "To me nothing seems more natural than that the Son of Man, when such God-given mandate first prophetically stirs within him, and the Clay must now be vanquished or van- quish, — should be carried of the spirit into ' Cf . Job, ix : 9 ; Babylonian shepherds (in the plain of Shinar) were regarded as the first astronomers. ^ a wheel like a squirrel-cage ^ perhaps, Hke Prometheus, full of love for the human race So6 THOMAS CARLYLE grim Solitudes, and there fronting the Temp- ter do grimmest battle with him ; defiantly settuig him at naught, till he yield and fly. Name it as we choose : with or without visible Devil, whether in the natural Desert of rocks and sands, or in the populous moral Desert of selfishness and baseness, — to such Tempta- tion are we all called. Unhappy if we are not ! Unhappy if we are but Half -men, in whom that divine handwriting has never blazed forth, all-subduing, in true sun-splendour ; but quivers dubiously amid meaner lights: or smoulders, in dull pain, in darkness, under earthly vapours ! — Our Wilderness is the wide World in an Atheistic Century; our Forty Days are long years of suffering and fasting : nevertheless, to these also comes an end. Yes, to me also was given, if not Victory, yet the consciousness of Battle, and the resolve to persevere therein Avhile life or faculty is left. To me also, entangled in the enchanted forests, demon-peopled, doleful of sight and of sound, it was given, after weariest wanderings, to work out my way into the higher sunlit slopes — of that Mountain which has no summit, or whose summit is in Heaven only ! " ^ He says elsewhere, under a less ambitious figure; as figures are, once for all, natural to him: "Has not thy Life been that of most sufficient men {tiichtigcn Manner) thou hast known in this generation? An outflush of foolish young Enthusiasm, hke the first fallow- crop, wherein are as many weeds as valuable herbs : this all parched away, under the Droughts of practical and spiritual Unbelief, as Disappointment, in thought and act, often- repeated gave rise to Doubt, and Doubt grad- ually settled into Denial ! If I have had a second-crop, and now see the perennial green- sward, and sit under umbrageous cedars, which defy all Drought (and Doubt) ; herein too, be the Heavens praised, I am not. without examples, and even exemplars." So that, for Teufelsdrockh also, there has been a "glorious revolution": these mad shadow-hunting and shadow-hunted Pilgrim- ings of his were but some purifying "Temp- tation in the Wilderness," before his apostolic work (such as it was) could begin ; which Temptation is now happily over, and the Devil once more worsted ! Was "that high moment in the Rue de VEnfer," then, properly the turn- ing-point of the battle ; when the Fiend said, Worship me, or he torn in shreds; and was answered valiantly with an A page Satana ? ' — Singular Teufelsdrockh, would thou hadst told th}^ singular stor>' in plain words ! But it is fruitless to look there, in those Paper-bags, for such. Nothing but innuendoes, figurative crotchets : a typical Shadow, fitfully wavering, prophetico-satiric ; no clear logical Picture. "How paint to the sensual eye," .asks he once, "what passes in the Holy-of-Holies of Man's Sold; in what words, known to these profane times, speak even afar-off of the unspeak- able?" We ask in turn: Why perplex these times, profane as they are, with needless ob- scurity, by omission and by commission? Not mystical only is our Professor, but whim- sical; and involves himself, now more than ever, in eye-bewUdering chiarosciiro. Succes- sive glimpses, here faithfully imparted, our more gifted readers must endeavour to com- bine for their own behoof. He says: "The hot Harmattan ^ wind had raged itself out ; its hov/1 went silent within me ; and the long-deafened soul could now hear. I paused in my wild wanderings ; and sat me dov/n to wait, and consider ; for it was as if the hovs of change drew nigh. I seemed to surrender, to renounce vitterly, and say: Fly, then, false shadows of Hope ; I will chase you no more, I will believe you no more. And ye too, haggard spectres of Fear, I care not for you ; ye too are all shadows and a lie.' Let me rest here: for I am way-weary and life-weary ; I will rest here, were it but to die : to die or to live is alike to me; alike insig- nificant." — And again : " Here, then, as I lay in that Centre of Lidifference, cast, doubtless by benignant upper Influence, into a healing sleep, the heavy dreams roUed gradually away, and I awoke to a new Heaven and a new Earth. The first preliminary moral Act, Annihilation of Self {Selbsttddtung), had been happily accomplished; and my mind's eyes were now unsealed, and its hands img>^ved." Might we not also conjecture that the fol- lowing passage refers to his Locality, during this same "heaUng sleep"; that his Pilgrim- staiT lies cast aside here, on " the high table- land" ; and indeed that the repose is already taking wholesome effect on him? If it were ^ an allusion to the mountain seen in Dante's Divina Commedia '"Away, Satan!" -a terrible wind on the coast of Guinea SARTOR RESARTUS 507 not that the tone, in some parts, has more of riancy,* even of levity, than we could have ex- pected ! However, in Teufelsdrockh, there is always the strangest Dualism : light dancing, with guitar-music, will be going on in the fore- court, while by lits from within comes the faint whim.pering of woe and wail. We transcribe the piece entire : "Beautiful it was to sit there, as in my skyey Tent, musing and meditating; on the high table-land, in front of the ]Moimtains; over me, as roof, the azure Dome, and around me, for walls, four azure-flowing cuitains, — namely, of the Four azure Winds, on whose bottom-fringes also I have seen gilding. And then to fancy the fair Castles, that stood sheltered in these Moimtain hollows ; with their green flower-lawns, and white dames and damosels, lovely enough: or better still, the straw-roofed Cottages, wherein stood many a Mother baking bread, with her children round her : — aU hidden and protectingly folded-up in the valley-folds; yet there and alive, as sure as if I beheld them. Or to see, as well as fancy, the nine Towns and Villages, that lay round my mountain -seat, which, in still weather, were wont to speak to me (by their steeple-bells) with metal tongue ; and, in almost all weather, proclaimed their vitality by repeated Smoke-clouds ; whereon, as on a culinar>' horologue,- 1 might read the hour of the day. For it was the smoke of cookery, as kind housewives at morning, midday, even- tide, were boihng their husbands' kettles ; and ever a blue pillar rose up into the air, successively or simultaneously, from each of the nine, sa>'ing, as plainly as smoke could say : Such and such a meal is getting ready here. Not uninteresting ! For you have the whole Borough, with all its love-makings and scandal-mongeries, contentions and content- ments, as in miniature, and could cover it all with your hat. — If, in my wide Wayfarings, I had learned to look into the business of the World in its details, here perhaps was the place for combining it into general propositions, and deducing inferences therefrom. ''Often also could I see the black Tempest marching in anger through the distance: round some Schreckliorn,^ as yet grim-blue, would the eddying vapour gather, and there tumultuously eddy, and flow down lilce a mad ^ spirit of laughter - horologe, clock ^ peak of terror; here generic for mountain witch's hair ; till, after a space, it vanished, and, in the clear sunbeam, your Schrecldiorn stood smiling grim-white, for the vapour had held snow. How thou fermentest and elabo- ratest in thy great fermenting-vat and labora- tory^ of an Atmosphere, of a World, O Nature ! — Or what is Nature ? Ha ! why do I not name thee God? Art thou not the 'Living Garment of God ? ' ^ O Heavens, is it, in very deed, He, then, that ever speaks through thee; that lives and loves in thee, that lives and loves in me? "Fore-shadows, caU them rather fore-splen- dours, of that Truth, and Beginning of Truths, fell mysteriously over my soul. Sweeter than Dayspring to the Shipwrecked in Nova Zem- bla ; ah, like the mother's voice to her little child that straj's bewildered, weeping, in un- known tvunults ; Uke soft streamings of celes- tial music to my too-exasperated heart, came that Evangel. The Universe is not dead and demoniacal, a charnel-house with spectres; but godlike, and my Father's ! "With other eyes, too, could I now look upon my fellow man : with an infinite Love, an infinite Pity. Poor, wandering, wayward man ! Art thou not tried, and beaten with stripes, even as I am? Ever, whether thou bear the royal mantle or the beggar's gabar- dine, art thou not so weary, so heavy'-laden ; and thy Bed of Rest is but a Grave. O my Brother, my Brother, why cannot I shelter thee in my bosom, and v/ipe away all tears from thy eyes ! — Truly, the din of many- voiced Life, which, in this solitude, with the mind's organ, I could hear, was no longer a maddening discord, but a melting one ; like inarticulate cries, and sobbings of a dumb creature, which in the ear of Heaven are prayers. The poor Earth, with her poor J03's, was now my needy jSIothcr, not my cruel Step- dame; ISIan, with his so mad Wants and so mean Endeavours, had become the dearer to me ; and even for his suft'erings and his sins, I now first named him Brother. Thus was I standing in the porch of that 'Sanctuary of Sorrow' ; by strange, steep ways, had I too been guided thither ; and ere long its sacred gates would open, and the 'Divine Depth of Sorrow' lie disclosed to me." The Professor says, he here first got eye on the Knot that had been strangling him, and ^ from Goethe's Faust : diges Kleid" 'der Gottheit leben- 5o8 THOMAS CARLYLE straightway could unfasten it, and was free. "A vain interminable controversy," writes he, "touching what is at present called Origin of EvU, or some such thing, arises in every soul, since the beginning of the world ; and in every soul, that would pass from idle Suffering into actual Endeavouring, must first be put an end to. The most, in our time, have to go content with a simple, incomplete enough Suppression of this controversy ; to a few, some Solution of it is indispensable. In every new era, too, such Solution comes-out in different terms; and ever the Solution of the last era has be- come obsolete, and is found unserviceable. For it is man's nature to change his Dialect from century to century; he cannot help it though he would. The authentic Church- Catechism of our present century has not yet fallen into my hands : meanwhile, for my own private behoof, I attempt to elucidate the matter so. jMan's Unhappiness, as I con- strue, comes of his Greatness ; it is because there is an Infinite in him, which with all his cunning he cannot quite bury under the Finite. Will the whole Finance Ministers and Upholsterers and Confectioners of modern Europe undertake, in joint-stock company, to make one Shoeblack happy? They cannot accomplish it, above an hour or two : for the Shoeblack also has a Soul quite other than his Stomach ; and would require, if you consider it, for his permanent satisfaction and satura- tion, simply this allotment, no more, and no less : God''s infinite Universe altogether to him- self, therein to enjoy infinitely, and fill every wish as fast as it rose. Oceans of Hochheimer,^ a Throat like that of Ophiuchus ■? speak not of them ; to the infinite Shoeblack they are as nothing. No sooner is your ocean filled, than he grumbles that it might have been of better vintage. Try him with half of a Universe, of an Omnipotence, he sets to quarrelling v/ith the proprietor of the other half, and declares himself the most maltreated of men. — Al- ways there is a black spot in our sunshine : it is even, as I said, the Shadow of Ourselves. "But the whim we have of Ilappiness is somewhat thus. By certain valuations, and averages, of our own striking, we come upon some sort of average terrestrial lot ; this we fancy belongs to us by nature, and of inde- feasible right. It is simple payment of our ^ hock, a Rhine wine ^ an ancient constella- tion, also called Scrpcntarius, the serpent-bearer wages, of our deserts ; requires neither thanks nor complaint ; only such overplus as there may be do we account Happiness ; any deficit again is Misery. Now consider that we have the valuation of our deserts ourselves, and what a fund of Self-conceit there is in each of us, — do you wonder that the balance should so often dip the wrong way, and many a Block- head cry : See there, what a payment ; was ever worthy gentleman so used ! — I tell thee, Blockhead, it all comes of thy Vanity ; of what thou fanciest those same deserts of thine to be. Fancy that thou deservest to be hanged (as is most likely), thou wUt feel it happiness to be only shot : fancy that thou deservest to be hanged iia a hair-halter, it will be a luxury to die in hemp. "So true it is, what I then said, that the Fraction of Life can be increased in value not so much by increasing your Numerator as by lessening your Denominator. Nay, unless my Algebra deceive me. Unity itself divided by Zero will give Infinity. Make thy claim of wages a zero, then ; thou hast the world under thy feet. Well did the Wisest of our time^ write : ' It is only with Renunciation {Entsa- gen) that Life, properly speaking, can be said to begin.' "I asked myself: What is this that, ever since earliest years, thou hast been fretting and fuming, and lamenting and self-torment- ing, on account of ? Say it in a word : is it not because thou art not happy? Because the Thou (sweet gentleman) is not sufiiciently honoured, nourished, soft-bedded, and lov- ingly cared-for ? Foolish soul ! What Act of Legislature was there that tiiou shouldst be Happy? A Uttle whUe ago thou hadst no right to be at all. What if thou wert born and predestined not to be Happy, but to be Un-. happy ! Art thou nothing other than a Vul- ture, then, that fliest through the Universe seeking after somewhat to eat ; and shrieking dolefully because carrion enough is not given thee? Close thy Byron; open thy Goethe.'