/^ GJiFT ©IP Mrs • !£ildred Clemens Leivis CENTURY READINGS FOR A COURSE IN ENGLISH LITERATURE ■Glnfform mitb Cbis CENTURY OUTLINf:S FOR A COURSE IN ENGLISH LITERATURE J. F. A. PYRE, Ph D. THOMAS H. DICKINSON, Ph.D. KARL YOUNG, Ph.D. OF THE UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN PRICE 75 CENTS CENTURY READINGS FOR A COURSE IN ENGLISH LITERATURE EDITED AND ANNOTATED BY J. W. CUNLIFFE, D.LiT. J. F. A. PYRE, Ph.D. KARL YOUNG, Ph.D. OF THE UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1911 Copyright, 1910, by The Century Co. Published, August, igio ri_«-^^ i A s "S '^ 4 4- b GIFT 917 C97£ 13IO PREFATORY NOTE This undertaking had its origin in connection with the (jenerai Survey of Enghsh Literature at the University of Wisconsin — a course which the editors have been engaged in conducting for some years past. The successful reorgan- ization of this course in 1907-8 led them to offer the results of their experience to a wider public. The selections are primarily intended for college under- graduates above the freshman grade, though they will no doubt be found suitable for both younger and older students. Plays and novels are omitted, as it is thought that these can only be effectively studied as wholes, and to include them would have extended the book beyond the one volume the editors had in view. It is intended that the readings here given should be supplemented by the study of representative plays and novels and by a course of lectures, for which a basis is given in the Century Outlines for a Course in English Literature, issued by the same publishers. Xo effort has been spared to secure the accuracy of the texts presented. Un- less there were cogent reasons for following the original spelling and punctuation, modern usage has been followed. Omissions are indicated by asterisks ; changes or insertions by square brackets. Only the author's original notes are given at the foot of the page. The editors are indebted to numerous predecessors for help both in determin- ing the various texts and in elucidating them ; they wish particularly to ac- knowledge their obligations to Messrs. Houghton, IMifflin & Co. and Professor R. E. N. Dodge for permission to use the latter's Cambridge edition of Spenser: and thanks are offered to other colleagues for kindly interest in the undertaking and assistance in proof reading. M72Ji5^?7 CONTENTS PAGE GEOFFREY CHAUCER (c. I34O-I4OO) 3 The Canterbury Tales : The Prologue 4 The Nun's Priest's Tale 12 ^ SIR THOMAS MALORY (c. I4OO-I471) IQ s Le Morte D'Arthur ig ■^ The Nut-Brown Maid (c. 1500) 34 ^ English and Scottish Popular Ballads 38 Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 38 Robin Hood's Death and Burial 41 The Battle of Otterburn 42 Captain Car or Edom o Gordon 45 The Wife of Usher's Well 47 Kemp Owyne 47 The Djenion Lover . . 48 Lord Randal 49 Sir Patrick Spens 49 Thomas Rymer 50 Bonny Barbara Allan 51 The Twa Sisters 51 The Cruel Brother 52 Edward 53 SIR THOMAS WYATT (l503?-I542) 54 The Lover for Shame-Fastness, etc 54 The Lover Compareth his State to a Ship 54 The Lover having dreamed of Enjoying of his Love 54 A Renouncing of Love 55 The Lover Beseecheth his Mistress not to Forget 55 An Earnest Suit to his Unkind Mistress 55 The Lover Complaineth the Unkindness of his Love 55 Of the Mean and Sure Estate 56 HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY (l5l7?-I574) SS Description of Spring 58 Complaint of a Lover Rebuked 58 Description and Praise of his Love Geraldine 58 Complaint of the Lover Disdained 59 A Complaint by Night of the Lover not Beloved 59 Vow to Love Faithfully . 59 Complaint of the Absence of Her Lover 59 A Praise of his Love 60 Description of the Restless State of a Lover 65 The Means to Attain Happy Life 61 Of the Death of Sir T[homas] W[yatt] 61 Virgil's ^neid, Book H _6i THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST (1536-1608) 63 The Induction 63 ROGER ASCHAM (1515-I568) 7I The Schoolmaster, Book I . . 71 JOHN LYLY (lS54?-l6o6) 76 Euphues and his England -5 Apelles' Song So vii viii CONTENTS PAGE Spring's Welcome 80 Sappho's Song 80 Song (From Gallathoa) 80 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-T586) 81 An Apology for i'ootry 81 Astrophel and Stella 87 Song: The Nightingale 90 Love is Dead 90 Dorus to Pamela 90 A Ditty 90 Hakluyt's Voyages 91 Dedicatory Epistle 91 The Last Fight of the Revenge 92 Linchoten's Testimony 95 The Loss of Sir Hnmprey Gilbert 95 A Report of Virginia 98 Raleigh's Discovery of Guiana 98 Sir Francis Drake at San Domingo 100 Drake in California loi EDMUND SPENSER (IS52-I599) IO4 The Shepheardes Calendar. Februarie 104 October 107 The Faerie Queene, Canto I 109 Canto II 117 Amoretti 123 Epithalamion 125 Prothalamion 130 Elizabethan Lyrics I33 GEORGE GASCOIGNE (l52S?-I577l A Strange Passion of a Lover 133 SIR EDWARD DYER (lSSO?-l6o7) My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is . . I34 SIR WALTER RALEIGH (l552?-l6l8) The Silent Lover 134 His Pilgrimage 134 A Vision upon this Conceit of the Faery Queen 135 The Conclusion I35 GEORGE PEELE (iSSS ?-I597 ?) Song from The Arraignment of Paris 135 Harvestmen A-Singing 136 ROBERT GREENE (lS6o?-I592) Song from The Farewell to Folly 136 Philomela's Ode 136 Song from Menaphon 136 Song from Menaphon 137 The Shepherd's Wife's Song I37 ROBERT SOUTHWELL (l56l?-I595) The Burning Babe 138 SAMUEL DANIEL (1562-1619) Sonnets from Delia 138 MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631) Sonnets from Idea ^39 To the Virginian Voyage 140 To the Cambro-Britons and their Harp 141 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (1564-I593) Hero and Leander, The First Sestiad 14- WILLIAM SHAKSPERE (1564-1616) Venus and Adonis 145 Sonnets 150 Songs from the Plays 155 CONTENTS PAGE England's Helicon (i6ooj Phyllida and Corydon 157 As It Fell upon a Day 157 To Colin Clout 157 Happy Shepherds, Sit and See 158 The Shepherd's Commendation of his Nymph . 158 The Herdman's Happy Life 159 A Nymph's Disdain of Love 159 Rosalind's Madrigal 159 Seventeenth Century Lyrics 160 THOMAS CAMPION (d. 1619) Chance and Change i6o Basia i6o A Renunciation i6o Sic Transit i6i BEN jONSON (i573?-i637) Song to Celia i6i Song: To Celia i6i To Heaven i6i The Triumph of Charis 162 An Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy 162 Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H 162 To the Memory of My Beloved, Master William Shakspere 162 A Pindaric Ode 163 JOHN DONNE (lS73-l63l) Song (■ Go and catch a falling star,') 165 The Indifferent 165 The Canonization 166 The Dream 166 Love's Deity 166 The Funeral 167 The Computation 167 Forget 167 Death 167 A Hymn to God the Father 168 JOHN FLETCHER (1579-1625) Love's Emblems i68 Melancholy i68 Song to Bacchus i68 Beauty Clear and Fair i6g Weep No More 169 Aspatia's Song 169 FRANCIS BEAUMONT (IS84-1616) On the Life of Man 169 Lines on the Tombs in Westminster 169 GEORGE WITHER (1588-I667) The Lover's Resolution 169 When We are upon the Seas 170 The Prayer of Old Age 170 WILLIAM BROWNE (159I-1643) Britannia's Pastorals, Book II, Song I 170 Book II, Song V 171 On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke 172 ROBERT HERRICK (159I-1674) Corinna's Going A-AIaying 172 Upon Julia's Clothes 173 To the Virgins 173 To Daffodils 173 To Music 173 An Ode for Ben Jonson 174 A Thanksgiving to God for his House 174 CONTENTS PAGE Grace for a Child i74 His Prayer for Absolution 175 GEORGE HERBERT ( I 503" I 633) Virtue i75 Love 175 The Collar - 175 The Quip 17s The World 176 The Pulley 176 THOMAS CAREW ( I598 ?-l63g ?) Song ('Ask me no more') 176 Song ('Would you know what's soft?') 177 The Protestation 177 Persuasions to Joy: A Song 177 Ingrateful Beauty Threatened 177 An Epitaph I77 SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT (1606-1668) Song ('The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,") 178 Praise and Prayer 178 EDMUND WALLER (1606-1687) The Story of Phoebus and Daphne Applied 178 To Phyllis 178 On a Girdle 178 Go, Lovely Rose ! 179 SIR JOHN SUCKLING (l6og-l622) A Doubt of Martyrdom 179 The" Constant Lover 179 Why so Pale and Wan? 179 RICHARD CRASH AW (l6l3?-l649) In the Holy Nativity of our Lord God 180 SIR JOHN DENHAM (161S-1669) ... Cooper's Hill ' 181 On Mr. Abraham Cowley's Death and Burial , 182 EICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658) To Lucasta, Going to the Wars 182 To Althea, From Prison 182 The Rose 183 To Lucasta 183 ABRAHAM COWLEY (1618-1677) The Swallow 183 The Wish 183 ANDREW MARVEL (162I-1678) The Garden 184 To his Coy Mistress 1S5 HENRY VAUGHAN (1622-1695) The Retreat 185 The World _ 185 Departed Friends 186 FRANCIS BACON (1561-1626) 187 Essays: I — Of Truth 187 V — Of Adversity 188 VH — Of Parents and Children 189 VHI — Of Marriage and Single Life 189 X — Of Love 190 XH — Of Boldness 191 XVH — Of Superstition 192 XXni — Of Wisdom for a Man's Self 192 XXV — Of Dispatch 193 XXVI — Of Seeming Wise 194 XXVIII — Of Expense 194 XXXII — Of Discourse 195 CONTENTS PAGE XXXIV — Of Riches 196 XLII — Of Youth and Age 197 XLVII — Of Negotiating 198 L — Of Studies 199 SIR THOMAS BROWNE (1605-1682) 200 Religio Medici 200 Hydriotaphia, Urnburial 209 ISAAK WALTON (1593-1683) 212 The Complete Angler 212 THOMAS FULLER (1608-1661) 21/ The Life of Sir Francis Drake 217 JEREMY TAYLOR (1613-1667) 221 The Faith and Patience of the Saints . . ' 221 JOHN BUNYAN (1628-1688) 225 The Pilgrim's Progress 225 JOHN MHTON (1608-1674) 236 On Shakspere 236 L'Allegro 217 11 Penseroso 238 Lycidas 240 Sonnets : When the Assault Was Intended to the City 242 To a Virtuous Young Lady 242 On the Detraction which followed upon my Writing Certain Treatises . 242 On the Same 243 To the Lord General Cromwell, May, 1652 243 On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 243 On his Blindness 243 To Cyriack Skinner 244 On his Deceased Wife 244 Paradise Lost, Book I 244 Book II 254 Areopagitica 260 JOHN DRYPEN (163I-I7OO) 266 Heroic Stanzas 266 Astriea Redux 267 Absalom and Achitophel 268 The Hind and the Panther 270 Alexander's Feast, or The Power of Music 274 An Essay of Dramatic Poesy 276 DANIEL DEFOE (1661-I731) 286 The True Born Englishman 286 The Shortest Way with the Dissenters 287 Preface to the Review 294 The Education of Women 297 . JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-I745) 299 A Tale of a Tub 299 A Meditation upon a Broomstick 318 A Modest Proposal 319 SIR RICHARD STEELE (1672-I729) 324 The Tatler : The Advertisement 324 A Recollection 325 The Spectator: The Club 326 Sir Roger on Men of Parts 328 Sir Roger in Love 330 A Day in London 2,zz JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-I719) 335 The Spectator: The Spectator Introduces Himself 335 A Country Sunday iZl Sir Roger at the Assizes 339 Town and Country 340 Sir Roger at the Play 342 The Death of Sir Roger 343 xii CONTENTS PAGE Party Patches ... 3_I5 Detraction Among Poets 346 Westminster Abbey ^.g ALEXANDER POPE (1688-I744) 350 An Essay on Critici 3SO The Rape of the Lock 358 Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot 368 JAMES THOMSON (170O-I748) 369 Summer 369 .Autumn 370 Winter 371 A Hymn 372 The Castle of Indolence i^j;^ Minor Poets — Young to Chatterton 376 EDWARD YOUNG (1681-I765) Night Thoughts 377 JOHN GAY (1685-I732) The Shepherd's Week 378 ROBERT BLAIR (1699-I746) The Grave 380 JOHN DYER (17OO-I758) Grongar Hill 381 WILLIAM SHENSTONE (1714-I763) The Schoolmistress 382 MARK AKENSIDE (172I-I770) Pleasures of the Imagination 385 WILLIAM COLLINS (172I-I759) Ode ('How sleep the brave') 386 Ode to Evening 386 Ode to Simplicity 387 The Passions 387 A Song from Shakspere's Cymbeline 389 THOMAS WARTON (1728-I790) The Grave of King Arthur 389 Sonnets : Dugdale's Monasticon 390 At Stonehenge 390 THOMAS CHATTERTON (1752-I770) Bristowe Tragedie 390 Mynstrelles Songe 395 THOMAS GRAY (1716-I771) 396 Sonnet on the Death of Mr. Richard West 396 On Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College 396 Hymn to Adversity 397 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 398 The Progress of Poesy 400 The Bard 402 The Fatal Sisters 403 SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-I784) 405 The Life of Addison 405 Letters : To the Earl of Chestertield 420 To James Macpherson 420 To the Reverend Dr. Taylor 420 The Vanity of Human Wishes 421 JAMES BOSWELL (174O-I795) 4^3 The Life of Johnson 423 EDMUND BURKE (1729-1797) 443 The Speech for Conciliation with the Colonies 443 EDWARD GIBBON (i737-i794) 453 The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire 453 CONTENTS xiii PAGE OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-I774) 463 Song ('When lovely woman') 463 The Deserted Village 463 The Retaliation 469 WILLIAM COWPER (173I-1800) 470 Walking with God 470 Table Talk 471 The Task. Book TV 471 On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture 477 Sonnet to Mrs. Unwin 479 On the Loss of the Royal George 479 t:EORGE CRABBE (1754-1832) 480 The Village, Book I 480 WILLIAM BLAKE (17S7-1827) 485 To Spring 485 To the Muses 486 Mad Song 486 The Piper 486 The Shepherd 486 The Little Black Boy 486 Cradle Song from Songs of Innocence 487 Cradle Song from Songs of Experience 487 A Dream 487 The Divine Image 488 The Chimney Sweeper 488 The Clod and the Pebble 488 The Tiger 488 Ah Sunflower 489 Nurse's Song 489 A Little Boy Lost 489 From Milton ('And did those feet m ancient time') 489 ROBERT RURNS (i759-i796) 490 Song : Mary Morison 490 Song: My Nanie, O 491 Song : Green Grow the Rashes 491 Lines to John Lapraik 491 To a Mouse 492 The Cotter's Saturday Night 492 Address to the Deil 495 A Bard's Epitaph 496 Of A' The Airts the Wind Can Blow 497 Go Fetch to Me a Pint o' Wine 497 Auld Lang Syne 497 John Anderson My Jo 497 Tarn Glen 497 To Mary in Heaven 498 Tam O'Shanter 498 Willie Brewed a Peck o' Maut • 500 A Winter Night 500 Highland Mary 501 Bonie Doon 501 Duncan Gray 501 Scots Wha Hae 502 A Man 's A Man for A' That 502 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850) 5O3 Preface to Lyrical Ballads C04 The Prelude, Book I 516 Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey 518 Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known 520 She Dwelt among the Lhitrodden Ways 520 I Traveled among Unknown Men ^20 Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower , 520 CONTENTS PAGE A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal 521 Michael 521 My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold 527 The Sparrow's Nest 527 To the Cuckoo 527 Resolution and Independence 528 To a Young Lady 530 The Solitary Reaper 530 Yarrow L'nvisited 530 She Was a Phantom of Delight 531 I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud 531 To a Skylark 531 Elegiac Stanzas 532 Ode to Duty 533 Character of the Happy Warrior 533 Ode, Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood .... 534 Sonnets: Nuns Fret Not 537 Personal Talk 537 Composed upon Westminster Bridge 538 Composed by the Seaside Near Calais 538 It Is a Beauteous Evening 538 On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic 538 To Toussaint L'Ouverture 538 September, 1802, Near Dover 539 London, 1802 539 It Is Not To Be Thought Of 539 When I Have Borne in Memory 539 To the Men of Kent 539 Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland 540 The World is Too Much with Us 540 Afterthought to the River Duddon 540 Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge 540 Continued 541 On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott 541 'There' Said a Stripling 541 Conclusion 541 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIIK.I': (1772-1834) 542 Biographia Literaria 543 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 553 Christabel 560 Kubia Khan 565 Frost at Midnight 565 Humility The Mother of Charity 566 Epitaph 566 CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834) 567 The Old Familiar Faces 567 Mackery End in Hertfordshire 568 Dream-Children : A Reverie 570 A Chapter on Ears • ' . . . . 572 A Dissertation upon Roast Pig 574 SIR WALTER SCOTT (177I-1832) 579 Marmion. Canto VI 579 Soldier, Rest ! 585 GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824) 5^6 Sonnet on Chillon 5^6 Childe Harold, Canto III 587 Childe Harold, Canto IV 593 The Vision of Judgment 600 Don Juan, Canto III 605 Don Juan. Canto IV 608 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822) 614 Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 615 Ozymandias 616 CONTENTS XV PAGE Stanzas Written in Dejection, Near Naples 6i6 Prometheus Unbound, Act IV 6i6 Ode to the West Wind 625 The Indian Serenade 626 The Cloud 626 To a Skylark 627 A Lament 628 To — ('Music, when soft voices die,") 629 Adonais 629 Final Chorus from Hellas 636 To Night 637 To — ('One word is too often profaned') 637 With a Guitar, to Jane 637 Lines : When the Lamp is Shattered 638 A Dirge 638 JOHN KEATS (1795-1821) 639 Keen, Fitful Gusts Are Whispering Here and There 639 On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 639 Endymion, Book I, Proem 640 The Eve of St. Agnes 640 Ode (' Bards of Passion and of Mirth ') 645 Robin Hood 646 Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 646 Ode on a Grecian Urn 647 Ode to a Nightingale 647 Ode on Melancholy 648 To Autumn 649 Hyperion, Book I 649 In a Drear-Nighted December 654 La Belle Dame Sans Merci 654 On Seeing the Elgin Marbles 655 On the Sea 655 When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be 655 Bright Star! Would I Were Steadfast As Thou Art 655 Nineteenth Century Lyrics 656 ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843) The Battle of Blenheim ' 656 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (1775-1864) Rose Aylmer 657 Mild is the Parting Year 657 Past Ruined IHon 657 The Death of Artemidora 657 Dirce e^S On Lucretia Borgia's Hair 658 Memory and Pride 658 The Love of Other Years 658 To Robert Browning 658 On Timely Death 658 To Age 658 On his Seventy-Fifth Birthday 659 THOMAS CAMPBELL ( 1 777-1 844) Ye Mariners of England 659 THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852) Oft in the Stilly Night 659 The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls 660 LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859) Rondeau 660 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK (1785-1866) The Men of Gotham 660 The War-Song of Dinas Vawr 660 The Friar's Song 5^1 CONTENTS chari.es woi.ke (i79i-i8_'3) i>age The Burial of Sir Joliii Moore 66i JOHN KEBI.E (1792-1866) United States 661 THOMAS HOOD (1798-1845) Fair Ines 662 The Bridge of Sighs 662 The Song of the Shirt 663 WINTHROP MACKWOKTH PRAED (1802-1839) The Belle of the Bail-Room 664 A Letter of Advice 66, WILLIAM BARNES (180I-I886) Blackmvvore Maidens 667 The Surprise 667 THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES (1803-1849) Dream-Pedlary 667 Ballad of Human Life 668 To Sea, To Sea !...... 668 Dirge (' If thou wilt ease thine heart ') 668 Song (' Old Adam, the carrion crow,') 669 EDWARD FITZGERALD (1809-1883) The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam 669 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1809-1861) A Musical Instrument 670 Sonnets from the Portuguese 670 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY (181I-1863) At the Church Gate (iy2 The End of the Play 672 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH (1819-1861) Qua Cursum Ventus 673 Whither Depart the Brave 673 Where Lies the Land 674 Ah ! Yet Consider it Again ! 674 In the Depths 674 The Latest Decalogue 674 Say not the Struggle Nought Availeth 674 Life is Struggle .675 FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON (182I-1895) To My Grandmother 675 My Mistress's Boots 676 COVENTRY PATMORE (1823-1896) The Spirit's Epochs 676 The Married Lover 676 If I Were Dead 677 SIDNEY DOBELL (1824-1874) America 677 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI (183O-1894) Song (' When I am dead, my dearest ') 677 Remember 678 Abnegation 678 Trust 678 Up-Hill . 