^ "Es Icuchtet mir ein, I see a glimpse of it !" cries he elsewhere : " there is in man a Higher than Love of Happiness : he can do without Happiness, and instead thereof find Blessed- ness ! Was it not to preach-forth this same Higher that sages and martyrs, the Poet and the Priest, in all times, have spoken and suf- fered; bearing testimony, through Ufe and ^ Goethe SARTOR RESARTUS 509 through death, of the Godhke that is in IMan, and how in the Godlike only has he Strength and Freedom? Which God-inspired Doc- trme art thou also honoured to be taught ; O Heavens ! and broken with manifold merciful Afflictions, even till thou become contrite, and learn it ! O, thank thy Destiny for these ; thankfully bear what yet remain : thou hadst need of them ; the Self in thee needed to be annihilated. By benignant fever-paroxysms is Life rooting out the deep-seated chronic Disease, and triumphs over Death. On the roaring billows of Time, thou art not engulfed, but borne aloft into the azure of Eternity. Love not Pleasure; love God. This is the Everlasting Yea, wherein all contradiction is solved : wherein whoso walks and works, it is well with him." .\nd again: "Small is it that thou canst trample the Earth with its injuries under thy feet, as old Greek Zeno ^ trained thee : thou canst love the Earth while it injures thee, and even because it injures thee ; for this a Greater than Zeno was needed, and he too w'as sent. Knowest thou that ' Worship of Sorrmv' ? The Temple thereof, founded some eighteen cen- turies ago, now lies in ruins, overgrown with jungle, the habitation of doleful creatures: nevertheless, venture forward ; iia a low crypt, arched out of falling fragments, thou findest the Altar still there, and its sacred Lamp perennially burning." Without pretending to comment on which strange utterances, the Editor w'ill only re- mark, that there lies beside them much of a still more questionable character ; unsuited to the general apprehension; nay, wherein he himself does not see his way. Nebulous dis- quisitions on Religion, yet not without bursts of splendour; on the "perennial continuance of Inspiration " ; on Prophecy ; that there are "true Priests, as well as Baal-Priests, in our own day": with more of the like sort. We select some fractions, by way of finish to this farrago. " Cease, my much-respected Herr von Vol- taire," thus apostrophises the Professor : "shut thy sweet voice ; for the task appointed thee seems finished. Sufficiently hast thou demonstrated this proposition, considerable or otherwise : That the Mythus of the Christian Religion looks not in the eighteenth century as it did in the eighth. Alas, were thy six- ^ a stoic philosopher and-thirty quartos, and the six-and-ihirty thousand other quartos and folios, and flying sheels or reams, printed before and since on the same subject, all needed to convince us of so little ! But what next ? Wilt thou help us to embody the divine Spirit of that Religion in a new INIythus, in a new vehicle and vesture, that our Souls, otherwise too like perishing, may live ? What ! thou hast no faculty in that kind? Only a torch for burning, no hammer for buildiiig? Take our thanks, then, and — thyself away. '■ Aleanwhile what are antiquated Mythuses to me ? Or is the God present, felt in my own heart, a thing which Herr von Voltaire will dis- pute out of me ; or dispute into me ? To the 'Worship of Sorrow' ascribe what origin and genesis thou pleasest, has not that Worship originated, and been generated; is it not here ? Feel it ii: thy heart, and then say whether it is of God ! This is Belief ; all else is Opinion, — for which latter whoso will, let him worr}- and be w^orried." "Neither," observes he elsewhere, "shall ye tear-out one another's eyes, strugglmg over 'Plenary Inspiration,'^ and such-like: try rather to get a little even Partial Inspiration, each of you for himself. One Bible I know, of whose Plenary Inspiration doubt is not so much as possible ; nay with my own eyes I saw the God's-Hand writing it : thereof all other Bibles are but Leaves, — say, in Picture- Writing to assist the weaker faculty." Or to give the wearied reader relief, and bring it to an end. let him take the following perhaps more intelligible passage : "To me, in this our life," says the Profes- sor, "which is an internecine warfare wdth the Time-spirit, other warfare seems questionable. Hast thou in any w'ay a Contention Avith thy brother, I advise thee, think well what the meaning thereof is. If thou gauge it to the bottom, it is simply this: 'Fellow, see ! thou art taking more than thy share of Happiness in the world, something from my share : which, by the Heavens, thou shalt not ; nay, I will fight thee rather.' — Alas, and the whole lot to be divided is such a beggarly matter, truly a 'feast of shells,' for the substance has been spilled out : not enough to quench one Appe- tite ; and the collective human species clutch- ing at them ! — Can w-e not, in all such cases, ' that which excludes all defects in the expres- sion of it 5IO THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY rather say : 'Take it, thou too-ravenous indi- vidual ; take that pitiful additional fraction of a share, which I reckoned mine, but which thou so wantest ; take it with a blessing : would to Heaven I had enough for thee ! ' — If Fichte's W issenschajtslchre^ be, ' to a certain extent. Applied Christianity,' surely to a still greater extent, so is this. We have here not a Whole Duty of Man, yet a Half Duty, namely, the Passive half : could we but do it," as we can demonstrate it ! "But indeed Conviction, were it never so excellent, is worthless till it convert itself into Conduct. Nay, properly Conviction is not possible till then ; inasmuch as all Speculation is by nature endless, formless, a vortex amid vortices : only by a felt indubitable certainty of Experience does it find any centre to. re- volve round, and so fashion itself into a sys- tem. Most true i's it, as a wise man teaches us, that ' Doubt of any sort cannot be removed except by Action.' On which ground, too, let him who gropes painfully in darkness or uncertain light, and prays vehemently that the dawn may ripen into day, lay this other precept well to heart, which to me was of in- valuable service: ^ Do the Duty which lies nearest tlice,' which thou knowest to be a Duty ! Thy second Duty will already have become clearer. "May we not say, however, that the hour of Spiritual Enfranchisement is even this : When your Ideal World, wherein the whole man has been dimly struggling and inexpres- sibly languishing to work, becomes revealed and thrown open ; and you discover, with amazement enough, like the Lothario in Wil- helm Meister,'^ that your 'America is here or nowhere'? The Situation that has not its Duty, its Ideal, was never yet occupied by man. Yes, here, in this poor, miserable, hampered, despicable Actual, wherein thou even now standest, hcreor nowhere is thy Ideal : work it out therefrom ; and working, believe, live, be free. Fool ! the Ideal is in thyself, the impediment too is in thyself: thy Con- dition is but the stuff thou art to shape that same Ideal out of : what matters whether such stufif be of this sort or that, so the Form thou give it be heroic, be poetic ? O thou that ^ the chief work of the German metaphysician Fichte, of which the full title is, in English: Fundamental Principles of the Whole Theory of Science ^ a novel by Goethe pinest in the imprisonment of the Actual, and criest bitterly to the gods for a kingdom wherein to rule and create, know this of a truth : the thing thou seekest is already with thee, 'here or nowhere,' couldst thou only see ! "But it is with man's Soul as it was with Nature : the beginning of Creation is — Light. Till the eye have vision, the whole members are in bonds. Divine moment, when over the tempest-tost Soul, as once over the wild-wel- tering Chaos, it is spoken : Let there be light ! Ever to the greatest that has felt such moment, is it not miraculous and God-announcing ; even as, under simpler figures, to the simplest and least. The mad primeval Discord is hushed ; the rudely-jumbled conflicting ele- ments bind themselves into separate Firma- ments : deep silent rock-foundations are built beneath ; and the skyey vault with its ever- lasting Luminaries above : instead of a dark wasteful Chaos, we have a blooming, fertile. Heaven-encompassed World. "I too could now say to myself: Be no longer a Chaos, but a World, or even World- kin.^ Produce ! Produce ! Were it but the pitifuUest infinitesimal fraction of a Product, produce it, in God's name ! 'Tis the utmost thou hast in thee : out with it, then. Up, up ! Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy whole might. Work while it is called To- day ; for the Night cometh, wherein no man can work." THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY (i 800-1 859) THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND VOLUME I From Chapter III I intend, in this chapter, to give a descrip- tion of the state in which England w^as at the time when the crown passed from Charles the Second to his brother. Such a description, composed from scanty and dispersed materials, must necessarily be very imperfect. Yet it may perhaps correct some false notions which would make the sul^sequent narrative unin- telligible or uninstructive. If we would study with profit the history of our ancestors, we must be constantly on out ^ little world THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND ;ii guard against thai delusion which the well- known names of families, places, and oflices naturally produce, and must never forget that the country of which we read was a very dif- ferent country from that in which we live. Could the England of 1685 be, by some magical process, set before our eyes, we should not know one landscape in a hundred or one building in ten thousand. The country gentleman would not recognise his own fields. The inhabitant of the town would not recognise his own street. Everything has been changed but the great features of nature, and a few massive and durable works of human art. We might find out Snowdon and Windermere, the Cheddar Cliffs and Beachy Head. We might find out here and there a Norman minster, or a castle which witnessed the wars of the Roses. But, with such rare exceptions, everything would be strange to us. Many thousands of square miles which are now rich corn land and meadow, intersected by green hedgerows, and dotted with villages and pleasant country seats, would appear as moors overgrown with furze, or fens abandoned to wild ducks. We should see straggling huts built of wood and covered with thatch, where we now see manu- facturing towns and seaports renowned to the farthest ends of the world. The capital itself would shrink to dimensions not much exceed- ing those of its present suburb on the south of the Thames.^ Not less .strange to us would be the garb and manners of the people, the furni- ture and the equipages, the interior of the shops and dwellings. Such a change in the state of a nation seems to be at least as well entitled to the notice of a historian as any change of the dynasty or of the ministry. One of the first objects of an inquirer, who wishes to form a correct notion of the state of a community at a given time, must be to as- certain of how many persons that community then consisted. Unfortunately the popula- tion of England in 16S5 cannot be ascertained with perfect accuracy. For no great state had then adopted the wise course of periodically numbering the people. All men were left to conjecture for themselves; and, as they generally conjectured without examining facts, and under the influence of strong passions and ^ Southwark prejudices, their guesses were often ludicrously absurd. Even inteUigent Londoners ordi- narily talked of London as containing several millions of souls. It was confidently asserted by many that, during the thirty-five years which had elapsed between the accession of Charles the First and the Restoration, the population of the City had increased by two millions. Even while the ravages of the plague and fire were recent, it was the fashion to say that the capital still had a, million and a half of inhabitants. • Some persons, dis- gusted by these exaggerations, ran \aoIently into the opposite extreme. Thus Isaac Vos- sius, a man of undoubted parts and learning, strenuously maintained that there were only two millions of human beings in England, Scotland, and Ireland taken together. Yv^e are not, however, left without the means of correcting the wild blunders into which some minds were hurried by national vanity and others by a morbid love of paradox. There are extant three computations which, seem to be entitled to peculiar attention. They are entirely independent of each other : they proceed on different principles ; and yet there is little difference in the results. Of these three estimates, framed without concert by different persons from different sets of materials, the highest, which is that of King, does not exceed the lowest, which is that of Finlaison,^ by one twelfth. We may, therefore, with confidence pronounce that, when James the Second reigned, England contained be- tween five million and five million five hun- dred thousand mhabitants. On the very highest supposition she then had less than one third of her present population, and less than three times the population which is now col- lected in her gigantic capital. ******* We should be much mistaken if we pictiu-ed to ourselves the squires of the seventeenth century as men bearing a close resemblance to their descendants, the country members and chairmen of quarter sessions with whom we are famihar. The modern country gentlemaii generally receives a liberal education, passes from a distinguished school to a distinguished college, and has ample opportunity to become ^ Gregory King (1648-17 12) and John Fin- laison (i 783-1860), English statisticians 512 THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY an excellent scholar. He has generally seen something of foreign countries. A consider- able part of his life has generally been passed in the capital ; and the refinements of the cap- ital follow him into the country. There is per- haps no class of dwellings so pleasing as the rural seats of the English gentry. In the parks and pleasure grounds, nature, dressed yet not disguised by art, wears her most allur- ing form. In the buildings, good sense and good taste combine to produce a happy union of the comfortable and the graceful. The pic- tures, the musical instruments, the library, would in any other country be considered as proving the owner to be an eminently polished and accomplished man. A country gentle- . man who witnessed the Revolution was prob- ably in receipt of about a fourth part of the rent which his acres now yield to his posterity. He was, therefore, as compared with his pos- terity, a poor man, and was generally under the necessity of residing, with little interrup- tion, on his estate. To travel on the Conti- nent, to maintain an establishment in London, or even to visit London frequently, were pleas- ures in which only the great proprietors could indulge. It may be confidently afiirmed that of the squires whose names were then in the Commissions of Peace and Lieutenancy not one in twenty went to town once in five years, or had ever in his life wandered so far as Paris. Many lords of manors had received an educa- tion differing little from that of their menial servants. The heir of an estate often passed his boyhood and youth at the seat of his family with no better tutors than grooms and gamekeepers, and scarce attained learning enough to sign his name to a Mittimus.^ If he went to school and to college, he generally returned before he was twenty to the seclusion of the old hall, and there, unless his mind were very happily constituted by nature, soon for- got his academical pursuits in rural business and pleasures. His chief serious employment was the care of his property. He examined samples of grain, handled pigs, and, on market days, made bargains over a tankard with drovers and hop merchants. His chief pleas- ures were commonly derived from field sports and from an unrefined sensuality. His lan- guage and pronunciation were such as we should now expect to hear only from the most ignorant clowns. His oaths, coarse jests, and ^ a writ of commitment to prison scurrilous terms of abuse, were uttered with the broadest accent of his province. It was easy to discern, from the first words which he spoke, whether he came from Somersetshire or Yorkshire. He troubled himself little about decorating his abode, and, if he at- tempted decoration, seldom produced any- thing but deformity. The litter of a farmyard gathered vxnder the windows of his bedcham- ber, and the cabbages and gooseberry bushes grew close to his hall door. His table was loaded with coarse plenty ; and guests were cordially welcomed to it. But, as the habit of drinking to excess was general in the class to which he belonged, and as his fortune did not enable him to intoxicate large assemblies daily with claret or canary, strong beer was the ordinary beverage. The quantity of beer consumed in those days was indeed enormous. For beer then was to the middle and lower classes, not only all that beer now is, but all that wine, tea, and ardent spirits now are. It was only at great houses, or on great occasions, that foreign drink was placed on the board. The ladies of the house, whose business it had commonly been to cook the repast, retired as soon as the dishes had been devoured, and left the gentlemen to their ale and tobacco. The coarse jollity of the afternoon was often prolonged till the revellers were laid vmder the table. It was very seldom that the country gentle- man caught glimpses of the great world ; and what he saw of it tended rather to confuse than to enlighten his understanding. His opinions respecting religion, government, foreign coun- tries and former times, having been derived, not from study, from observation, or from con- versation with enlightened companions, but from such traditions as were current in his own small circle, were the opinions of a child. 1 le adhered to them, however, with the obsti- nacy which is generally found in ignorant men accustomed to be fed with flattery. His ani- mosities were numerous and bitter. He hated Frenchmen and Italians, Scotchmen and Irish- men, Papists and Presbyterians, Independents and Baptists, Quakers and Jews. Towards London and Londoners he felt an aversion which more than once produced important poHtical effects. His wife and daughter were in tastes and acquirements below a house- keeper or a still-room maid of the present day. They stitched and spun, brewed gooseberry THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND 513 wine, cured marigolds/ and made ihe crust for the venison pasty. From this description it might be supposed that the EngHsh esquire of the seventeenth century did not materially differ from a rustic miller or alehouse keeper of our time. There are, however, some important parts of his character stiU to be noted, which will greatly modify this estimate. Unlettered as he was and unpolished, he was still in some most important points a gentleman. He was a member of a proud and powerful aristocracy, and was distinguished by many both of the good and of the bad qualities which belong to aristocrats. His family pride was beyond that of a Talbot or a Howard.- He knew the genealogies and coats of arms of all his neigh- bours, and could tell which of them had assumed supporters ^ without any right, and which of them were so unfortunate as to be great-grandsons of aldermen. He was a magistrate, and, as such, administered gratu- itously to those who dwelt around him a rude patriarchal justice, which, in spite of innu- merable blunders and of occasional acts of tyranny, was yet better than no justice at all. He was an officer of the trainbands ; and his military dignity, though it might move the mirth of gallants who had served a campaign in Flanders, raised his character in his own eyes and in the eyes of his neighbours. Nor indeed was his soldiership justly a subject of derision. In every county there were elderly gentlemen who had seen service which was no child's play. One had been knighted by Charles the First, after the battle of Edge- hm. Another still wore a patch over the scar which he had received at Naseby. A third had defended his old house tiU Fair- fax had blown in the door with a petard. The presence of these old Cavaliers, with their old swords and holsters, and with their old stories about Goring and Lunsford,'' gave to the musters of militia an earnest and war- like aspect which would otherwise have been wanting. Even those country gentlemen who were too young to have themselves ex- ^ used for making conserves, for flavoring soups, and for coloring cheese - two of the most distinguished families of the nobility ^ a term in heraldry for figures supporting an escutcheon, cf. the lion and the unicorn that support the shield of Great Britain "* noted persons of the Parlia- mentary War changed blows with the cuirassiers of the Par- liament had, from childhood, been surrounded by the traces of recent war, and fed with stories of the martial exploits of their fathers and imcles. Thus the character of the Eng- lish esquire of the seventeenth century was compounded of two elements which we sel- dom or never find united. His ignorance and uncouthness, his low tastes and gross phrases, would, in our time, be considered as indicating a nature and a breeding thor- oughly plebeian. Yet he was essentially a patrician, and had, in large measure, both the virtues and the vices which flourish among men set from their birth in high place, and used to respect themselves and to be respected by others. It is not easy for a generation accustomed to find chivalrous sentiments only in company with liberal studies and polished manners to image to itself a man with the deportment, the vocabulary, and the accent of a carter, yet punctilious on mat- ters of genealogy and precedence, and ready to risk his life rather than see a stain cast on the honour of his house. It is, however, only by thus joining together things seldom or never foimd together in our own experi- ence that we can form a just idea of that rustic aristocracy which constituted the main strength of the armies of Charles the First, and which long supported, with strange fidelity, the interest of his descendants. A\Tioever examines the maps of London which were published toward the close of the reign of Charles the Second will see that only the nucleus of the present capital then existed. The town did not, as now, fade by imper- ceptible degrees into the country. No long avenues of villas, embowered in lilacs and laburnums, extended from the great centre of wealth and civilisation almost to the boun- daries of ]Middlesex and far into the heart of Kent and Surrey. In the east, no part of the immense line of warehouses and artificial lakes which now stretches from the Tower to BlackwaU had even been projected. On the west, scarcely one of those stately piles of building which are inhabited by the noble and wealthy was in existence ; and Chelsea, which is now peopled by more than forty thousand human beings, was a quiet country village with about a thousand inhabitants. On the north, cattle fed. and sportsmen wan- 514 THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY dered with dogs and guns, over the site of the borough of Marylebone, and over far the greater part of the space now covered hy the boroughs of Finsbury and of the Tower Hamlets. Islington was almost a solitude; and poets loved to contrast its silence and repose with the din and turmoil of the monster London. On the south the capital is now connected with its suburb by several bridges, not inferior in magnificence and solidity to the noblest Avorks of the Cffisars. In 1685, a single line of irregular arches, overhung by piles of mean and crazy houses, and garnished, after a fashion worthy of the naked barbarians of Dahomy, with scores of mouldering heads, impeded the navigation of the river. Of the metropolis, the City, properly so called, was