678 CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY (183I-1884) Companions 678 AUSTIN DOBSON (184O — ) A Dead Letter 679 JAMES THOMSON ( 1 834- 1 882) Melencolia 68i ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY (1844-1881) Has Summer Come without the Rose 682 Ode (' We are the music-makers ') 682 CONTENTS THOMAS DEQUINCEY (1785-1859) PAGE Confessions of an English Opium Eater 683 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY (180O-1859) 69I The Romance of History 691 The History of England, Vol. I, Chapter HI 697 JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN (180I-1890) 702 The Idea of a University, Discourse VI 703 THOMAS CARLYLE (1795-1881) 714 Past and Present, Book III 714 Book IV 730 JOHN RUSKiN (1819-1900) 733 Traffic 7ii ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (1809-1892) 745 Mariana 745 Song ('A spirit haunts the year's last hours') 746 The Poet 746 The Lady of Shalott 747 The Palace of Art 749 A Dream of Fair Women 753 Saint Agnes' Eve 757 You Ask Me Why, Though 111 at Ease 757 Of Old Sat Freedom on the Heights 757 Sir Galahad 758 A Farewell 759 Morte D'Arthur 759 Ulysses , . 762 Locksley Hall 763 Break, Break, Break 767 The Poet's Song 767 Songs from The Princess 768 In Mcmoriam A. H. H 769 Maud; A Melodrama 771 Song: from Guinevere 778 Tithonus 778 Milton 779 Northern Farmer, Old Style 779 The Revenge 781 To Virgil 783 ' Frater Ave Atque Vale ' 783 Vastness 783 Crossing the Bar 784 ROBERT BROWNING ( 1812-1889) 785 Songs from ' Pippa Passes ' All Service Ranks the Same with God 786 The Year 's at the Spring 786 Give Her but a Least Excuse 786 My Last Duchess 786 Count Gismond 787 Incident of the French Camp 788 The Italian in England 789 The Lost Leader 790 Home-Thoughts from Abroad 791 Home-Thoughts from the Sea 791 Saul 791 Love Among the Ruins 797 A Woman's Last Word 799 A Toccata of Galuppi's 799 My Star 800 The Last Ride Together 800 Memorabilia 802 ' De Gustibus ' 802 Andrea Del Sarto 802 The Guardian-Angel ;"'i- '■'. J . . 806 A Grammarian's Funeral ■"I'-j. n. . 807 xviii CONTENTS PAGE One Word More 808 Abt Vogler 811 Rabbi Ben Ezra 813 Prospice 816 Herve' Riel 816 The Two Poets of Croisic : Prologue 818 Epilogue 818 Pheidippides 820 Asolando : Epilogue 822 MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888) 823 The Study of Poetry 823 Shakspere 837 The Forsaken Merman 837 The Buried Life 838 Self-Dependence 840 Morality 840 Sohrab and Rustuni 840 The Scholar Gipsy 852 Requiescat 856 Rugby Chapel 857 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI (1828-1882) 859 My Sister 's Sleep 859 The Blessed Damozel 860 Francesca Da Rimini 861 Love's Nocturn 862 The Cloud Confines 863 Three Shadows 864 The King's Tragedy 864 Sonnets from The House of Life A Sonnet is a Moment's Monument 873 Love-Sight 874 Silent Noon 874 Love-Sweetness 874 Mid-Rapture 874 Stillborn Love 874 Inclusiveness 875 Known in Vain 875 The Choice, I 875 II 875 III 875 Lost Days 876 A Superscription 876 The One Hope 876 WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) 877 The Earthly Paradise 877 Atalanta's Race 878 The Lady of the Land 887 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE (1837-I9O9) 895 Choruses from Atlanta in Calydon 'When the hounds of Spring!' 895 'Before the beginning of years' 896 ' We have seen thee, O Love ' 896 The Garden of Proserpine 898 Hertha 899 A Forsaken Garden 901 Thalassius 903 Etude Realiste ' 9o6 The Roundel 906 On a Country Road 907 The Armada, 1588-1888 907 Cor Cordium 9I5 ' Non Dolet' 9i5 CONTENTS PAGE On the Deaths of Thomas Carlyle and George Eliot 915 Christopher Marlowe 915 WALTER HORATIO PATER (1839-1894) 916 Style 916 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850-1894) 928 The Foreigner at Home 929 Frangois Villon, Student, Poet, and Housebreaker 934 A Child's Garden of Verses Whole Duty of Children 947 Bed in Summer 947 System 947 Happy Thought 947 To Auntie ^7 In the States 947 Heather Ale 948 GEORGE MEREDITH (1828-I909) 949 Love in the Valley 949 The Last Words of Juggling Jerry 953 The Old Chartist 954 France, 1870 956 The Lark Ascending 960 The Woods of W^estermain 961 Modern Love 966 APPENDIX Beowulf 967 Sir Gawain and the Green Knight looo Notes 1023 Index of Authors , 1135 Index of First Lines 1137 CENTURY READINGS FOR A COURSE IN ENGLISH LITERATURE CENTURY READINGS FOR A COURSE IN ENGLISH LITERATURE GEOFFREY CHAUCER (c. 1340-1400) Since Chaucer's father, John Chaucer, was not only a successful London vintner, but also, probably, an occasional servant of the king, it is not surprising that at an early age our poet himself entered the service of royalty. Our earliest records concerning him show that in April, 1357, he was occupied, perhaps as page, in the household of Elizabeth, wife of Prince Lionel, son of Edward III, where he continued to serve throughout that year and probably into the next. During this service, Chaucer accompanied the princess to Hatfield, in Yorkshire, to London, and probably to other parts of England. We surmise that he witnessed more than one brilliant chivalric entertainment, and that at Hatfield, during Christmastide of 1357, he met his future friend and patron, John of Gaunt. During the year 1359, Chaucer served as a soldier in the army of Edward III, in France. Having been taken prisoner, not far from Reims, he was released through a ransom to which the king himself contributed the substantial sum of sixteen pounds. After the conclusion of this expedition, with the Peace of Br^tigny, May 8, 13G0, Chaucer returned to England, where he seems to have increased in favor at court, for in 1367 he was granted a life pension of twenty marks as a valet of the king. Dur- ing the next ten or fifteen years, Chaucer took part in a considerable number of diplomatic missions to the Continent, of which the most important, from a literary point of view, are a secret embassy to Genoa and Florence (Dec, 1372, to April, 1373), and a mission to INIjlan (May to September, 1378). Although Petrarch and Boccaccio were both living at the time of Chaucer's first visit to Italy, we have no evidence that the English poet met either of them. To these Italian journeys, however, may be due Chaucer's subsequent devotion to Italian literature. Aside from his diplomatic employment, the poet had official duties at home in connection with the customs of the port of London. In 1374 he was appointed comptroller of the customs and subsidy of wools, skins, and tanned hides, and in 1382 he received the additional appointment of comptroller of the petty customs. In the autumn of 1386, Chaucer sat for a short time in parliament as a knight of the shire for Kent. In the political eclipse of Richard, from the latter part of 1386 to 1389, Chaucer lost his offices, a loss that left him, presumably, much leisure for writing. During this period he may have written a considerable part of The Canterbury Tales. In 1389, Chaucer was again in the service of the government as clerk of the king's works, and although the loss of this appointment, in 1391, left him in straitened circumstances, a royal pension of twenty pounds, in 1394, and a yearly gift of a tun of wine, in 1398, contributed somewhat toward his comfort. When Henry IV, son of Chaucer's old patron. John of Gaunt, came to the throne in 1399, the poet promptly addressed to him a ballade entitled The Compleynt of Chaucer to his Empty Purse. To this pleasant bit of beg- ging the king responded readily with a pension of forty marks, in addition to the annuity of twenty pounds that had been granted in 1394. Chaucer spent his last days, then, in compara- tive comfort, and on his death, October 25, 1400, he was buried in the south transept of West- minster Abbey, which has since become the ' Poets' Corner.' Although the exact chronology of Chaucer's works is far from certain, the literary influences under which he wrote are clearly defined. As a courtier, diplomat, and man of the world, he was familiar with literary fashions at home and abroad, — literary fashions definitely embodied in his works. His first poems are imitations or translations of French poems popular at court both in France and in England. To an early stage of his career is assigned his translation of at least part of the Roman de la Rose, a French poem composed during the thirteenth cen- tury and popular in the fourteenth. French in style is The Book of the Duchess, written in 1369 as a lament for the death of Blanche, wife of John of Gaunt. Upon French models Chaucer composed his early poem. A. B. C, and numerous shorter poems ' that highten balades, roundels, virelayes.' The Parliament of Fowls, written, probably, in 1382, in Uonor of the 3 GEOFFREY CHAUCER marriage of Richard 11 and Anue of Bohemia, is conspicuously' intiueuced by French poetical taste. During his journeys to Italy, or before, Chaucer acquired a new source of literary inspiration in the worlcs of Dante. Petrarch, and Boccaccio. Although from Dante and Petrarch his literal borrowings arc few, his extensive verbal obligations to Boccaccio are shown in Troilus and Vrixiyde, written about 1383, and in the Knighfti Tale. The House of Fame, written, perhaps, about 137J), clearly shows the influence of Dante, as well as of French allegorical poetry. To the last fifteen years or so of Chaucer's life, without specification, may be assigned the Legend of Good Women and tlie Canterbury Tales. Although in these works Chaucer used a multiplicity of sources, the poems themselves show vigorous increase in English spirit and in literary originality. THE CANTERBURY TALES THE PROLOGUE Whan that Aprille with his 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 fowles maken melodye, That slepen a! the night with open ye, ^° (So priketh hem nature in hir corages) : Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, And palmers for to seken straunge strondes. To feme halwes, couthe in sondry londes ; And specially, from every shires ende i5 Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, The holy blisful martir for to seke, That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke. Bifel that, in that sesoun on a day, In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay 2° Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, At night was come in-to that hostelrye Wei nyne and twenty in a compaignye, Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falle 25 In felawshipe, and pilgrims 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, 3° So hadde I spoken with hem everichon, That I was of hir felawshipe anon, And made forward erly for to ryse. To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse. But natheles, whyl I have tyme and space, Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 36 Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun, To telle yow al the condicioun Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, 39 And whiche they weren, and of what degree; And eek in what array that they were innc: And at a knight than wol I first biginne. A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man. That fro the tyme that he first bigan To ryden out, he loved chivalrye, 45 Trouthe and honour, frcdom and curteisye. Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre. And thereto hadde he riden (no man ferre) As wel in cristendom as hethenesse. And evere honoured for his worthinesse. 50 At Alisaundre he was, whan it was wonne; Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonnc Aboven alle naciouns in Fruce. In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruce, No cristen man so ofte of his degree. S5 In Gernade at the sege 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 See At many a noble aryve hadde he be. 60 At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene, And foughten for our feith at Tramissene In listes thryes, and ay slayn his foo. This ilke worthy knight hadde been also Somtyme with the lord of Palatye, 65 Ageyn another hethen in Turkye : And everemore he hadde a sovereyn prys. And though that he were worthy, he was wys, And of his port as meek as is a mayde. He nevere yet no vileinye ne sayde 7° In al his lyf, un-to no maner wight. He was a verray parfit gentil knight. But for to tellen yow of his array. His hors were goode, but he was nat gay. Of fustian he wered a gipoun 75 Al bismotered with his habergeoun. For he was late y-come from his viage, And wente for to doon his pilgrimage. With him ther was his sone, a yong Squyer, A lovyer, and a lusty bacheler, 80 With lokkes crulle, as they were leyd in prcsse. THE CANTERBURY TALES Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. Of his stature he was of evene lengthe. And wonderly delivere, and greet of strengthe. And he hadde been somtyme in chivachye, §5 In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardye, And born him wel, as of so litel space, In hope to stonden in his lady grace. Embrouded was he, as it were a mede Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and rede. 9° Singinge he was, or floytinge, al the day ; He was as fresh as is the month of May. Short was his goune, with sieves longe and wyde. Wel coude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde. He coude songes make and wel endyte, 95 luste and eek daunce, and wel purtreye and wryte. So bote he lovede, that by nightertale He sleep namore than doth a nightingale. Curteys he was, lowly, and servisable, And carf biforn his fader at the table. loo A Yeman hadde he, and servaunts namo At that tyme, for him liste ryde so ; And he was clad in cote and hood of grene; A sheef of pecok arwes brighte and kene Under his belt he bar ful thriftily, los (Wel coude he dresse his takel yemanly: His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe), And in his hand he bar a mighty bowe. A not-heed hadde he, with a broun visage. Of wode-craft wel coude he al the usage, "o Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer. And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler. And on that other syde a gay daggere, Harneised wel, and sharp as point of spere; A Cristofre on his brest of silver shene. us An horn he bar, the bawdrik was of grene ; A forster was he, soothly, as I gesse. Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of hir smyling was ful simple and coy; Hir gretteste ooth was but by seynt Loy ; 120 And she was cleped madame Eglentyne. Ful wel she song the service divyne, Entuned in hir nose ful semely ; And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly. After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, 125 For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe. At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle ; She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, Ne wette hir fingres in hir sauce depe. Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe, That no drope ne fille up-on hir brest. 131 In curtcisye was set ful moche hir lest. Hir over lippe wyped she so clene. That in hir coppe was no ferthing sene 5 Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. 135 Ful semely after hir mete she raughte. And sikerly she was of greet disport, ' And ful plesaunt, and amiable of port, And peyned hir to countrefete chere Of court, and been estatlich of manere, 140 And to ben holden digne of reverence. But, for to speken of hir conscience, She was so charitable and so pitous. She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a mous Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde 146 With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel breed But sore weep 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 semely hir wimpel pinched was ; Hir nose tretys; hir eyen greye as glas ; Hfr mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe and reed; But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed. It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; iS5 For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war. Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene; And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful shene, On which ther was first write a crowned A,' And after, Amor vincit omnia. 162 Another Nonne with hir hadde she, That was hir chapeleyne, and Preeste's thre. A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrye, An out-rydere, that lovede venerye; 166 A manly man, to been an abbot able. Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable : And, whan he rood, men mighte his brydel here Ginglen in a whistling wynd as clere, 170 And eek as loude as doth the chapel-'belle, Ther as this lord was keper 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 thinges pace, 175 And held after the newe world the space. He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen. That seith, that hunters been nat holy men ; Ne that a monk, whan he is cloisterlees. Is likned til a fish that is waterlees ; 180 This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloistre. But thilke te.xt held he nat worth an oistre. And I seyde his opinioun was good. What sholde he studie, and make him-selven wood. Upon a book in cloistre alwey to poure, 185 Or swinken with his handes, and laboure. As Austin bit? How shal the world be served ? GEOFFREY CHAUCER Lat Austin have his swink to him reserved. Therfor he was a pricasour aright ; Grehoundes he hadde, as swifte as fowel in flight; Of priking and of hunting for the hare i9' Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. I seigh his sieves purfiled at the hond With grys, and that the fyneste of a lend; And, for to festne his hood under his chin, He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pin : A love-knot in the gretter ende ther was. >97 His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas. And eek his face, as he hadde been anoint. He was a lord ful fat and in good point ; 200 His eyen stepe, and rollinge in his heed, That stemed as a forneys of a leed ; His botes souple, his hors in greet estat. Now certeinly he was a fair prelat ; He was nat pale as a for-pyned 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 limitour, a ful solempne man. In alle the ordres foure is noon that can 210 So moche of daliaunce and fair langage. He hadde maad ful many a mariage Of yonge wommen, at his owne cost. Un-to 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 had power of confessioun, As seyde him-self, more than a curat, For of his ordre he was licentiat. 220 Ful swetely herde he confessioun, And plesaunt was his absoluciouh ; He was an esy man to yeve penaunce Ther as he wiste to han a good pitaunce ; For unto a povre ordre for to yive 225 Is signe that a man is wel y-shrive. For if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt. He wiste that a man was repentaunt. For many a man so hard is of his herte. He may nat wepe al-thogh him sore smerte. Therfore, in stede of weping and preyeres. Men moot yeve silver to the povre freres. 232 His tipet was ay farsed ful of knyves And pinnes, for to yeven faire wyves. And certeinly he hadde a mery note; 235 Wel coude he singe and pleyen on a rote. Of yeddinges he bar utterly the prys. His nekke whyt was as the flour-de-lys. There-to he strong was as a champioun. He knew the tavernes wel in every toun, 240 And everich hostiler and tappestere Bet than a lazar or a beggestere ; For un-to swich a worthy man as he Acorded nat, as by his facultee. To have with seke lazars aqueyntaunce. 245 It is nat honest, it may nat avaunce For to delen with no swich poraille, But al with riche and sellers of vitaille. And over-al, ther as profit sholde aryse, Curteys he was, and lowly of servyse. *so Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous. He was the beste beggere in his hous ; For thogh a widwe hadde noght a sho. So plesaunt was his In principio, Yet wolde he have a ferthing, er he wente His purchas was wel bettre than his rente. 256 And rage he coude as it were right a whelpe. In love-dayes ther coude he mochel helpe. For ther he was nat lyk a cloisterer. With a thredbare cope, as is a povre scoler. But he was lyk a maister or a pope. 261 Of double worsted was his semi-cope. That rounded as a belle out of the presse. Somwhat he lipsed, for his wantownesse, To make his English swete up-on his tonge ; And in his harping, whan that he had songe. His eyen twinkled in his heed aright, ^^7 As doon the sterres in the frosty night. This worthy limitour was cleped Huberd. A Marchant was ther with a forked herd, In mottelee, and hye on horse he sat, 271 Upon his heed a Flaundrish bever hat ; His botes clasped faire and fetisly. His resons he spak ful solempnely, Sowninge alway thencrees of his winning. 