the most important division. At the time of the Restoration it had been built, for the most part, of wood and plaster ; the few bricks that were -used w^ere ill baked ; the booths where goods were exposed to sale-pro- jected far into the streets, and were overhung by the upper stories. A few specimens of this architecture may still be seen in those districts which were not reached by the great fire. That fire had, in a few days, covered a space of less than a square mile with the ruins of eighty-nine churches and of thirteen thousand houses. But the City had risen again w^th a celerity which had excited the admiration of neighbouring countries. Un- fortunately, the old lines of the streets had been to a great extent preserved ; and those hnes, originally traced in an age when even princesses performed their journeys on horse- back, were often too narrow to allow wheeled carriages to pass each other with ease, ajid were therefore ill adapted for the residence of wealthy persons in an age when a coach and six was a fashionable luxury. The style of building was, however, far superior to that of the (Mty which had perished. The ordinary material was brick, of much better quality than had formerly been used. On the sites of the ancient parish churches had arisen a multitude of new domes, towers, and spires which bore the mark of the fertile genius of Wren. In ever}' place save one the traces of the great devastation had been completely effaced. But the crowds of workmen, the scaffolds, and the masses of hewn stone were still to be seen where the noblest of Protestant temples was slowly rising on the ruins of the old Cathedral of Saint Paul. He who then rambled to what is now the gayest and most crowded part of Regent Street found himself in a solitude, and was sometimes so fortunate as to have a shot at a woodcock. On the north the Oxford road ran between hedges. Three or four hundred yards to the south were the garden walls of a few great houses which were considered as quite out of town. On the west was a meadow renowned for a spring from which, long after- wards. Conduit Street was named. " On the east was a field not to be passed without a shudder by any Londoner of that age. There, as in a place far from the haunts of men, had been dug, twenty years before, when the great plague was raging, a pit into which the dead carts had nightly shot corpses by scores. It was popularly believed that the earth was deeply tainted with infection, and could not be disturbed without imminent risk to human life. No foundations were laid there till two generations had passed without any return of the pestilence, and till the ghastly spot had long been surrounded by buildings. We should greatly err if we were to suppose that any of the streets and squares then bore the same aspect as at present. The great majority of the houses, indeed, have, since that time, been wholly, or in great part, rebuilt. If the most fashionable parts of the capital could be placed before us such as they then were, we should be disgusted by their squalid appearance, and poisoned by their noisome atmosphere. In Covent Garden a filthy and noisy market was held close to the dwellings of the great. Fruit women screamed, carters fought, cabbage stalks and rotten apples accumulated in heaps at the thresholds of the Countess of Berkshire and of the Bishop of Durham. The centre of Lincoln's Inn Fields was an open space where the rabble congregated every evening, within a few yards of Cardigan House and Winchester House, to hear mounte- banks harangue, to see bears dance, and to set dogs at oxen. Rubbish was shot in eveiT part of the area. Horses were exercised there. The beggars were as noisy and importunate as in the worst governed cities of the Continent. THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND 515 A Lincoln's Inn mumper ^ was a proverb. The whole fraternity knew the arms and liveries of every charitably disposed grandee in the neighbourhood, and, as soon as his lordship's coach and six appeared, came hop- ping and crawling in crowds to persecute him. These disorders lasted, in spite of many accidents, and of some legal proceed- ings, till, in the reign of George the Second, Sir Joseph JekyU, Master of the Rolls, was knocked down and nearly killed in the middle of the square. Then at length palisades were set up, and a pleasant garden laid out. Saint James's Square was" a receptacle for ail the otial and cinders, for all the dead cats and dead dogs of Westminster. At one time a cudgel player kept the ring there. At another time an impudent squatter settled himself there, and built a shed for rubbish under the windows of the gilded saloons in which the first magnates of the realm, Nor- folk, Ormond, Kent, and Pembroke, gave banquets and balls. It was not till these nuisances had lasted through a whole genera- tion, and till much had been written about them, that the inhabitants applied to Parlia- ment for permission to put up rails, and to plant trees. When such was the state of the region in- habited by the most luxurious portion of soci- ety, we may easily believe that the great body of the population suffered what would now be considered as insupportable grievances. The pavement was detestable : all foreigners cried shame upon it. The drainage was so bad that in rainy weather the gutters soon became torrents. Several facetious poets have com- memorated the fury with which these black rivulets roared down Snow Hill and Ludgate Hill, bearing to Fleet Ditch a vast tribute of animal and vegetable filth from the stalls of butchers and green-grocers. This flood was profusely thrown to right and left by coaches and carts. To keep as far from the carriage road as possible was therefore the wish of every pedestrian. The mild and timid gave the wall. The bold and athletic took it. If two roisterers met, they cocked their hats* in each other's faces, and pushed each other about till the weaker was shoved towards the kennel. If he was a mere bully he sneaked off, muttering that he should find a time. If he was pugnacious, the 1 beggar encounter probably ended in a duel behind Montague House. The houses were not numbered. There would indeed have been little advantage in numbering them ; for of the coachmen, chair- men, porters, and errand boys of London, a very small proportion could read. It was necessary to use marks which the most igno- rant could understand. The shops were therefore distinguished by painted or sculp- tured signs, which gave a gay and grotesque aspect to the streets. The walk from Char- ing Cross to Whitechapel lay through an endless succession of Saracens' Heads, Royal Oaks, Blue Bears, and Golden Lambs, which disappeared when they were no longer re- quired for the direction of the common people. We may easily imagine what, in such times, must have been the state of the quarters of London which were peopled by the outcasts of society. Among those quarters one had attained a scandalous preeminence. On the confines of the City and the Temple had been founded, in the thirteenth century, a House of Carmelite Friars, distinguished by their white hoods. The precinct of this house had, before the Reformation, been a sanctuary for criminals, and stiU retained the privilege of protecting debtors from arrest. Insolvents consequently were to be found in every dwelling, from ceUar to garret. . Of these a large proportion were knaves and Ubertines, and were followed to their asylum by women more abandoned than themselves. The civil power was im- able .to keep order in a district swarming v:ith such inhabitants ; and thus White- friars became the favourite resort of all who wished to be emancipated from the restraints of the law. Though the immtmities legally belonging to the place extended only to cases of debt, cheats, false witnesses, forgers, and highwa>Tnen found refuge there. For amidst a rabble so desperate no peace officer's life was in safety. At the cry of ''Rescue," bullies with swords and cudgels, and ter- magant hags with spits and broomsticks, poured forth by hundreds ; and the intruder was fortunate if he escaped back into Fleet Street, hustled, stripped, and pumped upon. Even the warrant of the Chief-justice of England could not be executed without the 5^6 THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MAC AULA Y help of a company of musketeers. Such reUcs of the barbarism of the darkest ages were to be found within a short walk of the chambers^ where Somers- was studying his- tory and law, of the chapel^ where Tillotson was preachmg, of the coffee-house^ where Dryden was passing judgment on poems and plays, and of the hall where the Royal Society was examining the astronomical system of Isaac Newton. The coffee-house must not be dismissed with a cursory mention. It might, mdeed, at that time have been not improperly called a most important political institution. No Parliament had sat for years. The mimic- ipal council of the city had ceased to speak the sense of the citizens. Public meetings, harangues, resolutions, and the rest of the modern machinery of agitation had not yet come into fashion. Nothing resembling the modern newspaper existed. In such cir- cumstances the coffee-houses were the chief organs through vv'hich the public opinion of the metropolis vented itself. The first of these establishments had been set up, in the time of the Commonwealth, by a Turkey merchant, who had acquired among the Mahometans a taste for their favourite beverage. The convenience of being able to make appointments in any part of the town, and of being able to pass even- ings socially at a very small charge, was so great that the fashion spread fast. Every man of the upper or middle class went daily to his coffee-house to learn the news and to discuss it. Every coffee-house had one or more orators to whose eloquence the cjowd listened with admiration, and who soon be- came, what the journalists of our time have been called, a fourth Estate of the realm. The court had long seen with uneasiness the growth of this new power in the state. An attempt had been made, during Danby's administration,^ to close the coffee-houses. But men of all parties missed their usual places of resort so much that there was a ^ in the Middle Temple ^ Lord Somers, made lord chancellor in 1697 ' Lincoln's Inn chapel, where Tillotson preached until he became Arch- bishop of Canterbury in 1691 * Will's coffee- house, cf. below, p. 517 ^ Danby was lord treas- urer, 1673-8 universal outcry. The government did not venture, in opposition to a feeling so strong and general, to enforce a regulation of which the legahty might well be questioned. Since that time ten years had elapsed, and during those years the number and influence of the coffee-houses had been constantly increasing. Foreigners remarked that the coffee-house was that which especially distinguished London from all other cities ; that the coffee- house was the Londoner's home, and that those who wished to find a gentleman com- monly asked, not whether he lived in Fleet Street or Chancery Lane, but whether he frequented the Grecian or the Rainbow. No- body was excluded from these places who laid down his penny at the bar. Yet every rank and profession, and every shade of religious and political opinion, had its own headquarters. There were houses near Saint James's Park where fops congregated, their heads and shoulders covered with black or flaxen wigs, not less ample than those which are now worn by the Chancellor and by the Speaker of the House of Commons. The wig came from Paris; and so did the rest of the fine gentleman's ornaments, his em- broidered coat, his fringed gloves, and the tassels which upheld his pantaloons. The conversation was in that dialect which, long after it had ceased to be spoken in fashion- able circles, continued, in the mouth of Lord Foppington,^ to excite the mirth of theatres. The atmosphere was like that of a perfumer's shop. Tobacco in any other form than that of richly scented snuff was held in abomina- tion. If any clown, ignorant of the usages of the house, called for a pipe, the sneers of the whole assembly and the short answers of the waiters soon convinced him that he had better go somewhere else. Nor, indeed, would he have had far to go. For, in gen- eral, the coffee-rooms reeked with tobacco hke a guard-room; and strangers sometimes expressed their surprise that so many people should leave their own firesides to sit in the midst of eternal fog and stench. No- where was the smoking more constant than at Will's. That celebrated house, situated between Covent Garden and Bow Street, ' a popular personification of foppery, in Van- brugh's comedy The Relapse (1697), Gibber's The Careless Husband (1704), and Sheridan's A Trip to Scarborough (1777) THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND 517 was sacred to polite letters. There the talk was about poetical justice and the unities of place and time. There was a faction for Perrault and the moderns, a faction for Boileau and the ancients. One group de- bated whether Paradise Lost ought not to have been in rhyme. To another an envious poetaster demonstrated that Venice Preserved ^ ought to have been hooted from the stage. Under no roof was a greater variety of figures to be seen. There were earls in stars and garters, clergymen in cassocks and bands, pert Templars, sheepish lads from the Uni- v^ersities, translators and index-makers in ragged coats of frieze. The great press was to get near the chair where John Dryden sat. In winter that chair was always in the warmest nook by the fire; in summer it stood in the balcony. To bow to the Laureate, and to hear his opinion of Racine's last tragedy or of Bossu's treatise on epic poetr>', was thought a privilege. A pinch from his snuffbox was an honour sui3&cient to turn the head of a young enthusiast. There were coflee-houses where the first medical men might be consulted. Dr. John Radcliffe, who, in the year 1685, rose to the largest practice in London, came daily, at the hour when the Exchange was full, from his house in Bow Street, then a fashionable part of the capital, to Garraway's, and was to be found, surrotmded by surgeons and apothecaries, at a particular table. There were Puritan coffee-houses where no oath v.as heard, and where lank-haired men discussed election and reprobation through their noses ; Jew coffee-houses where dark-eyed money changers from \^enice and from Amsterdam greeted each other ; and popish coffee-houses where, as good Protestants believed, Jesuits planned, over their cups, another great fire, and cast silver buUets to shoot the King. These gregarious habits had no small share in forming the character of the Londoner of that age. He was, indeed, a dift'erent being from the rustic EngUshmxan. There was not then the intercourse which now exists be- tween the two classes. Only very great men were in the habit of dividing the year be- tween town and countr^^ Few esquires came to the capital thrice in their lives. Nor was it yet the practice of all citizens in easy circumstances to breathe the fresh air of the fields and woods during some weeks of every summer. A cockney in a rural vil!u<;e was stared at as much as if he had intruded into a kraal of Hottentots. On the other hand, when the lord of a Lincolnshire or Shropshire manor appeared in Fleet Street, he was as easily distinguished from the resi- dent population as a Turk or a Lascar. His dress, his gait, his accent, the manner in which he gazed at the shops, stumbled into the gutters, ran against the porters, and stood under the waterspouts, marked him out as an excellent subject for the opera- tions of swindlers and banterers. Bullies jostled him into the kennel. Hackney coachmen splashed him from head to foot. Thieves explored with perfect security the huge pockets of his horseman's coat, while he stood entranced by the splendour of the Lord Mayor's show. jMoney droppers, sore from the cart's tail, introduced themselves to him, and appeared to him the most honest friendly gentlemen that he had ever seen. Painted women, the refuse of Lewkner Lane and Whetstone Park, passed themselves on him for countesses and maids of honour. If he asked his way to Saint James's, his informants sent him to ]\Iile End. If he went into a shop, he was instantly discerned to be a fit purchaser of ever>-thing that no- body else w'ould buy, of second-hand em- broidery, copper rings, and watches that would not go. If he rambled into any fashionable coffee-house, he became a mark for the insolent derision of fops and the grave v^'aggery of Templars. Enraged and morti- fied, he soon returned to his mansion, and there, in the homage of his tenants and the conversation of his boon companions, found consolation for the vexations and humiha- tions which he had undergone. There ha was once more a great man, and saw nothing above himself except when at the assizes he took his seat on the bench near the judge, or when at the muster of the militia he saluted the Lord Lieutenant. a tragedy by Otway (1682) 5i8 JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN (1801-1890) From THE IDEA OF A UNI\'ERSITY DISCOURSE VI ilxowledge viewed in relation to Learning 3 I suppose the primd-Jacie view which the pubhc at large would take of a University, considering it as a place of Education, is noth- ing more or less than a place for accjuiring a great deal of kiaowledge on a great many sub- jects. Memory is one of the first developed of the mental faculties ; a boy's business when he goes to school is to learn, that is, to store up things in his memory. For some years his intellect is little more than an mstrument for taking in facts, or a receptacle for storing them ; he welcomes them as fast as they come to him ; he lives on what is without ; he has his eyes ever about him ; he has a lively sus- ceptibility of impressions; he imbibes infor- mation of every kind ; and little does he make his own in a true sense of the word, Uv- ing rather upon his neighbours aU around him. He has opinions, rehgious, ix)htical, and literary, and, for a boy, is very positive in them and sure about them ; but he gets them from his schoolfellows, or his masters, or his parents, as the case may be. Such as he is in his other relations, such also is he in his school exercises ; his mind is observant, sharp, ready, retentive; he is almost passive in the acquisition of knowledge. I say this in no disparagement of the idea of a clever boy. Geography, chronology, histor}^, lan- guage, natural history, he heaps up the matter of these studies as treasures for a future day. It is the seven years of plenty with him : he gathers in by handfuls, like the Egyptians,' without counting; and though, as time goes on, there is exercise for his argumenta- tive powers in the Elements of Mathematics, and for his taste in the Poets and Orators, still, while at school, or at least, till quite the last years of his time, he acquires, and Httle more; and when he is leaving for the University, he is mainly the creature of for- ^ cf . Genesis, xli : 49 eign influences and circumstances, and made up of accidents, homogeneous or not, as the case may be. Moreover, the moral habits, which are a boy's praise, encourage and assist this result ; that is, diligence, assi- duity, regularity, despatch, persevering appli- cation ; for these are the direct conditions of acquisition, and naturally lead to it. Ac- cjuirements, again, are emphatically pro- ducible, and at a moment ; they are a some- thing to show, both for master and scholar ; an audience, even though ignorant them- selves of the subjects of an examination, can comprehend when questions are answered and when they are not. Here again is a rea- son why mental culture is in the minds of men identified with the acquisition of knowledge. The same notion possesses the public mind, when it passes on from the thought of a school to that of a University : and with the best of reasons so far as this, that there is no true culture without acquirements, and that phi- losophy presupposes knowledge. It requires a great deal of reading, or a wide range of information, to warrant us in putting forth our opinions on any serious subject ; and without such learning the most original mind may be able indeed to dazzle, to amuse, to refute, to perplex, but not to come to any useful result or any trustworthy conclu- sion. There are indeed persons who profess a different view of the matter, and even act upon it. Every now and then you wUl find a person of vigorous or fertile mind, who relies upon his own resources, despises all former authors, and gives the world, with the utmost fearlessness, his viev/s upon religion, or history, or any other popular subject. And his works may sell for a while ; he may get a name in his day ; but this will be all. His readers are sure to find on the long run that his doctrines are mere theories, and not the expression of facts, that they are chaff instead of bread, and then his popularity drops as suddenly as it rose. Knowledge then is the indispensable condi- tion of expansion of mind, and the instrument of attaining to it ; this cannot be denied, it is ever to be insisted on ; I begin with it as a first principle ; however, the very truth of it carries men too far, and confirms to them the notion that it is the whole of the matter. A narrow mind is thought to be that which con- tains little knowledge ; and an enlarged niind, that which holds a great deal ; and what THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 519 seems to put the matter beyond dispute is, the. fact of the great number of studies which are pursued in a University, by its ven' pro- fession. Lectures are given on every kind of subject ; examinations are held ; prizes awarded. There are moral, metaphysical, phys- ical Professors ; Professors of languages, of his- tory, of mathematics, of experimental science. Lists of questions are published, wonderful for their range and depth, variety and diffi- culty ; treatises are -ssTitten, which carry upon their ver>^ face the evidence of exten- sive reading or multifarious information ; what then is wanting for mental culture to a person of large reading and scientific attainments? what is grasp of mind but acquirement? where shall philosophical re- pose be found, but in the consciousness and enjoyment of large intellectual possessions ? And yet this notion is, I conceive, a mis- take, and my present business is to show that it is one, and that the end of a Liberal Educa- tion is not mere knowledge, or knowledge con- sidered in its matter; and I shall best attain my object, by actually setting down some I cases, which wiU be generally granted to be instances of the process of enlightenment or enlargement of mind, and others which are not, and thus, by the comparison, you will be able to judge, for yourselves, Gentlemen, whether Kjnowledge, that is, acquirement, is after all the real principle of the enlarge- ment, or whether that principle is not rather something beyond it. For instance, let a person, whose experi- ence has hitherto been confined to the more calm and unpretending scenery of these islands, whether here^ or in England, go for the first time into parts where physical nature puts on her wilder and more awful forms, whether at home or abroad, as mto mountainous districts ; or let one, who has ever Hved in a quiet village, go for the first time to a great metropolis, — then I suppose he will have a sensation which perhaps he never had before. He has a feeling not in addition or increase of -former feelings, but of something different in its nature. He will perhaps be borne forw'ard, and find for a time that he has lost his bearings. He ^ in Ireland has made a certain progress, and he has a consciousness of mental enlargement ; he does not stand where he did, he has a new centre, and a range of thoughts to which he was before a stranger. Again, the view of the heavens which the telescope opens upon us, if allowed to fiU and possess the mind, may almost whirl it round and make it dizzy. It brings in a flood of ideas, and is rightly called an intel- lectual enlargement, whatever is meant by the term. And so again, the sight of beasts of pre\' and other foreign animals, their strangeness, the originality (if I may use the term) of their forms and gestures and habits and their' va- riety and mdependence of each other, throw U5 out of ourselves into another creation, and as if under another Creator, if I may so ex- press the temptation which may come on the mind. We seem to have new faculties, or a new exercise for our faculties, by this addition to our knowledge ; Uke a prisoner, who, hav- ing been accustomed to wear manacles or fetters, suddenly finds his arms and legs free. Hence Physical Science generally, in all its departments, as bringing before us the exu- berant riches and resoiu-ces, yet the orderly course, of the Universe, elevates and excites the student, and at first, I may say, almost takes away his breath, while in time it exer- cises a tranquilHsing mfluence upon him. Again, the study of histor>' is said to enlarge and enlighten the mind, and why? because, as I conceive, it gives it a power of judging of passing events, and of all events, and a con- scious superiority over them, which before it did not possess. And in like manner, what is called seeing the world, entering mto active fife, going into society, travelling, gaining acquaintance with the various classes of the commimity, coming into contact with the principles and modes of thought of various parties, interests, and races, their views, aims, habits and manners, their