275 He wolde the see were kept for any thing Bitwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle. Wel coude he in eschaunge sheeldes selle. This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette; Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 280 So estatly was he of his governaunce, With his bargaynes, and with his chevisaunce. For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle. But sooth to seyn, I noot how men him calle. A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also, 285 That un-to logik hadde longe y-go. As lene was his hors as is a rake, And he nas nat right fat, I undertake; But loked holwe, and ther-to soberly. Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy; 290 For he had geten him yet no benefice, Ne was so worldly for to have office. For him was levere have at his beddes heed Twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed Of Aristotle and his philosophye, 295 Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrye. But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; But al that he mighte of his frendes hente, On bokes and on lerninge he it spente, 300 And bisily gan for the soules preye Of hem that yaf him wher-with to scoleye. THE CANTERBURY TALES ^ Of studie took he most cure and most hede. Noght o word spak he more than was nede, And that was seyd in forme and reverence, And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence. Sowninge in moral vertu was his speche, 307 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; 31S For his science, and for his heigh renoun Of fees and robes hadde he many oon. So greet a purchasour was nowher noon. AI wasfeesim£le to him in effect, ^^^..^^ His 'purcti^nTg^ighte nat been inTect. 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 Thereto he coudee^^p.^gd maKelia thing, Ther coude no^wigjupfnche at his wryting ; And every statut coude he pleyn by rote. He rood but.hgpmly in a medleecot^ Girt with ^/ceint of silk, with barres smale; Of his array telle I no lenger tale. 330 A Frankeleyn was in his compaignye; Whyt was his herd, as is the dayesye. Of his complexioun he was sangwyn. Wei loved he by the morwe a sopiQ_wyn. To liverV in^a^TyTwas evere his wone, 335 For he was Epicurus ovvne sone. That heeld opinioun that p^eyn delyt Was verraily felicitee parfyt. An housholdere, and that a greet, was he; Seynt lulian he was in his contrQe^^jj^_^^34o His breed his ale,, was alwey affer oonf^X A bettre'^^xieSman was nevere noon. With-oute bake mete was nevere his hous, Of fish and flesh, and that so plentevous, It snewed in his hous of mete and drinke. Of alle deyntees that men coude thinke. 346 After the sondry sesons of the yeer. So chaunged he his mete and his s^6^r. Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in i^^'^ej And many a breem and many a ^uce in stew( Wo was his cook, buTu his sauce were -2s^ Poynaunt and sharp, and redy al his jgefeT His table dormant in his halle alway Stood redy covered al the longe day. At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire. 355 ^"' -fel^ tyme hewas knight of the shire. An ^iras and a(/gipser al of silk Heng at Jiis girdel, whyt as morne miljvi^^ A shirreve hadde he been, and a ?6mitour; Was nowher such a worthy vavasour 3?°' An Haberdassher and a Carpbnter, A Webbe, a DvERE, and a TapIotIJ™'^^-*^' And thej^^wefe clothed alle in oljveree, Of a soleS^p^elnd ^eet fw^^^t^S— -( Ful fresh and newe hir gei^apyKedwas ; 365 Hir knyves were y-chaped noght with bras, But al with silver wroght ful clene and^weel, Hir girdles and hir pouches every^eU Wei semed ech of hem a fair bur^y?^ To s kt en in a yeldhalle on a ^^W-i^^ 37o Everich, for the wisdom that he ?ar^ Was shapjy for to beenaiiLalderman.^^^^^ For ^^^fTiadde they yiiolh and TehlEeT"^ And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente ; And elles certein were they to blame. 375 It is ful fair to been y-clept»ta dame, ^^^^u^ And goon to vigilyes al bijftf^ ''^^ '*^^ And have a mantel roiajficne y-bore. A Cook they hadde witn 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 broille, and frye, Maken mortreux, and wel bake a pye. But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me, 38s That on his shine a mormal hadde he ; For blankmanger, that made he with the beste. A Shipman was ther, woning fer by weste : For aught I woot, he was of Dertemouthe. He rood up-on a rouncy, as he couthe, 390 In a gowne of falding to the knee. A daggere hanging on a laas hadde he Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun. The hote somer had maad his hewe al broun ; And, certeinly, he was a good felawe. 395 Ful many a draughte of wyn had he y-drawe From Burdeux-ward, whyl that the chapman sleep, pf nyce conscience took he no keep. f that he faught, and hadde the hyer hond. By water he sente hem hoom to every lond. But of his craft to rekene wel his tydes, 401 His stremes and his daungers him bisydes, His herberwe and his mone, his lodemenage, Ther nas noon swich from Hulle 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 Finistere, And every cryke in Britayne and in Spayne ; His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 410 8 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 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. lie kepte his pacient a ful greet del 4iS 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 parfit practisour. 4-22 The cause y-knowe, and of his harm the rote, Anon he yaf the seke man his bote. Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries, 42s 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; 43o 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 superfluitee, 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 witli sendal; 44o 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. 444 A good Wyf was ther of bisyde Bathe, But she was som-del deef, and that was scathe. Of cloth-making she hadde swiche an haunt. She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. In al the parisshe wyf ne was ther noon That to the offring bifore hir sholde goon; And if ther dide, certeyn, so wrooth was she. That she was out of alle charitee. 452 Hir coverchief s ful fyne were of ground ; I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound That on a Sonday were upon hir heed. 455 Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, Ful streite y-teyd, and shoos ful moiste and newe. Bold 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 other compaignye in youthe ; 461 But thereof nedeth nat to speke as nouthe. And thryes hadde she been at Jerusalem ; She hadde passed many a straunge streem ; At Rome she hadde been, and at Boloigne, In Galice at scint lame, and at Coloigne. 466 She coude moche of wandring by the weye. Gat-tothed was she, soothly for to seye. Up-on an amblcre esily she sat, Y-wimpled wel, and on hir heed an hat 470 As brood as is a bokeler or a targe; A foot-mantel aboute hir hipes large, And on hir feet a paire of spores sharpe. In felaweschip wel coude she laughe and carpe. 474 Of remedies of love she knew per-chauncc. 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 was of holy thoght and werk. He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 480 That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche; His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, And in adversitee ful pacient; And swich he was y-preved ofte sythes. 485 Ful looth were him to cursen for his tythes. But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, Un-to his povre parisshens aboute Of his offring, and eek of his substaunce. He coude in litel thing han suffisaunce. 490 Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer a-son- der, But he ne lafte nat, for reyn ne thonder. In siknes nor in meschief to visyte The ferreste in his parisshe, moche and lyte, Up-on his feet, and in his hand a staf. 495 This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf. That first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte ; Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte; And this figure he added eek ther-to. That if gold ruste, what shal yren do? soo For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste. No wonder is a lewed man to ruste ; And shame it is, if a preest take keep, A [dirty] shepherde and a clene sheep. Wel oghte a preest ensample for to yive, 505 By his clennesse, how that his sheep shold live. He sette nat his benefice to hyre, And leet his sheep encombred in the myre. And ran to London, un-to seynt Poules, To seken him a chaunterie for soules, 510 Or with a bretherhed to been withholde ; But dwelte at boom, and kepte wel his folde. So that the wolf ne made it nat miscarie; He was a shepherde and no mercenarie. And though he holy were, and vertuous, 515 He was to sinful man nat despitous, Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne, But in his teching discreet and benigne. To drawen folk to heven by fairnesse THE CANTERBURY TALES By good ensample, this was his bisynesse : But it were any persone obstinat, S21 What so he were, of heigh or lowe estat, Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nones. A bettre preest, I trowe that nowher non is. He wayted after no pompe and reverence, Ne maked him a spyced conscience, S26 But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, He taughte, but first he folwed it him-selve. With him ther was a Plowman, was his brother. That hadde y-Iad of dong ful many a fother, I A trewe swinkere and a good was he, S3i 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-ta dyke and delve, 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. 54° In a tabard he rood upon a mere. Ther was also a Reve and a Millere, A Somnour and a Pardoner also, A Maunciple, and my-self ; ther were namo. The Miller was a stout carl, for the nones, Ful big he was of braun, and eek of bones ; That proved wel, for over-al ther he cam, 547 At wrastling he wolde have alwey the ram. He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre, Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of harre, 55o Or breke it, at a renning, with his heed. His herd as any sowe or fox was reed, And ther-to brood, as though it were a spade. Up-on the cop right of his nose he hade A werte, and ther-on stood a tuft of heres, Reed as the bristles of a sowes eres; 556 His nose-thirles blake were and wyde. A swerd and bokeler bar he by his syde; His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys. He was a langlere and a goliardeys, 560 And that was most of sinne and harlotryes. Wel coude he stelen corn, and tollen thryes ; And yet he hadde a thombe of gold, pardee. A whyt cote and a blew hood wered he. A baggepype wel coude he blowe and sowne, And therwithal he broghte us out of towne. A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple. Of which achatours mighte take exemple 568 For to be wyse in bying of vitaille. For whether that he payde, or took by taille, Algate he wayted so in his achat. 571 That he was ay biforn 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, s8o To make him live by his propre good. In honour dettelees, but he were wood, Or live as scarsly as him list desire; And able for to helpen al a shire In any cas that mighte falle or happe; 585 And yit this maunciple sette hir aller cappe. The Reve was a sclendre colerik man. His herd 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. 590 Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene, Y-lyk a staf, ther was no calf y-sene. Wel coude he kepe a gerner and a binne ; Ther was noon auditour coude on him winne. Wel wiste he, by the droghte, and by the reyn, 595 The yeldyng of his seed, and of his greyn. His lordes sheep, his neet, his dayerye. His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultrye, Was hoolly 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 men 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 cherubinnes face. For sawceflem he was. with eyen narwe. 625 As hoot he was, and lecherous as a sparwe. With scalled browes blake, and piled herd; Of his visage children were aferd. GEOFFREY CHAUCER Ther nas quik-silvcr, litargc, ne brinistoon, Boras, ceruce, ne oillc of tartre noon, 630 Ne oynenient that woldc dense and byte, That him niighte helpen of his whelkes vvhyte, Ne of the knobbcs sittinge on his chekcs. Wei loved he garleek, oynons, and eek Ickcs, And for to drinkcn strong wyn, reed as blood. 63s 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 lerncd out of soni decree; 640 No wonder is, he herde it al the day; And eek ye knowen wel, how that a lay 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 ' Questio quid iuris' wolde he crye. 646 He was a gentil 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 concubyn 650 A twelf-month, and excuse him atte fulle : 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, 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 I woot he lyed right in dede; Of cursing oghte ech gulty man him drede — For curs wol slee right as assoilling sav- eth — 661 And also war him of a significavit. In daunger 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 As greet as it were for an ale-stake ; A bokeler hadde he maad him of a cake. With him ther rood a gentil Pardoner Of Rouncivale, his frend and his compeer. That streight was comen fro the court of Rome. 671 Ful loude he song, * Come hider, love, to me.' This somnour bar to him a stif burdoun, Was nevere trompe of half so greet a soun. This pardoner hadde hcer as yclow as wex, But smothe it heng, as doth a strike of flex ; By ounces henge his lokkes that he hadde, And there-with he his shuldres overspradde; But thinne it lay, by colpons oon and oon ; But hood, for lolitee, ne wered he noon, 680 For it was trussed up in his walet. Him thoughte he rood al of the newe let; Dischcvelc, save his cappe, he rood al bare. Swichc giaringc cyen 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 into Ware, Ne was ther swich another pardoner. For in his male he hadde a pilwe-beer, Which that, he seyde, was our lady veyl : 695 He seyde he hadde a goblet of the seyl That seynt Peter hadde, whan that he wente Up-on the see, til lesu Crist him hente. He hadde a croys of latoun, ful of stones, And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 700 But with thise relikes, 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. Wel coude he rede a lessoun or a storie. But alderbest he song an offertorie; 7'° For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe. He moste preche, and wel affyle his tonge. To wir.ne silver, as he ful wel coude ; Therefore he song so meriely and loude. Now have I told you shortly, in a clause, Thestat, 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 yow for to telle 720 How that we barcn us that ilke night, Whan we were in that hostelrye alight. And after wol I telle of our viage. And al the remenaunt of our pilgrimage. But first I pray yow of your curteisye, 725 That ye narette it nat my vileinye, Thogh that I pleynly speke in this matere. To telle yow hir wordes and hir chere; Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely. For this ye knowen al-so wel as I, 73° Who-so shal telle a tale after a man. He moot 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 elles he moot telle his tale untrewe, 735 THE CANTERBURY TALES II Or feyne thing, or fynde words newe. He may nat spare, al-thogh he were his brother ; He moot as wel seye o word as another. Crist spak him-self ful brode in holy writ, And wel ye woot, no vileinye is it. 740 Eek Plato seith, who-so that can him rede. The wordes mote be cosin to the dede. Also I prey yow to foryeve it me, Al have I nat set folk in hir degree Here in this tale, as that they sholde stonde ; My wit is short, ye may wel understonde. 746 Greet chere made our hoste us everichon. And to the soper sette he us anon ; And served us with vitaille at the beste. Strong was the wyn, and wel to drinke us leste. 750 A semely man our hoste 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: Bold of his speche, and wys, and wel y-taught, 755 And of manhood him lakkede right naught. Eek thereto he was right a mery man. And after soper pleyen he bigan, And spak of mirthe amonges othere thinges. Whan that we hadde maad our rekeninges ; And seyde thus : ' Now, lordinges, trewely Ye ben to me right welcome hertely: 762 For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye, I ne saugh this yeer so mery a compaignye At ones in this herberwe as is now. 76s Fayn wolde I doon yow mirthe, wiste I how. And of a mirthe I am right now bithoght. To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght. Ye goon to Caunterbury; God yow spede. The blisful martir quyte yow your mede. 77o And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye, Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye; For trewely, con fort ne mirthe is noon To ryde by the weye doumb as a stoon ; And therfore wol I maken yow disport, 775 As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort. And if yow lyketh alle, by oon assent, Now for to stonden at my lugement. And for to werken as I shal yow seye, To-morwe, whan ye ryden by the weye, 780 Now, by my fader soule, that is deed, But ye be merye, I wol yeve yow myn heed. Hold up your bond, withoute more speche.' Our counseil was nat longe for to seche; Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it wys, 785 And graunted him with-outen more avys, And bad him seye his verdit, as him leste. ' Lordinges,' quod he, ' now herkneth for the beste ; But tak it not, I prey yow, in desdeyn ; This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn, That ech of yow, to shorte with our weye, 79" In this viage, shal telle tales tweye, To Caunterbury-ward, I mene it so, And hom-ward he shal tellen othere two, Of aventures that whylom han bifalle. 795 And which of yow that bereth him best of alle. That is to seyn, that telleth in this cas Tales of best sentence and most solas, Shal han a soper at our aller cost Here in this place, sitting by this post, 800 Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury. And for to make yow the more mery, I wol my-selven gladly with yow ryde. Right at myn owne cost, and be your gyde. And who-so wol my lugement withseye 805 Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye. And if ye vouche-sauf that it be so, Tel me anon, with-outen wordes mo. And I wol erly shape me therfore.' This thing was graunted, and our othes swore 810 With ful glad herte, and preyden him also That he wold vouche-sauf for to do so, And that he wolde been our governour, And of our tales luge and reportour, And sette a soper at a certeyn prys; 815 And we wold reuled been at his devys. In heigh and lowe ; and thus, by oon assent, We been acorded to his lugement. And ther-up-on the wyn was fet anoon ; We dronken, and to reste wente echoon, 820 With-outen any lenger taryinge. A-morvve, whan that day bigan to springe, Up roos our host, and was our aller cok. And gadrede us togidre, alle in a flok. And forth we riden, a litel more than pas, Un-to the watering of seint Thomas. 826 And there our host bigan his hors areste. And seyde ; ' Lordinges, herkneth if yow leste. Ye woot your forward, and I it yow recorde. If even-song and morwe-song acorde, 830 Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale. As evere mote I drinke wyn or ale, Who-so be rebel to my lugement Shal paye for al that by the weye is spent. Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twinne; He which that hath the shortest shal be- gin ne.' ' Sire knight,' quod he, * my maister and my lord, 837 Now draweth cut, for that is myn acord. Cometh neer,' quod he, 'my lady prioresse; And ye, sir clerk, lat be your shamfastnesse, Ne studieth noght; ley bond to, every man.' 12 GEOFFREY CHAUCER Anon lo drawen every wight bigan, 842 And shortly for to tellen, as it was, Were it by aventure, or sort, or cas, The sothe is this, the cut fil to the knight, 84s Of which fill blythe and glad was every wight ; And telle he mostc his tale, as was resoun. By forward and by composicioun. As ye han herd; what nedcth wordes mo? And whan this goode man saugh it was so. As he that wys was and obedient 851 To kepe his forward by his free assent, He seyde : ' Sin I shal beginne the game, What, welcome be the cut, a Goddes name! Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye.' And with that word we riden forth our weye ; 856 And he bigan with right a mery chere His tale anon, and seyde in this mannere. THE NUN'S PRIEST'S TALE A povre widwe somdel stope in age. Was whylom dwelling in a narwe cotage, Bisyde a grove, stondyng in a dale. This widwe, of which I telle yow my tale, Sin thilke day that she was last a wyf, 5 In pacience ladde a ful simple lyf. For litel was hir catel and hir rente; By housbondrye, of such as God hir sente. She fond hir-self, and eek hir doghtren two. Three large sowes hadde she, and namo, 1° Three kyn, and eek a sheep that highte Malle. Ful sooty was hir hour, and eek hir halle, In which she eet ful many a sclendre meel. Of poynaunt sauce hir neded never a deel. No deyntee morsel passed thrugh hir throte ; Hir dyete was accordant to hir cote. '6 Repleccioun ne made hir nevere syk; Attempree dyete was al hir phisyk. And exercyse, and hertes suffisaunce. The goute lette hir no-thing for to daunce, -o Ne poplexye shente nat hir heed; No wyn ne drank she, neither whyt ne reed ; Hir bord was served most with whyt and blak. Milk and broun breed, in which she fond no lak, Seynd bacoun, and somtyme an ey or tweye. For she was as it were a maner deye. -6 A yerd she hadde, enclosed al aboute With stikkes, and a drye dich with-oute, In which she hadde a cok, bight Chaunte- cleer, In al the land of crowing nas his peer. 30 His vois was merier than the merye orgon On messe-dayes that in the chirche gon ; Wei sikerer was his crowing in his logge, Than is a clokke, or an abbey orlogge. By nature knew he ech asccncioun 35 Of equino.xial in thilke toun ; For whan degrees fiftene were ascended, Thanne crew he, that it mighte nat ben amended. His comb was redder than the fyn coral. And batailed, as it were a castel-wal. 40 His bile was blak, and as the leet it shoon ; Lyk asur were his legges, and his toon ; His nayles whytter than the .lilie flour, And lyk the burned gold was his colour. This gentil cok hadde in his governaunce 45 Sevene hennes, for to doon al his plcasaunce, Whiche were his sustres and his paramours, And wonder lyk to him, as of colours. Of whiche the faircste hewed on hir throte Was cleped faire damoysele Pertelote. 50 Curteys she was, discreet, and dcbonaire. And compaignable, and bar hir-self so faire, Sin thilke day that she was seven night old, That trewely she hath the herte in hold Of Chauntecleer loken in every lith ; 55 He loved hir so, that wel him was therwith. But such a loye was it to here hem singe, Whan that the brighte sonne gan to springe, In swete accord, 'my lief is faren in londe.' For thilke tyme, as I have understonde, 60 Bestes and briddes coude speke and singe. And so bifel, that in a dawenynge. As Chauntecleer among his wyvcs alle Sat on his perche, that was in the halle. And next him sat this faire Pertelote, 65 This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte. As man that in his dreem is drecched sore. And whan that Pertelote thus herde him rore. She was agast, and seyde, ' O herte deere. What eyleth yow, to grone in this manere? Ye ben a verray sleper, fy for shame!' 7i And he answerde and seyde thus, ' Madame, I pray yow, that ye take it nat agrief: By God, me mette I was in swich meschief Right now, that yet myn herte is sore afright. Now God,' quod he, 'my swevene rede aright, 7^ And keep my body out of foul prisoun ! Me mette, how that I romed up and doun Withinne our yerde, wher as I saugh a beste. Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad areste 80 Upon my body, and wolde han had me deed. His colour was bitwixe yelvve and reed ; And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres With blak, unlyk the remenant of his heres ; His snowte smal, with glowingc eyen tweye. Yet of his look for fere almost I deye; 86 THE CANTERBURY TALES 13 This caused me my groning, douteles.' ' Avoy ! ' quod she, ' fy on yow, herteles ! Alias ! ' quod she, ' for, by that God above, Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love ; I can nat love a coward, by my feith. 91 For certes, what so any womman seith, We alle desyren, if it mighte be. To han housbondes hardy, wyse, and free, And secree, and no nigard, ne no fool, 95 Ne him that is agast of every tool, Ne noon avauntour, by that God above! How dorste ye sayn for shame unto youre love. That any thing mighte make yow aferd? Have ye no mannes herte, and han a herd? Alias! and conne ye been agast of swevenis? No-thing, God wot, but vanitce, in sweven is. Swevenes engendren of replecciouns, ^°3 And ofte of fume, and of complecciouns. Whan humours been to habundant in a wight. los Certes this dreem, w^hich ye han met to- night, Cometh of the grete superfluitee Of youre rede colera, pardee, Which causeth folk to dremen in here dremes Of arwes, and of fyr with rede lemes, no Of grete bestes, that they wol hem byte, Of contek, and of whelpes grete and lyte ; Right as the humour of malencolye Causeth ful many a man, in sleep, to crye, For fere of blake beres, or boles blake, "o Or elles, blake develes wole him take. Of othere humours coudc I telle also. That werken many a man in sleep ful wo ; But I wol passe as lightly as I can. 119 Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a man, Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors of dremes? Now, sire,' quod she, ' whan we flee fro the hemes. For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf; Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf, I counseille yow the beste, I wol nat lye, i^S That both of colere, and of malencolye Ye purge yow ; and for ye shul nat tarie, Though in this toun is noon apotecarie, I shal my-self to herbes techen yow, That shul ben for your hele, and for your prow; 130 And in our yerd tho herbes shal I fynde. The whiche han of here propretee, by kynde, To purgen yow binethe, and eek above. Forget not this, for Goddes owene love! Ve been ful colerik of compleccioun. 135 Ware the sonne in his ascencioun Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humours bote ; And if it do, I dar.wel leye a grote. That ye shul have a fevere terciane, Or an agu, that may be youre bane. 140 A day or two ye shul have digestyves Of wormes, er ye take your laxatyves, Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere, Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there, Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis, 14s Of erbe yve, growing in our yerd, that mery is; Pekke hem up right as they growe, and ete hem in. Be mery, housbond, for your fader kyn ! Dredeth no dreem ; I can say yow namore.' ' Madame,' quod he, ' graunt mercy of your lore. 150 But natheles, as touching daun Catoun, That hath of wisdom such a gret renoun, Though that he bad no dremes for to drede, By God, men may in olde bokes rede Of many a man, more of auctoritee '55 Than evere Catoun was, so moot I thee, That al the revers seyn of this sentence. And han wel founden by experience, That dremes ben significaciouns. As wel of loye as tribulaciouns 160 That folk enduren in this lyf present. Ther ncdeth make of this noon argument ; The verray preve sheweth it in dede. Oon of the gretteste auctours that men rede Seith thus, that whylom two felawes wente On pilgrimage, in a ful good entente; 166 And happed so, they come into a toun, Wher as ther was swich congregacioun Of peple, and eek so streit of herbergage, That they ne founde as muche as o cotage, In which they bothe mighte y-logged be. 171 Wherfor thay mosten, of necessitee, As for that night, departen compaignye ; And ech of hem goth to his hostelrye. And took his logging as it wolde falle. i/; That oon of hem was logged in a stalle, Fer in a yerd, with oxen of the plough ; That other man was logged wel y-nough. As was his aventure, or his fortune. That us governeth alle as in commune. 'So And so bifel, that, long er it were day. This man mette in his bed, ther as he lay. How that his felawe gan up-on him calle, And seyde, " Alias ! for in an oxes stalle This night I shal be mordred ther I lye. 185 Now help me, dere brother, or I dye; In alle haste com to me," he sayde. This man out of his sleep for fere abrayde ; But whan that he was wakned of his sleep, He turned him, and took of this no keep; Him thoughte his dreem nas but a vanitee. Thus twyes in his sleping dremed he. 19- And atte thridde tyme yet his felawe 14 GEOFFREY CHAUCER Com, as him thoughte, and seide, " I am now slawe; Bihold my bloody woundes, depe and wyde! Arys up erly in the niorwe-tyde, '96 And at the west gate of the toun," quod he, '■ A carte ful of donge ther shaltow see, In which my body is hid ful prively; Do thilke carte arresten boldely. 200 My gold caused my mordre, sooth to sayn ; " And tolde him every poynt how he was slayn, With a ful pitous face, pale of hewe. And truste wel, his drecm he fond ful trewe ; For on the morwe, as sone as it was day, 205 To his felawes in he took the way; And whan that he cam to this oxes stalle, After his felawe he bigan to calle. The hostiler answerde him anon. And seyde, " Sire, your felawe is agon, 210 As sone as day he wente out of the toun." This man gan fallen in suspecioun, Remembring on his dremes that he mette. And forth he goth, no lenger wolde he lette, Unto the west gate of the toun, and fond A dong-carte, as it were to donge lond, 216 That was arrayed in that same wyse As ye han herd the dede man devyse; And with an hardy herte he gan to crye Vengeaunce and Justice of this felonye : — " My felawe mordred is this same night, 221 And in this carte he lyth gapinge upright. I crye out on the ministres," quod he, " That sholden kepe and reulen this citee ; Harrow ! alias ! her lyth my felawe slayn ! " What sholde I more un-to this tale sayn? 226 The peple out-sterte, and caste the cart to grounde. And in the middel of the dong they founde The dede man, that mordred was al newe. ' O blisful God, that art so lust and trewe ! Lo, how that thou biwreyest mordre alway ! Mordre wol out, that se we day by day. ^i^ Mordre is so wlatsom and abhominable To God, that is so lust and resonable, That he ne wol nat suffre it heled be ; 235 Though it abyde a yeer, or two, or three, Mordre wol out, this my conclusioun. And right anoon, ministres of that toun Han hent the carter, and so sore him pyned, And eek the hostiler so sore engyned, 240 That thay biknewe hir wikkednesse anoon. And were an-hanged by the nekke-boon. ' Here may men seen that dremes been to drede. And certes, in the same book I rede. Right in the nexte chapitre after this, 245 (I gabbe nat, so have I loye or blis,) Two men that wolde han passed over see, For certeyn cause^ in-to a fer contree, If that the wind ne hadde been contrarie, That made hem in a citee for to tarie, 250 That stood ful mery upon an haven-syde. But on a day, agayn (he evcn-tyde, The wind gan chaungc, and blew right as hem leste. lolif and glad they wente un-to hir reste, And casten hem ful erly for to saille ; 255 Rut to that 00 man fel a greet mervaille. That oon of hem, in sleping as he lay, Him mette a wonder dreem, agayn the day; Him thoughte a man stood by his beddes syde, And him comaunded, that he sholde abyde, And seyde him thus, "If thou to-morwe wendc, 261 Thou shalt be dreynt; my tale is at an ende." He wook, and tolde his felawe what he mette. And preyde him his viage for to lette; As for that day, he preyde him to abyde. 265 His felawe, that lay by his beddes syde, Gan for to laughe, and scorned him ful faste. " No dreem," quod he, " may so myn herte agaste. That I wol lette for to do my thinges. I sette not a straw by thy dreminges, 270 For swevenes been but vanitees and lapes. Men dreme al-day of owles or of apes, And eek of many a mase therwithal ; Men dreme of thing that nevere was ne shal. But sith I see that thou wolt heer abyde, 27s And thus for-sleuthen wilfully thy tyde, God wot it reweth me ; and have good day." And thus he took his leve, and wente his way. But er that he hadde halfe his cours y-seyled, Noot I nat why, ne what mischaunce it eyled, 280 But casuelly the shippes botme rente. And ship and man under the water wente In sighte of othere shippes it byside. That with hem seyled at the same tyde. And therfor, faire Pertelote so dere, 285 By swiche ensamples olde maistow lere. That no man sholde been to recchelees Of dremes, for I sey thee, doutelees, That many a dreem ful sore is for to drede. ' Lo, in the lyf of seint Kenelm, I rede, 290 That was Kenulphus sone, the noble king Of Mercenrike, how Kenelm mette a thing; A lyte er he was mordred, on a day. His mordre in his avisioun he say. His norice him expouned every del 295 His swevene, and bad him for to kepe him wel For traisoun ; but he nas but seven yeer old, And therefore litel tale hath he told THE CANTERBURY TALES 15 Of any dreem, so holy was his herte. By God, I hadde levere than my sherte 300 That ye had rad his legende, as have I. Dame Pertelote, I sey yow trewely, Macrobeus, that writ the avisioun In Affrike of the worthy Cipioun, Affermeth dremes, and seith that they been Warning of thinges that men after seen. 306 And forther-more, I pray yow loketh wel In the olde testament, of Daniel, If he held dremes any vanitee. Reed eek of loseph, and ther shul ye see 310 Wher dremes ben somtyme (I sey nat alle) Warning of thinges that shul after falle. Loke of Egipt the king, daun Pharao, His bakere and his boteler also, Wher they ne felte noon effect in dremes. Who so wol seken actes of sondry remes, 3"6 May rede of dremes many a wonder thing. ' Lo Cresus, which that was of Lyde king, Mette he nat that he sat upon a tree. Which signified he sholde anhanged be? 320 Lo heer Andromacha, Ectores wyf, That day that Ector sholde lese his lyf, She dremed on the same night biforn, How that the lyf of Ector sholde be lorn, If thilke day he wente in-to bataille ; 325 She warned him, but it mighte nat availle ; He wente for to fighte natheles. But he was slayn anoon of Achilles. But thilke tale is al to long to telle, And eek it is ny day, I may nat dwelle. 330 Shortly I seye, as for conclusioun. That I shal han of this avisoun Adversitee; and I seye forther-more, That I ne telle of laxatyves no store. For they ben venimous, I woot it wel ; 335 I hem defye, I love hem nevere a del. ' Now let us speke of mirthe, and stinte al this ; Madame Pertelote, so have I blis. Of o thing God hath sent me large grace ; For whan I see the beautee of your face, 340 Ye ben so scarlet-reed about youre yen, It maketh al my drede for to dyen ; For, also siker as In principio, Mulicr est hominis confusio ; Madame, the sentence of this Latin is — 345 Womman is mannes loye and al his blis. * * * I am so ful of loye and of solas 350 That I defye bothe sweven and dreem.' And with that word he fley doun fro the beem. For it was day, and eek his hennes alle; And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle. For he had founde a corn, lay in the yerd. Roial he was, he was namore aferd ; 356 He loketh as it were a grim leoun ; And on his toos he rometh up and doun, 360 Him deyned not to sette his foot to grounde. He chukketh, whan he hath a corn y-founde. And to him rennen thanne his wyves alle. Thus roial, as a prince is in his halle, Leve I this Chauntecleer in his pasture; 365 And after wol I telle his aventure. Whan that the month in which the world bigan, That highte March, whan God first maked man. Was complet, and y-passed were also, Sin March bigan, thritty dayes and two, 37° Bifel that Chauntecleer, in al his pryde, His seven wyves walking by his syde, Caste up his eyen to the brighte sonne. That in the signe of Taurus hadde y-ronne Twenty degrees and oon, and somwhat more ; 375 And knew by kynde, and by noon other lore. That it was pryme, and crew with blisful stevene. ' The Sonne,' he sayde, ' is clomben up on hevene Fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis. Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, 380 Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe. And see the fresshe floures how thoy springe ; Ful is myn hert of revel and solas.' But sodeinly him fil a sorweful cas ; For evere the latter ende of loye is wo. 385 Got woot that worldly loye is sone ago; And if a rethor coude faire endyte. He in a chronique saufly mighte it write. As for a sovereyn notabilitee. Now every wys man, lat him herkne me ; 390 This storie is al-so trewe, I undertake. As is the book of Launcelot de Lake, That wommen holde in ful gret reverence. Now wol I torne agayn to my sentence. A col-fox, ful of sly iniquitee, 395 That in the grove hadde woned yeres three. By heigh imaginacioun forn-cast, The same night thurgh-out the hegges brast Into the yerd, ther Chauntecleer the faire Was wont, and eek his wyves, to repaire ; 400 And in a bed of wortes stille he lay, Til it was passed undern of the day, Wayting his tyme on Chauntecleer to falle As gladly doon thise homicydes alle. That in awayt liggen to mordre men. 405 O false mordrer, lurking in thy den ! O newe Scariot, newe Genilon ! False dissimilour, O Greek Sinon, That broghtest Troye al outrely to sorwe ! O Chauntecleer, acursed be that morwe. 410 i6 GEOFFREY CHAUCER That thou into that yerd Hough fro the hemes ! Thou were ful wel y-warned by thy dremes, Tliat thilke day was perilous to thee. But what that God forwot mot nedes be, After the opinioun of certeyn clerkis. 4'S Witnesse on him, that any perfit clerk is, That in scole is gret altercacioun In this matere, and greet disputisoun, And hath ben of an hundred thousand men. But I ne can not bulte it to the bren, 420 As can the holy doctour Augustyn, Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardyn, Whether that Goddcs worthy forwiting Streyneth me nedely for to doon a thing, (Nedely clepe I simple necessitee) ; 42s Or elles, if free choys be graunted me To do that same thing, or do it noght, Though God forwot it, er that it was wroght ; Or if his witing streyneth nevere a del But by necessitee condicionel. 430 I wol not han to do of swich matere ; My tale is of a cok, as ye may here, That took his counseil of his wyf, with sorwe, To walken in the yerd upon that morwe 434 That he had met the dreem, that I of tolde. Wommennes counseils been ful ofte colde ; Wommannes counseil broghte us first to wo. And made Adam fro paradys to go, Ther as he was ful mery, and wel at ese. But for I noot, to whom it mighte displese, If I counseil of wommen wolde blame, 441 Passe over, for I seyde it in my game. Rede auctours, wher they trete of swich matere. And what thay seyn of wommen ye may here. Thise been the cokkes wordes, and nat myne ; I can noon harme of no womman divyne. Faire in the sond, to bathe hire merily, 447 Lyth Pertelote, and alle hir sustres by, Agayn the sonne ; and Chauntecleer so free Song merier than the mermayde in the see ; For Phisiologus seith sikerly, 451 How that they singen wel and merily. And so bifel, that as he caste his ye, Among the wortes, on a boterflye. He was war of this fox that lay ful lowe. 4SS No-thing ne liste him thanne for to crowe. But cryde anon, ' cok. cok,' and up he sterte, As man that was afifrayed in his herte. For naturelly a bccst desyreth flee Fro his contrarie, if he may it see, 460 Though he never erst had seyn it with his ye. This Chauntecleer, whan he gan him espye. He wolde Itan fled, but that the fox anon Seyde, ' Gentil sire, alias! whcr wol ye gon ? Be ye affraycd of me that am your f reend ? Now certes, I were worse than a fcend, 4('(' If I to yow wolde harm or vilcinye. I am nat come your counseil for tespye ; But trewcly, the cause of my cominge Was only for to hcrkne how that ye singe. For trcwely ye have as mery a stevene, 47' As eny aungel hath, that is in hevene; Therwith ye han in musik more felinge Than hadde Boece, or any that can singe. My lord your fader (God his soule blesse!) And eek your moder, of hir gentilesse, 476 Han in myn hous y-been, to my gret ese ; And certes, sire, ful fayn wolde I yow plese. But for men speke of singing, I wol saye. So mote I brouke wel myn eyen tweye, 480 Save yow, I herde nevere man so singe. As dide your fader in the morweninge ; Certes, it was of herte, al that he song. And for to make his voys the more strong. He wolde so peyne him, that with both his yen 485 He moste winke, so loude he wolde cryen, And stonden on his tiptoon thcrwithal. And strecche forth his nekke long and smal. And eek he was of swich discrecioun, That ther nas no man in no regioun 49° That him in song 'or wisdom mighte passe. I have weel rad in daun Burnel the Asse, Among his vers, how that ther was a cok, For that a prestes sone yaf him a knok Upon his leg, whyl he was yong and nyce, He made him for to lese his benefyce. 