religious creeds and forms of worship, — gain- ing experience how various yet how alike men are, how low-minded, how bad, hov opposed, yet how confident in their opinions ; all this exerts a perceptible influence upon the mind, which it is impossible to mistake, be it good or be it bad, and is popularly called its enlargement. And then again, the first time the mind 520 JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN comes across the arguments and speculations of unbelievers, and feels what a novel hght they cast upon what he has hitherto accounted sacred ; and still more, if it gives in to therti and embraces them, and throws off as so much prejudice what it has hitherto held, and, as if waking from a dream, begins to realise to its imagination that there is now no such thing as law and the transgression of law, that sin is a phantom, and punishment a bugbear, that it is free to sin, free to enjoy the world and the flesh ; and stiU further, when it does enjoy them, and reflects that it may think and hold just what it will, that "the world is all before it where to choose," ^ and W'hat system to build up as its own private persuasion ; when this torrent of wilful thoughts rushes over and inundates it, who wiU deny that the fruit of the tree of knowl- edge, or what the mind takes for knowledge, has made it one of the gods, with a sense of expansion and elevation, — an intoxication in reality, still, so far as the subjective state of the mind goes, an illumination? Hence the fanaticism of individuals or nations, who suddenly cast off their Maker. Their eyes are opened ; and, like the judgment-stricken king in the Tragedy,'^ they see two suns, and a magic universe, out of which they look back upon their former state of faith and innocence with a sort of contempt and indignation, as if they were then but fools, and the dupes of imposture. On the other hand. Religion has its own enlargement, and an enlargement, not of tu- mult, but of peace. It is often remarked of uneducated persons, who have hitherto thought little of the unseen world, that, on their turning to God, looking into themselves, regulating their hearts, reforming their con- duct, and meditating on death and judgment, heaven and hell, they seem to become, in point of intellect, different beings from what they were. Before, they took things as they came, and thought no more of one thing than another. But now every event has a mean- ing ; they have their own estimate of what- ever happens to them ; they are mindful of times and seasons, and compare the present 'cf. Par. Lost, XII, 646 '-^ In the Bac-ha of Euripides (11. 918-9) Pentheus, King of Tlicbes, smitten with madness for defying the god Diony- sus, says: "Lo, I seem to see two suns and a double Thebes, the seven-gated city." with the past ; and the world, no longer dull, monotonous, unprofitable, and hopeless, is a various and complicated drama, with parts and an object, and an av/ful moral. Now from these instances, to which many more might be added, it is plain, first, that the communication of knowledge certainly is either a condition or the means of that sense of enlargement or enlightenment, ' of which at this day we hear so much in certain quarters : this cannot be denied ; but next, it is equally plain, that such communica- tion is not the whole of the process. The enlargement consists, not merely in the pas- sive reception into the mind of a number of ideas hitherto unknown to it, but in the mind's energetic and simultaneous action upon and towards and among those new ideas, which are rushing in upon it. It is the ac- tion of a formative power, reducing to order and meaning the matter of our acquirements; it is a making the objects of our knowledge subjectively our ov/n, or, to use a familiar » word, it is a digestion of what we receive, into the substance of our previous state of thought ; and without this no enlargement is said to foUow. There is no enlargement, unless there be a comparison of ideas one with another, as they come before the mind, and a systematising of them. We feel our minds to be growing and expanding then, when we not only learn, but refer what we learn to what we know already. It is not the mere addition to our knowledge that is the illumination; but the locomotion, the m.ovement onwards, of that mental centre, to which both what we know, and what we are learning, the accumulating mass of our acquirements, gravitates. And therefore a truly great intellect, and recognised to be such by the common opinion of mankind, such as the intellect of Aristotle, or of St. Thomas, or of Newton, or of Goethe, (I purposely take instances within and without the Catholic pale, when I would speak of the intellect as such), is one which takes a connected view of old and new, past and present, far and near, and which has an insight into the influence of all these one on another ; without which there is no whole, and no centre. It possesses the knowledge, not only of things, but also of their mutual and true relations; knowl- THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 521 edge, not merely considered as acquirement, but as philosophy. Accordingh', when this analytical, distribu- tive, harmonising process is away, the mind experiences no enlargement, and is not reck- oned as enlightened or comprehensive, what- ever it may add to its knowledge. For in- stance, a great memory, as I have already said, does not make a philosopher, any more than a dictionary can be called a grammar. There are men who embrace in their minds a vast multitude of ideas, but with little sensibility about their real relations towards each other. These may be antiquarians, annalists, naturalists; they may be learned in the law ; they may be versed in statistics ; they are most useful in their own place ; I should shrink from speaking disrespectfully of them ; still, there is nothing in such attain- ments to guarantee the absence of narrowness of mind. If they are nothing more than well- read men, or men of information, they have not what specially deserves the name of culture of mind, or fulfils the type of Liberal Education. In like manner, we sometimes fall in with persons who have seen much of the world, and of the men who, in their day, have played a conspicuous part in it, but who generalise nothing, and have no observation, in the true sense of the word. They abound in informa- tion in detail, curious and entertaining, about men and things ; and, having lived under the influence of no very clear or settled prin- ciples, religious or political, they speak of every one and everything, only as so many phenomena, which are complete in themselves, and lead to nothing, not discussing them, or teaching any truth, or instructing the hearer, but simply talking. No one would say that these persons, well informed as they are, had attained to any great culture of intellect or to philosophy. The case is the same still more strikingly where the persons in question are beyond dis- pute men of inferior powers and deficient edu- cation. Perhaps they have been much in foreign countries, and they receive, in a pas- sive, otiose, unfruitful way, the various facts which are forced vipon them, there. Sea- faring men, for example, range from one end of the earth to the other ; but the multiplicity of external objects which they have encoun- tered forms no symmetrical and consistent picture upon their imagination; they see the tapestry of human life, as it were, on the wrong side, and it tells no story. They sleep, and they rise up, and they find themselves, now in Europe, now in Asia ; they see visions of great cities and wild regions; they are in the marts of commerce, or amid the islands of the South; they gaze on Pompey's Pillar,^ or on the Andes; and nothing which meets them carries them forward or backward, to any idea beyond itself. Nothing has a drift or relation ; nothing has a history or a promise. Everything stands by itself, and comes and goes in its turn, like the shifting scenes of a show, which leave the spectator where he was. Perhaps you are near such a man on a particular occasion, and expect him to be shocked or perplexed at something which occurs ; but one thing is much the same to him as another, or, if he is perplexed, it is as not knowing what to say, whether it is right to admire, or to ridicule, or to disap- prove, while conscious that some expression of opinion is expected from him ; for in fact he has no standard of judgment at aU, and no landmarks to guide him to a conclusion. Such is mere acquisition, and, I repeat, no one would dream of calling it philosophy. Instances, such as these, confirm, by the contrast, the conclusion I have already drawn from those which preceded them. That only is true enlargement of mind which is the power of viewing many things at once as one whole, of referring them severally to their true place in the universal system, of understanding their respective values, and determining their mutual dependence. Thus is that form of Universal Knowledge, of which I have on a former occasion spoken, set up in the individual intellect, and constitutes its perfection. Possessed of this real illumina- tion, the mind never views any part of the extended subject-matter of Knowledge with- out recollecting that it is but a part, or with- out the associations which spring from this recollection. It makes ever>^thing in some sort lead to everything else ; it would com- municate the image of the whole to every separate portion, till that whole becomes in ^ a beautiful column in .Alexandria, Egj^t, falsely connected with Pompey, really erected in honor of the Emperor Diocletian 522 JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN imagination like a spirit, everywhere per- vading and penetrating its component parts, and giving them one definite meaning. Just as our bodily organs, when mentioned, recall their function in the body, as the word "creation" suggests the Creator, and "sub- jects" a sovereign, so, in the mind of the Philosopher, as we are abstractedly conceiving of him, the elements of the physical and moral world, sciences, arts, pursuits, ranks, offices, events, opinions, individualities, are all viewed as one, with correlative functions, and as gradually by successive combinations converging, one and all, to the true centre. To have even a portion of this illuminative reason and true philosophy is the highest state to which nature can aspire, in the way of intellect; it puts the mind above the influence of chance and necessity, above anxiety, suspense, unsettlement, and super- stition, which is the lot of the many. Men, whose minds are possessed with some one object, take exaggerated views of its impor- tance, are feverish in the pursuit of it, make it the measure of things which are utterly foreign to it, and are startled and despond if it happens to fail them. They are ever in alarm or in transport. Those on the other hand who have no object or principle what- ever to hold by, lose their way, every step they take. They are thrown out, and do not know what to think or say, at every fresh juncture ; they have no view of persons, or occurrences, or facts, which come suddenly upon them, and they hang upon the opinion of others, for want of internal resources. But the intellect, which has been disciplined to the perfection of its powers, which knows, and thinks while it knows, which has learned to leaven the dense mass of facts and events with the elastic force of reason, such an intel- lect cannot be partial, cannot be exclusive, cannot be impetuous, cannot be at a loss, cannot but be patient, collected, and majesti- cally calm, because it discerns the end in every beginning, the origin in every end, the law in every interruption, the limit in each delay; because it ever knows where it stands, and how its path lies from one point to another. It is the TeT/aaywvos* of the Peripatetic, and has the "nil admirari"* of the Stoic, — Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, Atque raetus omnes, et inexorabile fatum Subjccit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari. - There are men who, when in difficulties, origi- nate at the moment vast ideas or dazzling projects; who, under the influence of excite- ment, are able to cast a light, almost as if from inspiration, on a subject or course of action which comes before them ; who have a sudden presence of mind equal to any emer- gency, rising with the occasion, and an un- daunted magnanimous bearing, and an energy and keenness which is but made intense by opposition. This is genius, this is heroism ; it is the exhibition of a natural gift, which no culture can teach, at which no Institution can aim ; here, on the contrary, we are con- cerned, not with mere nature, but with train- ing and teaching. That perfection of the Intellect, which is the result of Education, and its beau ideal, to be imparted to indi- viduals in their respective measures, is the clear, calm, accurate vision and comprehen- sion of all things, as far as the finite mind can embrace them, each in its place, and with its own characteristics upon it. It is almost prophetic from its knowledge of history ; it is almost heart-searching from its knowledge of human nature ; it has almost supernatural charity from its freedom from littleness and prejudice ; it has almost the repose of faith, because nothing can startle it ; it has al- most the beauty and harmony of heavenly contemplation, so intimate is it with the eternal order of things and the music of the spheres. ^ The Stoic philosophy (so called because its founder Zeno taught in a porch) is phrased by Horace in "nil admirari," meaning "to be dazzled by nothing " or " to be without emotion." This, he says, is the only way to win happiness and retain it (Epist. I. 6. i). 