496 But certeyn, ther nis no comparisoun Bitwix the wisdom and discrecioun Of your fader, and of his subtiltee. Now singcth, sire, for seinte charitee, 5oo Let se, conne ye your fader countrefete ? ' This Chauntecleer his winges gan to bete. As man that coude his tresoun nat espye. So was he ravisshed with his flaterye. Alias ! ye lordes, many a fals flatour 505 Is in your courtes, and many a losengeour, That plesen yow wel more, by my feith, Than he that soothfastnesse unto yow seith. Redeth Ecclesiaste of flaterye ; Beth war, ye lordes, of hir trecherye. Sio This Chauntecleer stood hye up-on his toos, Strecching his nekke, and held his eyen cloos, And gan to crowe loude for the nones ; And daun Russel the fox sterte up at ones, And by the gargat hente Chauntecleer, 515 And on his bak toward the wode him beer, THE CANTERBURY TALES 17 For yet ne was ther no man that him sewed. O destinee, that mayst nat ben eschewed ! Alias, that Chaunteclecr fleigh fro the hemes ! Alias, his wyf ne roghte nat of dremes ! s^o And on a Friday fil al this meschaiince. O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce, Sin that thy servant was this Chaimtecleer, And in thy service dide al his poweer. More for delyt, than world to multiplye, 5^5 Why woldestow suffre him on thy day to dye? O Gaufred, dere mayster soverayn, That, whan thy worthy king Richard was slayn With shot, compleynedest his deth so sore, Why ne hadde I now thy sentence and thy lore, 530 The Friday for to chide, as diden ye? (For on a Friday soothly slayn was he.) Than wolde I shewe yow how that I coude pleyne For Chauntecleres drede, and for his peyne. Certes, swich cry ne lamentacioun 535 Was nevere of ladies maad, whan Ilioun Was wonne, and Pirrus with his streite swerd, Whan he hadde hent king Priam by the herd. And slayn him (as saith us Encydos), As maden alle the hennes in the clos, 540 Whan they had seyn of Chaunteclecr the sighte. But sovercynly dame Pertelote shrighte, Ful louder than dide Hasdrubales wyf, Whan that hir housbond hadde lost his lyf, And that the Romayns hadde brend Cartage, She was so ful of torment and of rage, 546 That wilfully into the fyr she sterte. And brende hir-selven with a stedfast herte. O woful hennes, right so cryden ye, As, whan that Nero brende the citee sso Of Rome, cryden senatoures wyves. For that hir housbondes losten alle hir lyves ; Withouten gilt this Nero hath hem slayn. Now wol I torne to my tale agayn : This sely widwe, and eek hir doghtres two, Herden thise hennes crye and maken wo, 556 And out at dores sterten thay anoon. And syen the fox toward the grove goon, And bar upon his bak the cok away ; And cryden, ' Out ! harrow ! and weylaway ! Ha, ha, the fox ! ' and after him they ran, And eek with staves many another man ; 562 Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot, and Ger- land, And Malkin, with a distaf in hir hand; 564 Ran cow and calf, and eek the verray hogges So were they fered for berking of the dogges And shouting of the men and wimmen eke. They ronne so, hem thoughtc hir herte breke. They yelleden as feendcs doon in helle ; The dokes cryden as men wolde hem quelle; The gees for fere flowen over the trees; S7' Out of the hyve cam the swarm of bees; So hidous was the noyse, a! bcncdicite! Certes, he lakke Straw, and his meynee, Ne maden nevere shoutes half so shrille, 575 Whan that they wolden any Fleming kille, As thilke day was maad upon the fox. Of bras thay broghten hemes, and of box. Of horn, of boon, in whiche they blewe and pouped. And therwithal thay shryked and they houped ; 580 It semed as that hevene sholde falle. Now, gode men, I pray yow herkneth alle! Lo, how fortune turneth sodeinly The hope and pryde eek of hir enemy! This cok, that lay upon the foxes bak, 58s In al his drede, un-to the fox he spak, And seyde, ' Sire, if that I were as ye, Yet sholde I seyn (as wis God helpe me), "Turneth agayn, ye proude cherles alle! A verray pestilence up-on yow falle ! 59o Now am I come un-to this wodes syde, Maugree your heed, the cok shal beer abyde ; I wol him etc in feith, and that anon."' The fox answerde, ' In feith, it shal be don,' And as he spak that word, al sodeinly 595 This cok brak from his mouth deliverly, And heighe up-on a tree he fleigh aaon. And whan the fox saugh that he was y-gon, 'Alias!' quod he, 'O Chaunteclecr, alias! I have to yow,' quod he, ' y-doon trespas, In-as-muche as I maked yow aferd, 601 Whan I yow hente, and broghte out of the yerd; But, sire, I dide it in no wikke entente ; Com doun, and I shal telle yow what I mente. I shal seye sooth to yow, God help me so.' ' Nay than,' quod he, ' I shrewe us bothe two. And first I shrewe my-self, bothe blood and bones, 607 If thou bigyle me ofter than ones. Thou shalt namore, thurgh thy flaterye Do me to singe and winke with myn ye. 610 For he that winketh, whan he sholde see, Al wilfully, God lat him never thee!' ' Nay,' quod the fox, ' but God yive him meschaunce, That is so undiscreet of governaunce. That iangleth whan he sholde holde his pees.' i8 GEOFFREY CHAUCER 6i6 620 Lo, swich it is for to be recclielees. And necligcnt, and tniste on flaterye. But ye that holden this tale a folye, As of a fox, or of a cok and hen, Taketh the nioralitee, good men. For seint Paul seith, that al that writen is, To our doctryne it is y-write, y-wis. Takclh the fruyt, and lat the chaf be stille. Now, gode God, if that it be thy wille, 624 As seith rny lord, so make us alle good men ; And bringe us to his heighe blisse. Amen. CHAUCERS WORDES UNTO ADAM HIS OWNE SCRIVEYN Adam scriveyn, if ever it thee bifalle Boece or Troilus to wryten newe. Under thy lokkes thou most have the scalle, But after my making thou wryte trewe. So ofte a daye I mot thy werk renewe, 5 Hit to correcte and eek to rubbe and scrape ; And al is through thy negligence and rape. LAK OF STEDFASTNESSE Som tyme this world was so stedfast and stable That mannes word was obligacioun. And now hit is so fals and deceivable, That word and deed, as in conclusioun, Ben no-thing lyk, for turned up so doun 5 Is al this world for mede and wilfulnesse, That al is lost, for lak of stedfastnesse. What niaketh this world to be so variable But lust that folk have in dissensioun? Among us now a man is holde unable, 'o But-if he can, by som collusioun, Don his neighbour wrong or oppressioun. What causeth this, but wilful wrecchednesse, That al is lost, for lak of stedfastnesse? Trouthe is put doun, resoun is holden fable; is Vertu hath now no dominacioun, Pitee exyled, no man is merciable. Through covetyse is blent discrecioun; The world hath mad a permutacioun Fro right to wrong, fro trouthe to fikelnesse, That al is lost, for lak of stedfastnesse. 21 Lenvoy to King Richard prince, desyre to be honourable. Cherish thy folk and hate extorcioun ! Suffre no thin^, that may be reprcvablc ^5 To thyn estat, don in thy regioun. Shew forth thy swerd of castigacioun, Dred God, do law, love trouthe and worthi- nesse, And wed thy folk agein to stedfastnesse. 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 ! 1 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 here; 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, Queue of comfort and of good companye: Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye ! Now purs, that be to me my lyves light, 'S And saveour, as doun in this world here. Out of this toune help me through your might. Sin that ye wole nat been 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 king, this song to you I sende; And ye, that mowen al our harm amende, 26 Have minde up-on my supplicacioun ! SIR THOMAS MALORY (c. 1400-1471) Concerning the life of the author of the Mortc d'Arthur little is known. He was born about the year 1400. lived at Xewbold Kevell, was knighted, and represented Warwickshire in parlia- ment in 3445. He was 'a gentleman of an ancient house and a soldier,' belonging to the most highly cultivated society of his day. jNIalory was prominent on the Lancastrian side in the AVars of the Roses, and his military service extended to France, where he was associated with Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, a knight distinguished throughout Europe as the embodiment of the chivalric ideal and as ' the father of courtesy.' Certain of the Earl of Warwick's exploits provide a rapid and highly colored narrative not unlike that of the Mortc d'Arthur itself. It would seem, then, that Sir Thomas Malory was in every way endowed for composing the chivalric compilation by which he is now chiefly known. William Caxton (c. 1422-3491) deserves a place by the side of Malory in the literary his- tory of the fifteenth century not only because he edited and published the Morie d'Arthur. but also because he brought into print numerous other works of romance. After a considerable period of activity as a merchant. Caxton began his career as printer, translator, and editor by issuing at Bruges, about 1475. the first book printed in English, The Reciti/ell of the Ilixtories of Troy. Caxton translated this work himself, from the French of Raoul le Fevre. In 147() he returned to England, and set up his press in Westminster, where he finished printing, on November IS, 1477. The Dictcs and Sai/inf/s of the Philosophers, the first dated book issued in England. From his press in Westminster, Caxton issued some seventy-one separate works, of which Malory's Morte d'Arthur was the fifty-second. LE MORTE D'ARTHUR PREFACE OF WILLIAM CAXTON and the third, Julius Caesar, Emperor of Rome, of whom the histories be well After that I had accomplished and fin- known and had. And as for the three ished divers histories, as well of contem- Jews which also were to-fore the Incar- plation as of other historical and worldly 5 nation of our Lord, of whom the first was acts of great conquerors and princes, and Duke Joshua which brought the children also certain books of ensamples and doc- of Israel into the land of behest ; the sec- trine, many noble and divers gentlemen of ond, David, King of Jerusalem; and the this realm of England came and demanded third, Judas Maccabaeus : of these three me, many and ofttimes, wherefore that I lo the Bible rehearseth all their noble histo- have not do made and enprint the noble ries and acts. And since the said Incar- history of the Sangreal, and of the most nation have been three noble christian renowned christian king, first and chief of men stalled and admitted through the uni- the three best christian and worthy, King versal world into the number of the nine Arthur, which ought most to be remem- 15 best and worthy, of whom was first the bered among us Englishmen to-fore all noble Arthur, whose noble acts I purpose other christian kings. For it is noto- to write in this present book here follow- riously known through the universal world ing. The second was Charlemagne, or that there be nine worthy and the best Charles the Great, of whom the history is that ever were. That is to wit three pay- 20 had in many places, both in French and nims, three Jews, and three christian men. English ; and the third and last was God- As for the paynims they were to-fore frey of Boloine, of whose acts and life I the Incarnation of Christ, which were made a book unto the excellent prince and named, the first. Hector of Troy, of whom king of noble memory, King Edward the the history is come both in ballad and in 25 Fourth. The said noble gentlemen in- prose ; the second, Alexander the Great ; stantly required me to enprint the history 19 SIR THOMAS MALORY of tlie said iiolile king and conqueror, King in tlic town of Camelot, the great stones Arthur, and of his kniglits, with the his- and marvelous works of iron, lying under tory of the vSangreal, and of the death and the ground, and royal vaults, which divers ending of the said Arthur; affirming that I now living have seen. Wherefore it is a ought rather to enprint his acts and noble 5 marvel why he js no more renowned in feats, than of Godfrey of Boloine, or any his own country, save only it accordeth to of the other eight, considering that he was the Word of God, which saith that no a man born within this realm, and king man is accept for a prophet in his own and emperor of the same; and that there country. be in French divers and many noble vol- lo Then all these things foresaid alleged, umes of his acts, and also of his knights. I could not well deny but that there was To whom I answered, that divers men such a noble king named Arthur, and re- hold opinion that there was no such Ar- puted one of the nine worthy, and first thur, and that all such books as been made and chief of the christian men; and many of him be feigned and fables, because that 15 noble volumes be made of him and of his some chronicles make of him no mention, noble knights in French, which I have seen nor remember him no thing, nor of his and read beyond the sea, which be not knights. Whereto they answered, and one had in our maternal tongue, but in Welsh in special said, that in him that should be many and also in French, and some say or think that there was never such a 20 in English, but nowhere nigh all. Where- king called Arthur, might well be aretted fore, such as have late been drawn out great folly and blindness; for he said that briefly into English I have after the sim- there were many evidences of the con- pie conning that God hath sent to me, trary : first ye may see his sepulture in the under the favor and correction of all monastery of Glastonbury. And also in 25 noble lords and gentlemen, emprised to Polichronicon, in the fifth book the sixth enprint a book of the noble histories of chapter, and in the seventh book the the said King Arthur, and of certain of twenty-third chapter, where his body was his knights, after a copy unto me deliv- buried, and after found, and translated ered, which copy Sir Thomas Malory did into the said monastery. Ye shall see 30 take out of certain books of French, and also in the history of Bochas, in his book reduced it into English. And I, accord- Dc Casti Principiim, part of his noble acts, ing to my copy, have done set it in en- and also of his fall. Also Galfridus in his print, to the intent that noble men may British book recounteth his life; and in see and learn the noble acts of chivalry, divers places of England many remem-35 the gentle and virtuous deeds that some brances be yet of him and shall remain knights used in those days, by which they perpetually, and also of his knights. First came to honor; and how they that were in the Alabey of Westminster, at Saint vicious were punished and oft put to Edward's shrine, remaineth the print of shame and rebuke ; humbly beseeching all his seal in red wax closed in beryl, in 40 noble lords and ladies, with all other es- which is written Patricins Arthunis, Brit- lates, of what estate or degree they been annie, Gallic, Germanic, Dacic, Imperator. of, that shall see and read in this said Item in the castle of Dover ye may see book and work, that they take the good Gawaine's skull and Craddock's mantle : and honest acts in their remembrance, and at Winchester the Round Table: in other 45 to follow the same. Wherein they shall places Launcelot's sword and many other find many joyous and pleasant histories, things. Then all these things considered, and noble and renowned acts of humanity, there can no man reasonably gainsay but gentleness, and chivalries. For herein may there was a king of this land named Ar- be seen noble chivalry, courtesy, humanity, thur. For in all places, christian and 50 friendliness, hardiness, love, friendshiu, heathen, he is reputed ajid taken for one cowardice, murder, hate, virtue, and sin. of the nine worthy, and the first of the Do after the good and leave the evil, and three christian men. And also he is more it shall bring you to good fame and re- spoken of beyond the sea, more books nown. And for to pass the time this book made of his noble acts, than there be in 55 shall be pleasant to read in ; but for to England, as well in Dutch, Italian, Span- give faith and belief that all is true that ish, and Greek, as in French. And yet of is contained herein, ye be at your liberty; record remain in witness of him in Wales, but all is written for our doctrine, ana LE MORTE D'ARTHUR for to beware that we fall not to vice nor teen chapters. The twelfth book treat- sin; but to exercise and follow virtue; eth of Sir Launcelot and his madness, by which we may come and attain to good and containeth fourteen chapters. The lame and renown in this life, and after thirteenth book treateth how Galahad this short and transitory life, to come unto 5 came first to King Arthur's court, and everlasting bliss in heaven, the which he the quest how the Sangreal was be- grant us that reigneth in heaven, the gun, and containeth twenty chapters, blessed Trinity. Amen. _ The fourteenth book treateth of the quest Then to proceed forth in this said book, of the Sangreal, and containeth ten chap- which I direct unto all noble princes, lords, lo ters. The fifteenth book treateth of Sir and ladies, gentlemen or gentlewomen, Launcelot, and containeth six chapters, that desire to read or hear read of the The sixteenth book treateth of Sir Bors noble and joyous history of the great con- and Sir Lionel his brother, and contain- queror and excellent king, King Arthur, eth seventeen chapters. The seventeenth sometime king of this noble realm, then 15 book treateth of the Sangreal, and con- called Britain. I, William Caxton, sim- taineth twenty-three chapters. The ei^-ht- ple person, present this book following, eenth book treateth of Sir Launcelot and which I have emprised to enprint ; and the queen, and containeth twenty-five treateth of the noble acts, feats of arms chapters. The nineteenth book treateth of chivalry, prowess, hardiness, humanity, 20 of Queen Guenever and Launcelot, and love, courtesy and very gentleness, with containeth thirteen chapters. The twen- many wonderful histories and adventures, tieth book treateth of the piteous death And for to understand briefly the content of Arthur, and containeth twenty-two of this volume, I have divided it into chapters. The twenty-first book treateth twenty-one books, and every book chap- 25 of his last departing, and how Sir Laun- tered as hereafter shall by God's grace celot came to revenge his death, and con- follow. The first book shall treat how taineth thirteen chapters. The sum is Uther Pendragon gat the noble conqueror twenty-one books, which contain the sum King Arthur, and containeth twenty-eight of five hundred and seven chapters, as chapters. The second book treateth of 3° more plainly shall follow hereafter. Balin the noble knight, and containeth nineteen chapters. The third book treat- * * * eth of the marriage of King Arthur to Queen Guenever, with other matters, and ■ROD'K" "5{"YT containeth fifteen chapters. The fourth 35 I5UUK AAi book, how Merlin was assotted, and of chapter I war made to King Arthur, and containeth twenty-nine chapters. The fifth book "^w sir mordred presumed and took treateth of the conquest of Lucius the em- ^^ ^^^ to be king of England, and peror, and containeth twelve chapters. 40 ^°uld have married the queen, his The sixth book treateth of Sir Launcelot ^^^^^ ^ ^^^^ and Sir Lionel, and marvelous adven- As Sir Mordred was ruler of all Eng- tures, and containeth eighteen chapters, land, he did do make letters as though The seventh book treateth of a noble that they came from beyond the sea, and knight called Sir Gareth, and named by 45 the letters specified that King Arthur was Sir Kay, Beaumains, and containeth slain in battle with Sir Launcelot. Where- thirty-six chapters. The eighth book treat- fore Sir Mordred made a parliament, and eth of the birth of Sir Tristram the noble called the lords together, and there he knight, and of his acts, and containeth made them to choose him king; and so forty-one chapters. The ninth book treat- 50 was he crowned at Canterbury, and held eth of a knight named by Sir Kay, Le a feast there fifteen days; and afterward Cote Male Taille, and also of Sir Tris- he drew him unto Winchester, and there tram, and containeth forty-four chapters, he took the Queen Guenever, and said The tenth book treateth of Sir Tristram plainly that he would wed her which was and other marvelous adventures, and 55 his uncle's wife and his father's wife, containeth eighty-eight chapters. The And so he made ready for the feast, eleventh book treateth of Sir Launcelot and a day prefixed that they should be and Sir Galahad, and containeth four- wedded; wherefore Queen Guenever was SIR THOMAS MALORY passing heavy. But she durst not dis- cover her heart, but spake fair, and agreed to Sir Mordrcd's will. Then she desired of Sir Mordred for to go to Lon- don, to buy all manner of things that 5 longed unto the w^edding. And because of her fair speech. Sir Mordred trusted her well enough, and gave her leave to go. And so when she came to London, she took the Tower of London, and sud- lo denly in all haste possible she stuffed it with all manner of victual, and well gar- nished it with men, and so kept it. Then when Sir Mordred wist and understood how he was beguiled, he was passing 15 wroth out of measure. And a short tale for to make, he went and laid a mighty siege about the Tower of London, and made many great assaults thereat, and threw many great engines unto them, and 20 shot great guns. But all might not pre- vail Sir Mordred, for Queen Guenever would never for fair speech nor for foul, would never trust to come in his hands again. Then came the Bishop of Canter- 25 bury, the which was a noble clerk and an holy man, and thus he said to Sir Mordred: 'Sir, what will ye do? will ye first displease God and sithen shame yourself, and all knighthood? Is not 30 King Arthur your uncle, no farther but your mother's brother, and on her himself King Arthur begat you upon his own sister, therefore how may you wed your father's wife? Sir,' said the noble 35 clerk, ' leave this opinion or I shall curse you with book and bell and candle.' ' Do thou thy worst,' said Sir Mordred, ' wit thou well I shall defy thee.' ' Sir,' said the bishop, ' and wit you well I shall not 40 fear me to do that me ought to do. Also where ye noise where my lord Arthur is slain, and that is not so, and therefore ye will make a foul work in this land.' ' Peace, thou false priest,' said Sir Mor- 45 dred, ' for an thou chafe me any more, I shall make strike off thy head.' So the bishop departed and did the cursing in the most orgulist wise that might be done. And then Sir Mordred sought the Bishop 50 of Canterbury, for to have slain him. Then the bishop fled, and took part of his goods with him, and went nigh unto Glastonbury; and there he was as priest hermit in a chapel, and lived in poverty 55 and in holy prayers, for well he under- stood that mischievous war was at hand. Then Sir Mordred sought on Queen Guenever by letters and sonds, and by fair means and foul means, for to have her to come out of the Tower of London; but all this availed not, for she answered him shortly, openly and privily, that she had liefer slay herself than to be married with him. Then came word to Sir Mor- dred that King Arthur had araised the 1 siege for Sir Launcelot, and he was com- ] ing homeward with a great host, to be avenged upon Sir Mordred ; wherefore Sir Mordred made write writs to all the barony of this land, and much people drew to him. For then was the common voice among them that with Arthur was none other life but war and strife, and with Sir Mordred was great joy and bliss. Thus was Sir Arthur depraved and evil said of. And many there were that King Arthur had made up of naught, and given them lands, might not then say him a good word. Lo ye all Englishmen, see ye not what a mischief here was ! for he that was the most king and knight of the world, and most loved the fellowship of noble knights, and by him they were all upholden, now might not these English- men hold them content with him. Lo thus was the old custom and usage of this land; and also men say that we of this land have not yet lost nor forgotten that custom and usage. Alas, this is great default of us Englishmen, for there may no thing please us no term. And so fared the people at that time, they were better pleased with Sir Mordred than they were with King Arthur; and much people drew unto Sir Mordred, and said they would abide with him for bet- ter and for worse. And so Sir Mordred drew with a great host to Dover, for there he heard say that Sir Arthur would arrive, and so he thought to beat his own father from his lands; and the most part of all England held with Sir Mor- dred, the people were so new-fangle. CHAPTER II HOW AFTER THAT KING ARTHUR HAD TIDINGS, HE RETURNED AND CAME TO DOVER, WHERE SIR MORDRED MET HIM TO LET HIS LANDING; AND OF THE DEATH OF SIR GAWAINE And SO as Sir Mordred was at Dover with his host, there came King Arthur with a great navy of ships, and galleys, and carracks. And there was Sir Mordred LE MORTE D'ARTHUR _23 ready awaiting upon his landing, to let I, Sir Gawaine, King Lot's son of Ork- his own father to land upon the land that ney, sister's son unto the noble King he was king over. Then there was Arthur, send thee greeting, and let thee launchino- of great boats and small, and have knowledge that the tenth day of full of noble men of arms ; and there was 5 May I was smitten upon the old wound much slaughter of gentle knights, and that thou gavest me afore the city of many a full bold baron was laid full low, Benwick, and through the same wound on both parties. But King Arthur was so that thou gavest me I am come to my courageous that there might no manner death-day. And I will that all the world of knights let him to land, and his knights lo wit, that I, Sir Gawaine, knight of the fiercely followed him; and so they landed Table Round, sought my death, and not maugre Sir Mordred and all his power, through thy deserving, but it was mine and put Sir Mordred aback, that he fled own seeking; wherefore I beseech thee, and all his people. Sir Launcclot, to return again unto this So when this battle was done, King 15 realm, and see my tomb, and pray some Arthur let bury his people that were dead, prayer, more or less, for my soul. And And then was noble Sir Gawaine found this same day that I wrote this cedle, I in a great boat, lying more than half dead. was hurt to the death in the same wound. When Sir Arthur wist that Sir Gawaine the which I had of thy hand. Sir Launce- was laid so low, he went unto him ; and 20 lot ; for of a more nobler man might I there the king made sorrow out of meas- not be slain. Also, Sir Launcelot, for all ure, and took Sir Gawaine in his arms, the love that ever was betwixt us, make and thrice he there swooned. And then no tarrying, but come over the sea in when he awaked, he said: 'Alas, Sir Ga- all haste, that thou mayest with thy waine, my sister's son, here now thou 25 noble knights rescue that noble king that liest, the man in the world that I loved made thee knight, that is my lord Ar- most; and now is my joy gone, for now, ihur; for he is full straitly bestead with my nephew Sir Gawaine, I will discover a false traitor, that is my half-brother, me unto your person: in Sir Launcelot Sir Mordred; and he hath kt crown him and you I most had my joy, and mine 30 king, and would have wedded my lady affiance, and now have I lost my joy of Queen Guenever, and so had he done you both; wherefore all mine earthly joy had she not put herself in the Tower of is gone from me.' ' Mine uncle King London. And so the tenth day of May Arthur,' said Sir Gawaine, ' wit you well last past, my lord Arthur and we all my death-day is come, and all is through 35 landed upon them at Dover ; and there we mine own hastiness and wilfulness; for put that false traitor, Sir Mordred, to I am smitten upon the old wound the flight, and there it misfortuned me to be which Sir Launcelot gave me, on the stricken upon thy stroke. And at the which I feel well I must die; and had date of this letter was written, but Sir Launcelot been with you as he was, 40 two hours and a half afore my this unhappy war had never begun; and death, written with mine own hand, of all this am I causer, for Sir Launcelot and so subscribed with part of my and his blood, through their prowess, held heart's blood. And I require thee, most all your cankered enemies in subjection famous knight of the world, that thou and danger. And now,' said Sir Ga-45 wilt see my tomb.' And then Sir Ga- waine, 'ye shall miss Sir Launcelot. waine wept, and King Arthur wept; and But, alas, I would not accord with him, then they swooned both. And when they and therefore,' said Sir Gawaine, ' I pray awaked both, the king made Sir Ga- you, fair uncle, that I may have paper, waine to receive his Saviour. And then pen,- and ink, that I may write to Sir 50 Sir Gawaine prayed the king for to send Launcelot a cedle with mine own hands.' for Sir Launcelot, and to cherish him And then when paper and ink was above all other knights. And so at the I brought, then Gawaine was set up weakly hour of noon Sir Gawaine yielded up ; by King Arthur, for he was shriven a the spirit; and then the king let inter little to-fore ; and then he wrote thus, as 55 him in a chapel within Dover Castle ; j the French book maketh mention : ' Unto and there yet all men may see the skull Sir Launcelot, flower of all noble knights of him, and the same wound is seen that that ever I heard of or saw by my days, Sir Launcelot gave him in battle. Then 24 SIR THOMAS MALORY was it told the king that Sir Mordred awaked the king; and then he was so had pight a new fickl upon Barham amazed that he wist not where he was; Down. And upon the morn the king and tlicn he fell a-slumbering again, not rode thither to him, and there was a sleeping nor thoroughly waking. So the great battle betwixt them, and much peo- 5 king seemed verily that there came Sir pie was slain on both parties; but at the Gawaine unto him with a number of last, Sir Arthur's party stood best, and fair ladies with him. And when King Sir Mordred and his party fled unto Can- Arthur saw him, then he said: ' Welcome, terbury. my sister's son ; I weened thou hadst been 10 dead, and now I see thee alive, much am CHAPTER III J beholding unto almighty Jesu. O fair HOW AFTER, SIR GAWAINe's GHOST AP- 'f P'^^^^ ^}'^ "^^ f'^.^''' ,^«"' ^^^^^^ be FEARED TO KING ARTHUR, AND WARNED ^hcse lad.es tha hither be come w.th iiiM THAT HE SHOULD NOT FIGHT THAT f^"/ ,. Sh", Said Sir Gawaine, all these 15 be ladies for whom I have foughten when I was man living, and all these are And then the king let search all the those that I did battle for in righteous towns for his knights that were slain, quarrel; and God hath given them that and interred them; and salved them with grace at their great prayer, because I soft salves that so sore were wounded. 20 did battle for them, that they should Then much people drew unto King Ar- bring me hither unto you: thus much thur. And then they said that Sir Mor- hath God given me leave, for to warn dred warred upon King Arthur with you of your death; for an ye fight as wrong. And then King Arthur drew to-morn with Sir Mordred, as ye both him with his host down by the seaside 25 have assigned, doubt ye not ye must be westward toward Salisbury ; and there slain, and the most part of your people was a day assigned betwixt King Arthur on both parties. And for the great grace and Sir Mordred, that they should meet and goodness ~that Almighty Jesu hath upon a down beside Salisbury, and not unto you, and for pity of you, and many far from the seaside; and this day was 30 more other good men there shall be slain, assigned on a Monday after Trinity Sun- God hath sent me to you of his special day, whereof King Arthur was passing grace, to give you warning that in no wise glad, that he might be avenged upon Sir ye do battle as to-morn, but that ye take Mordred. Then Sir Mordred araised a treaty for a month day ; and proffer you much people about London, for they of 35 largely, so as to-morn to be put in a de- Kent, Southsex, and Surrey, Estsex, and lay. For within a month shall come Sir of Southfolk, and of Northfolk, held the Launcelot with all his noble knights, and most part with Sir Mordred ; and many rescue you worshipfully, and slay Sir a full noble knight drew unto Sir Mor- IMordred, and all that ever will hold with dred and to the king: but they tliat loved 40 him.' Then Sir Gawaine and all the Sir Launcelot drew unto Sir Mordred. ladies vanished. So upon Trinity Sunday at night. And anon the king called upon his King Arthur dreamed a wonderful dream, knights, squires, and yeomen, and charged and that was this : that him seemed he them wightly to fetch his noble lords and sat upon a chaflet in a chair, and the 45 wise bishops unto him. And when they chair was fast to a wheel, and thereupon were come, the king told them his avision, sat King Arthur in the richest cloth of what Sir Gawaine had told him, and gold that might be made; and the king warned him that if he fought on the thought there was under him, far from morn he should be slain. Then the king him, an hideous deep black water, and 50 commanded Sir Lucan the Butler, and therein were all manner of serpents, and his brother Sir Bedivere, with two bish- worms, and wild beasts, foul and hor- ops with them, and charged them in any rible; and suddenly the king thought the wise, an they might, 'Take a treaty for wheel turned up-so-down, and he fell a month day with Sir Mordred, and among the serpents and every beast took 55 spare not, proffer him lands and goods as him by a limb; and then the king cried much as ye think best.' So then they de- as he lay on his bed and slept: 'Help!' parted, and came to Sir Mordred, where And then knights, squires, and yeomen, he had a grim host of an hundred thou- LE MORTE D'ARTHUR 25 sand men. And there they entreated in devoir, and in great peril. And thus Sir Mordred long time; and at the last Sir they fought all the long day, and never Mordred was agreed for to have Corn- stinted till the noble knights were laid to wall and Kent, by Arthur's days : after, tlie cold earth ; and ever they fought still all England, after the days of King Ar- 5 till it was near night, and by that time thur. was there an hundred thousand laid dead upon the down. Then was Arthur wood CHAPTER IN' wroth out of measure, when he saw his ,,_ people so slain from him. HOW BY MISADVENTURE OF AN ADDER THE ' ^\ ^i i • i i j i .. i. • i „ „^^ „, >c.'° Then the kmg looked about hmi, and BATTLE BEGAN, WHERE MORDRED WAS ^, . ^ r ii i ■ i ^ i r ' „,_ r..r,.^ n-r. ^ , T .- thcu was hc ware, of all his host and of SLAIN, AND ARTHUR HURT TO THE ,, , . j i • i ^ i r^ ' all his good knights, were left no more alive but two knights; that one was Sir Then were they condescended that King Lucan the Butler, and his brother Sir Arthur and Sir Mordred should meet be- 15 Bedivere, and they were full sore twixt both their hosts, and everych of wounded. ' Jesu mercy,' said the king, them should bring fourteen persons ; and . ' where are all my noble knights be- they came with this word unto Arthur. come? Alas that ever I should see this Then said he: 'I am glad that this is doleful day, for now,' said Arthur, 'I am done: ' and so he went into the field. 20 come to mine end. But would to God that And when Arthur should depart, he I wist where were that traitor Sir Mor- warned all his host that an they see any dred, that hath caused all this mischief.' sword drawn : ' Look ye come on fiercely, Then was King Arthur ware where Sir and slay that traitor. Sir Mordred, for Mordred leaned upon his sword among a I in no wise trust him.' In like wise Sir 25 great heap of dead men. ' Now give me Mordred warned his host that : ' An ye my spear,' said Arthur unto Sir Lucan, see any sword drawn, look that ye come ' for yonder I have espied the traitor that on fiercely, and so slay all that ever be- all this woe hath wrought.' ' Sir, let him fore you standeth ; for in no wise I will be,' said Sir Lucan, ' for he is unhappy ; not trust for this treaty, for I know well 3° and if ye pass this unhappy day, ye shall my father will be avenged on me.' And be right well revenged upon him. Good so they met as their appointment was, lord, remember ye of your night's dream, and so they were agreed and accorded and what the spirit of Sir Gawaine told thoroughly ; and wine was fetched, and you this night, yet God of his great good- they drank. Right soon came an adder 35 ness hath preserved you hitherto. There- out of a little heath bush, and it stung fore, for God's sake, my lord, leave off by a knight on the foot. And when the this, for, blessed be God, ye have won the knight felt him stung, he looked down and field, for here we be three alive, and with saw the adder, and then he drew his Sir Mordred is none alive; and if ye sword to slay the adder, and thought of 40 leave off now, this wicked day of destiny none other harm. And when the host on is past.' ' Tide me death, betide me life,' both parties saw that sword drawn, then saith the king, ' now I see him yonder they blew beams, trumpets, and horns, alone he shall never escape mine hands, and shouted grimly. And so both hosts for at a better avail shall I never have dressed them together. And King Arthur 45 him.' 'God speed you well,' said Sir took his horse, and said : ' Alas, this un- Bedivere. happy day!' and so rode to his party. Then the king gat his spear in both his And Sir Mordred in like wise. And hands, and ran toward Sir Mordred, cry- never was there seen a more dolefuller ing: 'Traitor, now is thy death-day battle in no christian land; for there was 50 come.' And when Sir ]\Iordred heard Sir but rushing and riding, foining and strik- Arthur, he ran until him with his sword ing, and many a grim word was there drawn in his hand. And there King Ar- spoken either to other, and many a deadly thur smote Sir Mordred under the shield, stroke. But ever King Arthur rode with a foin of his spear, throughout the throughout the battle of Sir Mordred 55 body, more than a fathom. And when many times, and did full nobly as a noble Sir Mordred felt that he had his death king should, and at all times he fainted wound, he thrust himself with the might never; and Sir Mordred that day put him that he had up to the bur of King Ar- 26 SIR THOMAS MALORY thur's spear. And right so he smote his me, that had more need of help than I. father Arthur, with his sword holden in Alas, he would not complain him, his both his hands, on the side of the head, heart was so set to help me : now Jesu that the sword pierced the helmet and the have mercy upon his soul ! ' Then Sir brain-pan, and therewithal Sir Mordred 5 Bedivere wept for the death of his brother, fell stark dead to the earth ; and the noble ' Leave this mourning and weeping,' said Arthur fell in a swoon to the earth, and the king, ' for all this will not avail me, there he swooned oftlimes. And Sir for wit thou well, an I might live myself, Lucan the Butler, and Sir Bedivere, oft- the death of vSir Lucan would grieve me times heaved him up. And so weakly they lo evermore ; but my time hieth fast,' said led him betwixt them both, to a little the king. ' Therefore,' said Arthur unto chapel not far from the seaside. And Sir Bedivere, ' take thou Excalibur, my when the king was there, he thought him good sword, and go with it to yonder well eased. waterside, and when thou comest there, I Then heard they people cry in the field. 15 charge thee throw my sword in that water, ' Now go, thou, Sir Lucan,' said the king, and come again and tell me what thou ' and do me to wit what betokens that there seest.' ' My lord,' said Bedivere, noise in the field.' So Sir Lucan de- ' your commandment shall be done, and parted, for he was grievously wounded in lightly bring you word again.' many places. And so as he yede, he saw 20 So Sir Bedivere departed, and by the and hearkened by the moonlight, how that way he beheld that noble sword, that the pillers and robbers were come into the pommel and the haft was all of i)recious field, to pill and to rob many a full noble stones; and then he said to himself: 'If knight of brooches, and beads, of many I throw this rich sword in the water, a good ring, and of many a rich jewel ; 25 thereof shall never come good, but harm and who that were not dead all out, there and loss.' And then Sir Bedivere hid they slew them for their harness and Excalibur under a tree. And so, as soon their riches. When Sir Lucan understood as he might, he came again unto the king, this work, he came to the king as soon as and said he had been at the water, and he might, and told him all what he had 30 had thrown the sword in the water, heard and seen. 