2 Fortunate is he who is able to understand things in their real nature and can trample upon fears of all sorts and inexorable fate and the noise of greedy yVcheron. Vergil, Georgics, II, 490-2. ^ "four-square" — a term appHed to the ideal man by Aristotle, founder of the Peripatetic school of philosophy (so called because he lec- tured in the shady wallis of the Lyceum) ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 523 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (1809-1892) THE LADY OF SHALOTT PART I On either side the river he Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot ; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs forever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, wUlow-veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail 'd By slow horses ; and unhail'd The shaUop flitteth silken-saU'd Skimming down to Camelot : But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in aU the land. The Lady of Shalott ? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley. Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot : And by the moon the reaper v.-eary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott." PART n There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily. And little other care hath she. The Lady of Shalott. 45 And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her aU the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot : There the river eddy whirls. And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott. 54 Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 9 An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two ; She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. 63 But in her web she still delights jg To weave the mirror's magic sights. For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot : Or when the moon was overhead. Came two young lovers lately wed ; "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott. 72 PART III 27 A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley -sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves. And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight forever kneel'd To a lady in his shield. That sparkled on the yeUow field, Beside remote Shalott. 81 36 The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode doTV^^ to Camelot : And from his blazon 'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung. Beside remote Shalott. 90 5^4 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. 99 His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd ; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse strode ; P>om underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode. As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash 'd into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. 108 She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lfly bloom. She saw the helmet and the plume. She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide ; The mirror crack 'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott. 117 PART IV In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining. Heavily the low sky raining, Over tower'd Camelot ; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat. And round about the prow she wrote The Lady oj Shalott. 126 And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance. Seeing all his own mischance — With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. 135 Lying, robed in snowy white. That loosely flew to left and right — The leaves upon her falling light — Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot : And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. 144 Heard a carol, mournful, holy. Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side. Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. 153 Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, The Lady oJ Shalott. 162 Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer ; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot : But Lancelot mused a little space ; He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott." 171 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade,' "The Legend of Good Women," long ago Sung by the morning-star of song, who made His music heard below ; 4 Dan 2 Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still. 8 ' i.e., before I fell asleep ^ not a name but a title of respect, like the Spanish Don, from Latin dominus A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 525 And, for a while, the knowledge of his art Held me above the subject, as strong gales Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart, Brimful of those wild tales, 12 Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land I saw, wherever light illumineth, Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand The downward slope to death. 16 Those far-renowned brides of ancient song Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars. And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong, And trumpets blown for wars ; 20 And clattering flints batter'd with clanging hoofs ; And I saw crowds in column'd sanctuaries ; And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs Of marble palaces ; 24 Corpses across the threshold ; heroes tall Dislodging pinnacle and parapet Upon the tortoise ^ creeping to the wall ; Lances in ambush set ; 28 And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated blasts That run before the iluttering tongues of fire ; White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and masts, And ever climbing higher ; 3 2 Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, And hush'd seraglios. 36 So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land Bluster the winds and tides the self-same way. Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand, Torn from the fringe of spray. 40 I started once, or seem'd to start in pain. Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak. As when a great thought strikes along the brain. And flushes all the cheek. 44 ^ a dose formation of troops protected by overlapping their shields above their heads And once my arm was lifted to hew down A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, That bore a lady from a leaguer a town; And then, I know not how, 48 All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and did creep, Roll'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, and brought Into the gulfs of sleep. 52 « At last methought that I had wander'd far In an old wood : fresh-wash'd in coolest dew The maiden splendours of the morning star Shook in the steadfast blue. 56 Enormous elm-tree-bolcs did stoop and lean Upon the dusky brushwood underneath Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green. New from its silken sheath. 60 The dim red morn had died, her journey done. And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain, Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun, Never to rise again. 64 There was no motion in the dumb dead air, Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre Is not so deadly stfll 68 As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine tiu-n'd Their hiunid arms festooning tree to tree. And at the root thro' lush green grasses burn'd The red anemone. 72 I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew The tearful glimmer of the languid dawm On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench'd in dew, Leading from lawn to lawTi. 76 The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remember to have been Joyful and free from blame. 80 526 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON And from within me a clear undertone ThriU'd thro' mine ears in that imblissful cUme, "Pass freely thro' : the wood is all thine own, Until the end of time." 84 At length I saw a lady ^ within call, Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there ; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall. And most divinely fair. 88 Her lovehness with sl^iame and with surprise Froze my swift speech : she, turning on my face The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, Spoke slowly in her place. 92 " I had great beauty : ask thou not my name : No one can be more wise than destiny. Many drew sw(jrds and died. Where'er I came I brought calamity." 96 "No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair field Myself for such a face had boldly died," I answer'd free ; and turning I appeal'd To one that stood beside.- 100 But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, To her full height her stately stature draws ; "My youth," she said, "was blasted with a curse : This woman was the cause. 104 "I was cut off from hope in that sad place. Which men call'd Aulis in those iron years : My father ^ held his hand upon his face ; I, blinded with my tears, 108 "Still strove to speak: my voice was thick with sighs As in a dream. Dimly I could descry The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes. Waiting to see me die. 112 "The high masts ilicker'd as they lay afloat ; The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and the shore ; The bright death quiver'd at ' the victim's throat ; Touch'd ; and I knew no more." 116 ^ Helen of Troy ^ Iphigenia ' Agamemnon Whereto the other with a downward brow : "I would the white cold heavy-plunging foam, Whirl'd by the wind, had roll'd me deep below Then when I left my home." 120 Her slow full words sank thro' the silence drear. As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea : Sudden I heard a voice that cried, "Come here. That I may look on thee." ■ 124 I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise. One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll'd ; ^ A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes, Brow-bound with burning gold. 128 She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began : " I govern'd men by change, and so I sway'd All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen a man. Once, like the moon, I made 132 "The ever-shifting currents of the blood According to my humour ebb and flow. I have no men to govern in this wood : 136 That makes my only woe. " Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not bend One will ; nor tame and tutor with mine eye That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, friend. Where is Mark Antony ? "The man, my lover, with whom I rode sub- lime On Fortune's neck : we sat as God by God : The Nilus would have risen before his time And flooded at our nod. 144 "We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit Lamps which out-burn'd Canopus,^ O my life In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit, The flattery and the strife, 148 "And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms. My Hercules, my Roman Antony, My mailed Bacchus leapt int6 my arms, Contented there to die ! 152 ^ Cleopatra ^ a star in the southern constella- tion Argo A DREx\M OF FAIR WOMEN 527 "And there he died: and when I heard my name Sigh'd forth with life, I would not brook ^ my fear Of the other : ^ with a worm I balk'd his fame. What else was left ? look here !" 156 (With that she tore her robe apart, and half The polish'd argent of her breast to sight Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, Showing the aspick's bite.) 160 "I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found ]Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, A name forever ! — lymg robed and crown'd. Worthy a Roman spouse." 164 Her. warbling voice, a l>Te of widest range Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance From tone to tone, and glided thro' all change Of liveliest utterance. 168 When she made pause I knew not for delight : Because with sudden motion from the ground She rais'd her piercing orbs, and liird with light The interval of sound. 