'Therefore by my rede,' 'What saw thou there?' said the king, said Sir Lucan, ' it is best that we bring ' Sir,' he said, ' I saw nothing but waves you to some town.' ' I would it were so,' and winds.' ' That is untruly said of said the king. thee,' said the king, ' therefore go thou 35 lightly again, and do my commandment; CHAPTER V as thou art to me lief and dear, spare not, but throw it in.' Then Sir Bedivere re- HOW KING ARTHUR COMMANDED TO CAST ^^^^^^^ . ^^^^ ^^^^ ^j^^ ^^^^^ -^ j^j^ HIS SWORD EXCALIBUR INTO THE WATER, ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^.^^ ^^^^ ,^^ ^-^^ ^^^^ ^j^^^^^^ AND HOW HE WAS DELIVERED TO LADIES ^^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ ^,^^^ ^^^^^^ 3^^,^^.^^ 3,^j ^^ IN A BARGE ^^^ j^^ j^jj ^■^^ sword, and returned again, ' But I may not stand, mine head works and told to the king that he had been at so. Ah, Sir Launcelot,' said King Ar- the water, and done his commandment, thur, 'this day have I sore missed thee: 'What saw thou there?' said the king, alas, that ever I was against thee, for now 45 ' Sir,' he said, ' I saw nothing but the have I my death, whereof Sir Gawaine waters wap and waves wan.' ' Ah, trai- me warned in my dream.' Then Sir tor untrue,' said King Arthur, ' now hast Lucan took up the king the one part, and thou betrayed me twice. Who would have Sir Bedivere the other part, and in the weened that, thou that hast been to me so lifting the king swooned; and Sir Lucan 50 lief and dear? and thou art named a noble fell in a swoon with the lift, that the part knight, and would betray me for the rich- of his guts fell out of his body, and there- ness of the sword. But now go again with the noble knight's heart brast. And lightly, for thy long tarrying putteth me when the king awoke, he beheld Sir in great jeopardy of my life, for I have Lucan, how he lav foaming at the mouth, 55 taken cold. And but if thou do now as and part of his" guts lay at his feet. I l)id thee, if ever I may see thee I shall 'Alas,' said the king, 'this is to me a slay thee with mine own hands; for thoii full heavy sight, to see this noble duke so wouldst for my rich sword see me dead, die for my sake, for he would have holnen Then Sir Bedivere departed, and went LE MORTE D'ARTHUR 27 lo the sword, and lightly took it up, and chapel, he saw where lay an hermit went to the waterside ; and there he groveling on all four, there fast by a bound the girdle about the hilts, and then tomb was new graven. When the hermit he threw the sword as far into the water saw Sir Bedivere he knew him well, for as he might; and there came an arm and 5 he was but little to-fore Bishop of Canter- an hand above the water and met it, and bury, that Sir Mordred flemed. ' Sir,' caught it, and so shook it thrice and bran- said Bedivere, ' what man is there interred dished, and then vanished away the hand that ye pray so fast for?' 'Fair son,' with the sword in the water. So Sir said the hermit, ' I wot not verily, but by Bedivere came again to the king, and told 10 deeming. But this night, at midnight, him what he saw. * Alas,' said the king, here came a number of ladies, and ' help me hence, for I dread me I have brought hither a dead corpse, and prayed tarried over long.' Then Sir Bedivere me to bury him; and here they offered took the king upon his back, and so went an hundred tapers, and they gave me an with him to that water side. And when 15 hundred besants.' ' Alas,' said Sir Be- they were at the water side, even fast by divere, ' that was my lord King Arthur, the bank hoved a little barge with many that here lieth buried in this chapel.' fair ladies in it, and among them all was Then Sir Bedivere swooned ; and when a queen, and all they had black hoods, and he awoke he prayed the hermit he might all they wept and shrieked when they saw 20 abide with him still there, to live with King Arthur. ' Now put me into the fasting and prayers. ' For from hence barge,' said the king. And so he did will I never go,' said Sir Bedivere, ' by my softly; and there received him three will, but all the days of my life here to queens with great mourning ; and so they pray for my lord Arthur.' ' Ye are wel- set them down, and in one of their laps 25 come to me,' said the hermit, ' for I know King Arthur laid his head. And then ye better than ye ween that I do. Ye are that queen said : * Ah, dear brother, why the bold Bedivere, and the full noble duke, have ye tarried so long from me? alas, Sir Lucan the Butler, was your brother.' this wound on your head hath caught Then Sir Bedivere told the hermit all as over-much cold.' And so then they rowed 30 ye have heard to-fore. So there bode Sir from the land, and Sir Bedivere beheld Bedivere with the hermit that was to-fore all those ladies go from him. Then Sir Bishop of Canterbury, and there Sir Bedi- Bedivere cried : ' Ah, my lord Arthur, vere put upon him poor clothes, and what shall become of me, now ye go from served the hermit full lowly in fasting and me and leave me here alone among mine 35 in prayers. enemies?' 'Comfort thyself,' said the Thus of Arthur I find never more writ- king, ' and do as well as thou mayest, for ten in books that be authorized, nor more in me is no trust for to trust in ; for I of the very certainty of his death heard I will into the vale of Avilion to heal me of never read, but thus was he led away in a my grievous wound: and if thou hear 40 ship wherein were three queens ; that one never more of me, pray for my soul.' was King Arthur's sister, Queen Morgan But ever the queens and ladies wept and le Fay; the other was the Queen of shrieked, that it was pity to hear. And Northgalis ; the third was the Queen of as soon as Sir Bedivere had lost the sight the Waste Lands. Also there was Nimue, of the barge, he wept and wailed, and so 45 the chief lady of the lake, that had wed- took the forest; and so he went all that ded Pelleas the good knight; and this lady night, and in the morning he was ware had done much for King Arthur, for she betwixt two holts hoar, of a chapel and would never suffer Sir Pelleas to be in no an hermitage. place where he should be in danger of his 50 life; and so he lived to the uttermost of CHAPTER VI his days with her in great rest. IMore of HOW SIR BEDIVERE FOUND HIM ON THE ^'/^^^^ ,^^^'"/ ^'J^"' ^T^^ ^"T' MORROW DEAD IN AN HERMITAGE, AND 5"^-' ,^"^ ^h^^ ^^t'^' '^^^"ght him tO h,S HOW HE ABODE THERE WITH THE HER-,, ^^^'f',' ^"^ ^"'^^^ °"^ "^.^^ Juried there, j^j_ 55 that the hermit bare witness that some- time was Bishop of Canterburv. but vet Then was Sir Bedivere glad, and thither the hermit knew not in certain that he he went; and when he came into the was verily the body of King Arthur: for 28 SIR THOMAS MALORY this tale Sir Bedivere, knight of the Table the queen would not wed him; then was Round, made it to he written. Sir Launcelot wroth out of measure, and said to his kinsmen: 'Alas, that double CllAi'TEK \ 11 traiter Sir Mordred, now me repenteth . ^^ ,TT. 5 ^'''it ever he eseaped my hands, for much OF THE OPINION OF SOMF. MEN OF THE ,,uune hath he done unto my lord Arthur : OKA-ni OF KiNc: ART.. uu; AN.) ..ow i^r all 1 feel by the doleful letter that my QUEEN c:r>.:N..:vKK ma.^k ...-:.< a nun in ,^,.j ^j^ (iawa.'ne sent me, on whose soul ALMESBURY j^g^ j^^^^ uicrcy, that my lord Arthur Yet some men say in many parts of lo is full hard bestead. Alas,' said Sir Eng^land that King Arthur is not dead, Launcelot, ' that ever I should live to but had by the will of our Lord Jcsu into hear that most noble king that made me another place; and men say that he shall knight thus to be overset with his subject come again, and he shall win the holy in his own realm. And this doleful letter cross. I will not say it shall be so, but i5 that my lord, Sir Gawaine, hath sent me rather Twill say: here in this world he afore his death, praying me to see his changed his life. But many men say that tomb, wit you well his doleful words shall there is written upon his tomb this verse: never go from mine heart, for he was a Hie jacct Arthurus, Rex quondam, Rex- full noble knight as ever was born ; and que futurus [Here lies Arthur, king 20 in an unhappy hour was I born that ever once, and king to be]. Thus leave I here I should have that unhap to slay first Sir Sir Bedivere with the hermit, that dwelled Gawaine, Sir Gaheris the good knight, that time in a chapel beside Glastonbury, and mine own friend Sir Gareth, that and there was his hermitage. And so full noble knight. Alas, I may say I they lived in their prayers, and fastings, ^5 am unhappy,' said Sir Launcelot, ' that and great abstinence. ever I should do thus unhappily, and, And when Queen Guenever understood ' alas, yet might I never have hap to slay that King Arthur was slain, and all the that traitor. Sir Mordred.' ' Leave your noble knights. Sir Mordred and all the complaints,' said Sir Bors, ' and first re- remnant, then the queen stole away, and 30 venge you of the death of Sir Gawaine ; five ladies with her, and so she went to and it will be well done that ye see Sir Almesbury; and there she let make her- Gawaine's tomb, and secondly that ye re- self a nun, and ware white clothes and venge my lord Arthur, and my lady, black, and great penance she took, as ever Queen Guenever.' ' I thank you,' said did sinful lady in this land, and never 35 Sir Launcelot, ' for ever ye will my wor- creature could make her merry ; but lived ship.' Then they made them ready in all in fasting, prayers, and alms-deeds, that the haste that might be, with ships and all manner of people marveled how virtu- galleys, with Sir Launcelot and his host ously she was changed. Now leave we to pass into England. And so he passed Queen Guenever in Ahnesbury, a nun in 40 over the sea till he came to Dover, and white clothes and black, and there she was there he landed with seven kings, and the abbess and ruler, as reason would; and number was hideous to behold. Then Sir turn we from her, and speak we of Sir Launcelot spered of men of Dover where Launcelot du Lake. was King Arthur become. Then the peo- 45 pie told him how that he was slain, and CHAPTER VIII Sir Mordred and an hundred thousand died on a day; and how Sir Mordred gave HOW WHEN SIR LAUNCELOT HEARD OF THE j^j ^^^,^^J ^j^^^^ ^j^^ ^^^^ ^^^^j^ ^^ ^.^ DEATH OF KING ARTHUR, AND OF SIR j^^JJ ^,^^j ^,^^^^ ^^^^ _^ g;^ Gawaine GAWAINE, AND OTHER MATTERS, HE CAME j.^j ''^^^^^ ^^^ ^j^^ ^^^-^^^ gj^ Mordred INTO ENGLAND ' r i, -.i .1 i • d u T-. fought With the king upon barham Down, And when he heard in his country that and there the king put Sir Mordred to the Sir Mordred was crowned king in Eng- worse. ' Alas,' said Sir Launcelot, ' this land, and made war against King Arthur, is the heaviest tidings that ever came to his own father, and would let him to land 55 me. Now, fair sirs,' said .Sir Launce- in his own land; also it was told Sir lot, 'shew me the tomb of Sir Gawaine.' Launcelot how that Sir Mordred had laid And then certain people of the town siege about the Tower of London, because brought him into the Castle of Dover, and LE MORTE D'ARTHUR 29 shewed him the tomb. Then Sir Launce- she swooned thrice, that all the ladies lot kneeled down and wept, and prayed and gentlewomen had work enough to heartily for his soul. And that night he hold the queen up. So when she might made a dole, and all they that would speak, she called ladies and gentlewomen come had as much flesh, fish, wine and 5 lo her, and said : * Ye marvel, fair ladies, ale, and every man and woman had twelve why I make this fare. Truly,' she said, pence, come who would. Thus with his ' it is for the sight of yonder knight that own hand dealt he this money, in a yonder standelh ; wherefore I pray you mourning gown; and ever he wept, and all call him to me.' When Sir Launcelot prayed them to pray for the soul of Sir 10 was brought to her, then she said to all Gawaine. And on the morn all the the ladies : ' Through this man and me ])riests and clerks that might be gotten in hath all this war been wrought, and the the country were there, and sang mass of death of the most noblest knights of the Requiem; and there offered first Sir Laun- world; for through our love that we have celot, and he offered an hundred pound; 15 loved together is my most noble lord and then the seven kings offered forty slain. Therefore, Sir Launcelot, wit thou pound apiece ; and also there was a thou- well I am set in such a plight to get my sand knights, and each of them offered a soul-heal ; and yet I trust through God's pound ; and the offering dured from morn grace that after my death to' have a sight till night, and Sir Launcelot lay two 20 of the blessed face of Christ, and at nights on his tomb in prayers and weep- doomsday to sit on his right side, for as ing. Then on the third day Sir Launcelot sinful as ever I was are saints in heaven, called the kings, dukes, earls, barons, and Therefore, Sir Launcelot, I require thee knights, and said thus : ' My fair lords, I and beseech thee heartily, for all the love thank you all of your coming into this ^5 that ever was betwixt us, that thou never country with me, but we came too late, see me more in the visage; and I com- and that shall repent me while I live, but mand thee, on God's behalf, that thou against death may no man rebel. But forsake my company, and to thy kingdom sithen it is so,' said Sir Launcelot, ' I will thou turn again, and keep well thy realm myself ride and seek my lady, Queen 3° from war and wrack; for as well as I have Guenever, for as I hear say she hath had loved thee, mine heart will not serve me great pain and much disease; and I heard to see thee, for through thee and me is say that she is fled into the West. There- the flower of kings and knights destroyed; fore ye all shall abide me here, and but therefore. Sir Launcelot, go to thy realm, if I come again within fifteen days, then 35 and there take thee a wife, and live with take your ships and your fellowship, and her with joy and bliss; and I pray thee depart into your country, for I will do as heartily, pray for me to our Lord that I I say to you.' may amend my misliving.' ' Now, sweet madam,' said Sir Launcelot, * would ye CHAPTER IX 40 that I should now return again unto my HOW SIR LAUNCELOT DEPARTED TO SEEK ^ountry, and there to wed a lady ? Nay, THE QUEEN GUENEVER, AND HOW HE "^^^f ^' ,^'! ^P" W^" ^hat sha I I never FOUND HER AT ALMESBURY ^°' /°^, \ f ^" never be SO false to you ot that 1 have promised; but the same Then came Sir Bors de Ganis, and 45 destiny that ye have taken you to, I will said : ' My lord, Sir Launcelot, what take me unto^ for to please Jesu, and ever think ye for to do, now to ride in this for you I cast me specially to pray.' ' If realm ? wit ye well ye shall find few thou wilt do so,' said the queen, ' hold thy friends,' ' Be as be may,' said Sir Laun- promise, but I may never believe but that celot, ' keep you still here, for I will 5o thou wilt turn to the world again.' * Well, forth on my journey, and no man nor madam,' said he, 'ye say as pleaseth you[ child shall go with me.' So it was no yet wist you me never false of my prom- boot to strive, but he departed and rode ise, and God defend but I should forsake westerly, and there he sought a seven or the world as ye have done. For in the eight days ; and at the last he came to a 55 quest of the Sangreal I had forsaken the nunnery, and then was Queen Guenever vanities of the world had not your lord ware of Sir Launcelot as he walked in the been. And if I had done so at that time, cloister. And when she saw him there with my heart, will, and thought, I had 30 SIR THOMAS MALORY passed all the knights that were in the Thus the great host abode at Dover. Sangreal except Sir Galahad, my son. And then Sir Lionel took fifteen lords And therefore, lady, sithen ye have taken with him, and rode to London to seek Sir you to perfection, I must needs take me to Launcclot; and there Sir Lionel was slain perfection, of right. For I take record of 5 and many of his lords. Then Sir Bors God, in you I have had mine earthly joy; de Ganis made the great host for to go and if I had found you now so disposed, home again; and Sir Bors, Sir Ector de I had cast to have had you into mine Maris, Sir Blamore, Sir Bleoberis, with own realm. more other of Sir Launcelot's kin, took on 10 them to ride all England overthwart and endlong, to seek Sir Launcelot. So Sir CHAPTER X Bors by fortune rode so long till he came to the same chapel where Sir Launcelot HOW SIR LAUNCELOT CAME TO THE HER- ^^^ ^^^ ^^ 5.^ 3^^^ ^^^^^ ^ j-^^j^ ^^jj MITAGE WHERE THE ARCHBISHOP OF ^^ j^^^^jj ^j^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^j^^^.^ ^^ CANTERBURY WAS, AND HOW HE TOOK ^jj^j^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ THE HABIT ON HIM ^^53 ^^g ^^^^^ ^j^^ l^j^j^^p^ gjj. L^unce- ' But sitheo I find you thus disposed, I lot, and Sir Bedivere, came to Sir Bors. ensure you faithfully, I will ever take me And when Sir Bors saw Sir Launcelot in to penance, and pray while my life last- 20 that manner clothing, then he prayed the eth, if I may find any hermit, either gray Bishop that he might be in the same suit, or white, that will receive me. Where- And so there was an habit put upon him, fore, madam, I pray you kiss me and and there he lived in prayers and fasting, never no more.' ' Nay,' said the queen, And within half a year, there was come Sir ' that shall I never do, but abstain you 25 Galihud, Sir Galihodin, Sir Blamore, Sir from such works ; ' and they departed. Bleoberis, Sir Villiars, Sir Clarras, and But there was never so hard an hearted Sir Gahalantine. So all these seven no- man but he would have wept to see the ble knights there abode still. And when dolor that they made ; for there was lam- they saw Sir Launcelot had taken him to entation as they had been stung with 30 such perfection, they had no lust to de- spears ; and many times they swooned, part, but took such an habit as he had. and the ladies bare the queen to her cham- Thus they endured in great penance six her. years; and then Sir Launcelot took the And Sir Launcelot awoke, and went habit of priesthood of the bishop, and a and took his horse, and rode all that day 35 twelvemonth he sang mass. And there and all night in a forest, weeping. And was none of these other knights but they at the last he was ware of an hermitage read in books, and holp for to sing mass, and a chapel stood betwixt two cliffs; and and rang bells, and did bodily all manner then he heard a little bell ring to mass, of service. And so their horses went and thither he rode and alighted, and tied 40 where they would, for they took no regard his horse to the gate, and heard mass. of no worldly riches. For when they saw And he that sang mass was the Bishop Sir Launcelot endure such penance, in of Canterbury. Both the bishop and Sir prayers, and fastings, they took no force Bedivere knew Sir Launcelot, and they what pain they endured, for to see the no- spake together after mass. But when Sir 45 blest knight of the world take such ab- Bedivere had told his tale all whole. Sir stinence that he waxed full lean. And Launcelot's heart almost brast for sorrow, thus upon a night, there came a vision to and Sir Launcelot threw his arms abroad. Sir Launcelot, and charged him, in re- and said: 'Alas, who may trust this mission of his sins, to haste him unto world.' And then he kneeled down on 50 Almesbury : 'And by then thou come his knee, and prayed the bishop to shrive there, thou shalt find Queen Guenever him and assoil him. And then he be- dead. And therefore take thy fellows sought the bishop that he might be his with thee, and purvey them of an horse brother. Then the bishop said : ' I will bier, and fetch thou the corpse of her, gladly ' ; and there he put an habit upon 55 and bury her by her husband, the noble Sir Launcelot, and there he served God King Arthur.' So this avision came to day and night with prayers and fastings. Sir Launcelot thrice in one night. LE MORTE D' ARTHUR 31 CHAPTER XI and awaked him, and said: 'Ye be to blame, for ye displease God with such SEVEN FELLOWS TO ALMESBURY, AND HOW SIR LAUNCELOT WENT WITH HIS manner of sorrow-making.' ' Truly,' said FOUND THERE QUEEN GUENEVER DEAD, Sir Launcelot, J I trust I do not displease WHOM THEY BROUGHT TO GLASTONBURY ^ ^od, for he knoweth mine mtent. For my sorrow was not, nor is not, for any Then Sir Launcelot rose up or day, rejoicing- of sin, but my sorrow may never and told the hermit. ' It were well done,' have end. For when I remember of her said the hermit, ' that ye made you ready, beauty, and of her noblesse, that was both and that you disobey not the avision.' 