172 Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts ; As once they drew into two burning rings All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts Of captains and of kings. 176 Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard A noise of some one ^ coming thro' the lawn, And singing clearer than the crested bird* ■ That claps his wings at dawn. 180 ''The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, Sound all night long, in falling thro' the dell, Far-heard beneath the moon. 184 "The balmy moon of blessed Israel Floods aU the deep-blue gloom with beams divine : All night the spUnter'd crags that wall the dell With spires of silver shine." 188 ^ endure ^ Octavius, who conquered Antony ' Jephthah's daughter, cf . Judges, ix * the lark As one that museth where broad sunshine laves The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the door Hearing the holy organ rolling wa^'es Of sound on roof and floor 192 Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd and tied To where he stands, — so stood I, when that flow Of music left the lips of her that died To save her father's vow ; ig6 The daughter of the warrior Gileadite ; A maiden pure ; as when she went along From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome light. With timbrel and with song. 200 My words leapt forth: "Heaven heads the count of crimes With that wild oath." She render'd answer high: "Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand times I would be born and die. 204 "Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath. Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to fruit Changed, I was ripe for death. 208 "My God, my land, my father — these did move jMe from my bliss of life, that Xature gave, Lower'd softly v/ith a threefold cord of love Down to a silent grave. 212 "And I went mourning, 'No fair Hebrew boy Shall smile away my maiden blame among The Hebrew mothers' — emptied of all joy, Lea\dng the dance and song, 216 ''Leaving the olive-gardens far below, Lea\dng the promise of my bridal bower. The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow Beneath the battled tower. 220 "The light white cloud swam over us. Anon We heard the lion roaring from his den ; We saw the large white stars rise one by one. Or, from the darken'd glen, 224 " Saw God divide the night with flying flame. And thunder on the everlasting hills. I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became A solemn scorn of ills. 228 528 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON "When the next moon was roU'd into the sky, Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. How beautiful a thing it was to die For God and for my sire ! 232 "It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, That I subdued me to my father's will ; Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, Sweetens the spirit still. 236 "Moreover it is written that my race Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face Glow'd as I look'd at her. 240 She lock'd her lips : she left me where I stood : "Glory to God," she sang, and passed afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood. Toward the morning-star. 244 Losing her carol I stood pensively. As one that from a casement leans his head. When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly. And the old year is dead. 248 "Alas! alas!" a low voice, full of care, Murmur'd beside me. "Turn and look on me : I am that Rosamond,^ whom men call fair, If what I was I be. 252 "Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor ! O me, that I should ever see the light ! Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor Do hunt me, day and night." 256 She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust : To whom the Egyptian: "O, you tamely died! You should have clung to Fulvia's ^ waist, and thrust The dagger thro' her side." 260 With that sharp sound the white dawn's creep- ing beams, Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Ruled in the eastern sky. 264 Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark. Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance ^ loved by Henry II of England, whose queen was ELeanor of Aquitaine ^ Antony's wife Her murder'd father's head,^ or Joan of Arc, A light of ancient France ; 268 Or her 2 who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling with one arm about her king. Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, Sweet as new buds in Spring. 272 No memory labours longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o'er 276 Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again ! But no two dreams are like. 280 As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, Desiring what is mingled with past years. In yearnings that can never be exprest By sighs or groans or tears; 284 Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art, Faihng to give the bitter of the sweet. Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat. 288 MORTE D 'ARTHUR So all day long the noise of battle roU'd Among the mountains by the winter sea ; Until King Arthur's table, man by man, Had fallen in Lyonness^ about their Lord, King Arthur : then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him. Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross. That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 10 On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : "The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 1 Margaret, daughter of Sir Thomas More 2 Eleanor of Castile, wife of Edward I of England ^ supposed to lie between Cornwall and the Scilly Isles, now subnacrged, but cf. Layamon's Brtd MORTE D 'ARTHUR 529 They sleep — the men I loved. I think, that we Shall nevermore, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds. Walking about the gardens and the halls 20 Of Camelot,' as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made, — Tho' Merlin ^ sware that I should come again To rule once more — but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 30 Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword — and how I row'd across And took it, and have worn it like a king: And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known : But now delay not : take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere : ' Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : "It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus. Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 41 A little thing may harm a wounded man. Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, step- ping down By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 50 Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind, 60 In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted water-flags, ^ King Arthur's capital "- cf. Layamon's Brui, p. 8, above ^ the middle of the lake That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded King. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : "Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave ? WTiat is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard?" And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : "I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 70 And the wild water lapping on the crag." To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: "Thou hast betray 'd thy nature and thy name. Not rendering true answer, as beseem 'd Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shamefid thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again, As thou art lief ^ and dear, and do the thing 80 I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud: "And if indeed I cast the brand away. Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Shoidd thus be lost forever from the earth, 90 Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good shoidd follow this, if this were done? \\liat harm, undone ? deep harm to disobey. Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself ? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 99 And rumours of a doubt ? but were this kept. Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings. Some one might sho\v it at a joust of arms. Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honour and much fame were lost." 1 beloved 530 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON So spake he clouded with his own conceit,^ And hid Excalibur the second time, 1 1 1 And so strode back slow to the wounded King. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : "Wliat is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?" And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : "I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds." To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : "Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! Authority forgets a dying king, .121 Laid widow'd of the power in his eye That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, In whom should meet the ofilices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 131 I will arise and slay thee with my hands." Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword. And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon. And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch. Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,^ Seen where tjie moving isles of winter ^ shock By night, with noises of the northern sea. 141 So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : But ere he '' dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker • breath : " Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or seen?" * idea ^ Aurora Borealis * icc-bcrgs ^ Excalibur, cf. 11. 145, etc. And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 151 "Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my .purpose, for I never saw. Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; But when I look'd again, behold an arm. Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 1 60 Three times, and drew him under in the mere." And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : "My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight. And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. •Him Sir Bedivere 170 Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. And would have spoken, but he found not words, Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. But, as he walk'd. King Arthur panted hard. Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick ! I fear it is too late, and I shall die." iSo But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd. Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him, like a goad. Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 191 And the long glories of the winter moon. MORTE D 'ARTHUR 531 Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them rose A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice, an agony 200 Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur 'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge," And to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 212 And colourless, and like the wither'd moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust ; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 220 So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; Not hke that Arthur who, with lance in rest. From spur to plume a star of tournament. Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: "Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? For now I see the true old times are dead. When every morning brought a noble chance. And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led 232 The holy Elders ^ with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole Round Table is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world ; And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years. Among new men, strange faces, other minds." And slowly answered Arthur from the barge : "The old order changeth, yielding place to new. And God fulfils Himself in many ways, 241 Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within Himself make pure ! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again. Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and' day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain. If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? 253 For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell. I am going a long way W' ith these thou seest — if indeed I go — (For aU my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the island- valley of Avilion ; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 260 Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard- lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea. Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." So said he, and the barge with oar and