10 with her king and with her, so when I Then Sir Launcelot took his seven fellows saw his corpse and her corpse so lie to- with him, and on foot they yede from gether, truly mine heart would not serve Glastonbury to Almesbury, the which is to sustain my careful body. Also when I little more than thirty mile. And thither remember me how by my default, mine they came within two days, for they were 15 orgulity, and my pride, that they were weak and feeble to go. And when Sir both laid full low, that were peerless that Launcelot was come to Almesbury within ever was living of christian people, wit the nunnery. Queen Guenever died but you well,' said Sir Launcelot, ' this re- half an hour afore. And the ladies told membered, of their kindness and mine un- Sir Launcelot that Queen Guenever told 20 kindness, sank so to mine heart, that I them all or she passed, that Sir Launce- might not sustain myself.' So the French lot had been priest near a twelvemonth, book maketh mention. ' And hither he cometh as fast as he may to fetch my corpse ; and beside my lord, CHAPTER XII King Arthur, he shall bury me.' Where- 25 fore the queen said in hearing of them all : «°^ ^^« launcelot began to sicken, anl 'I beseech Almighty God that I may after died, whose body was borne to 1 / c- T 1 i. joyous card for to be buried never have power to see Sir Launcelot j^'^^^^ ^^^ j^"«- with my worldly eyes.' * And thus,' said Then Sir Launcelot never after ate but all the ladies, ' was ever her prayer these 3o little meat, ne drank, till he was dead, two days, till she was dead.' Then Sir For then he sickened more and more, and Launcelot saw her visage, but he wept dried, and dwined away. For the bishop not greatly, but sighed. And so he did all nor none of his fellows might not make the observance of the service himself, both him to eat, and little he drank, that he was the Dirigc, and on the morn he sang mass. 35 waxen by a cubit shorter than he was, that And there was ordained an horse bier; the people could not know him. For ever- and so with an hundred torches ever bren- more, day and night, he prayed, but some- ning about the corpse of the queen, and time he slumbered a broken sleep ; ever he ever Sir Launcelot with his seven fellows was lying groveling on the tomb of King went about the horse bier, singing and 40 Arthur and Queen Guenever. And there reading many an holy orison, and frankin- was no comfort that the bishop, nor Sir cense upon the corpse incensed. Thus Bors, nor none of his fellows, could make Sir Launcelot and his seven fellows went him, it availed not. So within six weeks on foot from Almesbury unto Glastonbury, after. Sir Launcelot fell sick, and lay in And when they were come to the chapel 45 his bed; and then he sent for the Bishop and the hermitage, there she had a Dirigc, that there was hermit, and all his true with great devotion. And on the morn, fellows. Then Sir Launcelot said with the hermit that sometime was Bishop of dreary steven : ' Sir Bishop, I pray you Canterbury sang the mass of Requiem give to me all my rites that longeth to a with great devotion. And Sir Launcelot 5o christian man.' ' It shall not need you,' was the first that offered, and then also said the hermit and all his fellows, ' it his seven fellows. And then she was is but heaviness of your blood ; ye shall wrapped in cered cloth of Raines, from be well mended by the grace of God to- the top to the toe, in thirtyfold; and after morn.' 'My fair lords,' said Sir Laun- she was put in a web of lead, and then in 55 celot, 'wit you well my careful body will a coffin of marble. And when she was into the earth, I have warning more than put in the earth, Sir Launcelot swooned, now I will say; therefore give me my and lay long still, while the hermit came rites.' So when he was houseled and 32 SIR THOMAS MALORY ancaled, and had all that a christian man so lie with open visage till that they were ought to have, he prayed the bishop that buried. And right thus as they were at his fellows might bear his body to Joyous their service, there came Sir Ector dc (Jard. Some men say it was Alnwick, Maris, that had seven years sought all and some men say it was Bamborough. 5 England, Scotland, and Wales, seeking ' iiowtjeit,' said Sir Launcelot, 'me re- his brother. Sir Eauncclot. pentcth sore, but I made mine avow some- time, that in Joyous Gard I would be CHAPTER xill buried. And because of breaking of mine avow, I pray you all, lead me thither.' lo "ow sir ector found sir launcelot his Then there was weeping and wringing ^'^otuer dead, and how constantine of hands among his fellows. ^^^^^^^ ^^-^'^ ^^^'^-^ Arthur; and of So at a season of the night they all went ^"^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^0°^ to their beds, for they all lay in one cham- And when Sir Ector heard such noise ber. And so after midnight, against day, i5 and light in the quire of Joyous Gard, he the bishop [that] then was hermit, as he alighted and put his horse from him, and lay in his bed asleep, he fell upon a great came into the quire, and there he saw laughter. And therewith all the fellow- men sing and weep. And all they knew ship awoke, and came to the bishop, and Sir Ector, but he knew not them. Then asked him what he ailed. ' Ah, Jesu 20 went Sir Bors unto Sir Ector, and told mercy,' said the bishop, * why did ye him how there lay his brother. Sir Laun- awake me? I was never in all my life celot, dead; and then Sir Ector threw his so merry and so well at ease.' ' Where- shield, sword, and helm from him. And fore?' said Sir Bors. 'Truly,' said the when he beheld Sir Launcelot's visage, bishop, ' here was Sir Launcelot with me 25 he fell down in a swoon. And when he with more angels than ever I saw men in waked, it were hard any tongue to tell the one day. And I saw the angels heave up doleful complaints that he made for his Sir Launcelot unto heaven, and the gates brother. ' Ah Launcelot,' he said, ' thou of heaven opened against him.' ' It is but were head of all christian knights, and dretching of swevens,' said Sir Bors, ' for 30 now I dare say,' said Sir Ector, ' thou Sir I doubt not Sir Launcelot aileth nothing Launcelot, there thou liest, that thou were but good.' ' It may well be,' said the never matched of earthly knight's hand. Bishop ; ' go ye to his bed, and then shall And thou were the courteoust knight that ye prove the sooth.' So when Sir Bors ever bare shield. And thou were the and his fellows came to his bed, they 35 truest friend to thy lover that ever found him stark dead, and he lay as he bestrad horse. And thou were the tru- had smiled, and the sweetest savor about est lover of a sinful man that ever him that ever they felt. loved woman. And thou were the kindest Then was there weeping and wringing man that ever struck with sword. And of hands, and the greatest dole they made 40 thou were the goodliest person that ever that ever made men. And on the morn came among press of knights. And thou the bishop did his mass of Requiem; and was the meekest man and the gentlest after, the bishop and all the nine knights that ever ate in hall among ladies. And put Sir Launcelot in the same horse bier thou were the sternest knight to thy mor- that Queen Guenever was laid in to-fore 45 tal foe that ever put spear in the rest.' that she was buried. And so the bishop Then there was weeping and dolor out and they all together went with the body of measure. of Sir Launcelot daily, till they came to Thus they kept Sir Launcelot's corpse Joyous Gard; and ever they had an bun- aloft fifteen days, and then they buried it drcd torches brenning about him. And so 5o with great devotion. And then at leisure within fifteen days they came to Joyous they went all with the Bishop of Canter- CJard. And there they laid his corpse in bury to his hermitage, and there they were the body of the quire, and sang and read together more than a month. Then Sir many psalters and prayers over him and Constantine, that was Sir Cador's son of about him. And ever his visage was laid 55 Cornwall, was chosen king of England, open and naked, that all folks might be- And he was a full noi)le knight, and wor- hold him. For such was the custom in shipfully he ruled this realm. And then those days, that all men of worship should this King Constantine sent for the Bishop LE MORTE D'ARTHUR 33 )£ Canterbury, for he heard say where he Round Table, that uhen they zvere zvliolc vas. And so he was restored unto his together there was ever an hundred and )ishopric, and left that hermitage. And forty. And here is the end of the death sir Bedivere was there ever still hermit of Arthur. I pray yon all, gentlemen and his life's end. Then Sir Bors de 5 gentlewomen that readeth this book of janis, Sir Ector de Maris, Sir Gahalan- Arthur and his knights, from the begin- ine. Sir Galihud, Sir Galihodin, Sir ning to the ending, pray for me while I 31amore, Sir Bleoberis, Sir Villiars le am alive, that God send me good deliver- /aliant, Sir Clarrus of Clermont, all these ance, and zvhen I am dead, I pray you all :nights drew them to their countries. 10 pray for my soul. For this book zvas lowbeit King- Constantine would have ended the ninth year of the reign of King lad them with him, but they would n''t Edward the Fourth, by Sir Thomas Ma- hide in this realm. And there they all leore, knight, as Jesu help him for his ived in their countries as holy men. great might, as he is the servant of Jesu Vnd some English books make mention 15 both day and night. hat they went never out of England after ihe death of Sir Launcelot, but that was Thus endeth this noble and joyous book ut favor of makers. For the French entitled Le Morte Darthur. Notwith- 00k maketh mention, and is authorized, standing it treateth of the birth, life, and lat Sir Bors, Sir Ector, Sir Blamore, 20 acts of the said King Arthur, of his noble nd Sir Bleoberis, went into the Holy knights of the Round Table, their marvel- -and thereas Jesu Christ was quick and ous enquests and adventures, the achiev- ead, and anon as they had stablished ing 'of the Sangreal, and in the end the leir lands. For the book saith, so Sir dolorous death and departing out of this auncelot commanded them for to do, or 25 zvorld of them all. Which book zvas re- vet he passed out of this world. And duced into English by Sir Thomas Malory, lese four knights did many battles upon knight, as afore is said, and by me divided le miscreants or Turks. And there they into tzventy-one books, chaptered and en- lied upon a Good Friday for God's sake. printed, and finished in the abbey, West- minster, the last day of July, the year of I Here is the end of the book of King our Lord MCCCCLXXXV. rthur, and of his noble knights of the Caxton me fieri fecit. THE NUT-BROWN MAID (c. 1500) This charming anonymous l.vrio, wortliy in ilsclf of a conspicuous place in any survey of English i)oetry, serves 'significantly as a link between an earlier and a later period. In its suggestion of the ' d6bat ' form, it recalls the middle ages; in versification and sentiment, it is definitely modern. THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE ' Be it right or wrong, these men among on women do complaine, Aft'ermyng this, how that it is a labour spent in vaine To love them wele, for never a dele they love a man agayne; For lete a man do what he can ther favour to attayne, Yet yf a newe do them pursue, ther furst trew lover than 5 Laboureth for nought, and from her thought he is a bannished man.' ' I say not nay but that all day it is bothe writ and sayde That woman's fayth is, as who sayth, all utterly decayed ; But nevertheless, right good witnes in this case might be layde, That they love trewe and contynew, — recorde the Nutbrowne Maide, lo 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 allone.' ' Than betwene us lete us discusse what was all the maner Betwene them too, we wyl also telle all the peyne and fere That she was in. Now I begynne, see that ye me answere. 'S Wherefore [all] 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 T your wylle for to fulfylle, in this wyl not refuse, Trusting to shewe, in wordis fewe, that men have an ille use, 2° To ther owne shame wymen to blame, and causeles them accuse. Therfore to you I answere now, alle wymen to excuse : " Myn own hert dere, with you what chiere? I prey you telle anoon ; For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you allon." ' ' It stondith so, a deed is do wherof moche harme shal growe. 25 My desteny is for to dey a shamful dethe, I 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 I 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 May is derked be- fore the none. I here you saye " farwel ; " nay, nay, we de- parte not soo sone. Why 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 ; 35 For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone.' ' I can beleve it shal you greve, and som- what you distrayne ; But aftyrwarde your paynes harde within a day or tweyne Shal sone aslake, and ye shal take confort ! to you agayne. 34 THE NUT-BROWN MAID 35 Why shuld ye nought? for to take thought, your labur were in vayne. 4o And thus I do, and pray you, too, 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; Syth it is so that ye wyll goo, I wol not leve behynde; 45 Shal never 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 thinkc and sey ; Of yonge and olde it shal be told that ye be gone away, 5° 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 banysshed man.' ' Though it be songe of olde and yonge that I shuld be to blame, 55 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.' 6o 'I counsel 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 hande here a bowe to here and drawe, And as a theef thus must ye lyeve ever in drede and awe, By whiche to yow gret harme myght grow ; yet had I lever than 65 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, To com on fote, to hunte and shote to gete us mete and store ; For soo that I your company 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 pytee hanged to bee, and waver wyth the wynde. Yf I had neede, as God forbede, what res- cous coude ye findc? 75 For sothe I trowe, you and your bowe shuld drawe for fere behynde; And noo merveyle, for lytel avayle were in your councel than ; Wherfore I too the woode wyl goo, alone, a banysshed 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 greeve them as I myght, And you to save, as wymen have, from deth many one; For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone.' ' Vet take good hede, for ever I drede that ye coude not sustein 85 The thorney wayes, the depe valeis, the snowe, the frost, the reyn. The colde, the hete ; for, drye or wete, we must lodge on the playn. And, us aboove, noon other rove but a brake, bussh, or twayne ; Whiche sone shulde greve you, I beleve, and ye wolde gladly than That I had too the grenewode goo, alone, a banysshyd man.' 90 ' Syth I have here been 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, 36 THE NUT-BROWN MAID That where ye bee, mc semeth, perde, 1 coiide not fare aniyssc. Wythoiit more spcchc, I you bcsechc that we were soon agonc ; 95 For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone.' ' Yf ye goo thedyr, ye must consider, whan ye have lust to dyne, Ther shel no mete be fore to getc, nor drinke, here, ale, ne wine, Ne shctis clene to lye betwene, made of throd and twyne, Noon other house but Icvys and bowes, to kever your hed and myn. '°° Loo! myn herte swete, this ylle dyet shuld make you pale and wan ; Wherfore I to the wood wyl goo, alone, a banysshid man.' * Amonge the wylde dere suche an archicr as men say that ye bee Ne may not fayle of good vitayle, where is so grete plcnte ; And watir cleere of the ryvere shal be ful swete to me, '°5 Wyth whiche in hele I shal right wele en- dure, as ye shal see ; And, er we goo, a bed or too 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, "o Wyth bowe in handc, for to withstonde your enmys, yf ncde be, And this same nyght before daylight to woodward 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 long- eth to womanhede, ^^s To short my here, a bowe to here to shote in tyme of nede. O my swete moder, before all other, for you have I most drede ; But now adiew ! I must ensue, whcr for- tune duth me leede : All this make ye; now lete us flee, the day cums fast upon ; l'"nr in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone.' ''" ' Nay, nay, not soo, ye shal not goo ! and I shal telle you why : Your appctyte is to be lyght of love, I wele aspic ; For right as ye have sayd to mc, in lyke- wise hardely Ye wolde answere, whosoever it were, in way of company. It is sayd of olde, " sone hole, sonc colde," and so is a woman ; '^s Wherfore I too the woode wyl goo, alone, a banysshid man.' ' Yef ye take hcde, yet is noo nede, suche wordis to say bee me. For oft ye preyd, and longe assayed, or I you lovid, perde ! And though that I of auncestry a barons doughter bee, Yet have you proved how I you loved, a squyer of lowe degree, '3o And ever shal, what so bcfalle, to dey ther- fore anoon ; For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone.' ' A barons childe to be begyled, it were a curssed dede, To be felaw with an outlawe, almyghty God forbede ! Yet bettyr were the power squyer alone to forest yede, '35 Than ye shal saye, another day, that be my wyked dede Ye were betrayed; wherfore, good inaide, the best red that I can. Is that I too the greenewode goo, alone, a banysshcd man.' ' Whatsoever befalle, I never shal of this thing you upbraid ; But yf ye goo and leve me so, than have ye me betraied. '4o Remembre you wele how that ye dele, for yf ye, as ye sayde. Be so unkynde to leve behynd your love. the Notbrowne Maide, Trust me truly that I shal dey sone after ye be gone ; For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone.' ' Yef that ye went, ye shulde repent, for in the forest now '43 I have purveid mc of a maidc, whom I love more than you, — .A.nother fayrer than ever ye were, I dare it wel avowe ; I THE NUT-BROWN MAID 37 And of you bothe, eche shulde be wrothe with other, as I trowe. It were myn ease to lyve in pease ; so wyl I, yf I can ; Wherfore I to the wode wyl goo, alone, a banyssbid man.' 'So 'Though in the wood I undirstode ye had a paramour, All this may nought remeve my thought, Init that I wil be your ; And she shal fynde me soft and kynde, and curteis every our. Glad to fulfylle all that she wylle com- maunde me, to my power ; For had ye, loo! an hundred moo, yet wolde I be that one; 155 For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but you alone.' ' Myn oune dere love, I see the prove that ye be kynde and trewe; Of mayde and wyf, in all my lyf, the best that ever I knewe ! Be mery and glad, be no more sad, the case is chaunged newe ; For it were ruthe that for your trouth you shuld have cause to rewe. 160 Be not dismayed, whatsoever I sayd, to you whan I began, I wyl not too the grenewod goo, I am noo banysshyd man.' 'Theis tidingis be more glad to me than to be made a queue, Yf I were sure they shuld endure ; but it is often seen, When men wyl breke promyse, they speke the wordis on the splene. "65 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 all mankynde I love but you alone.' ' Ye shall not nede further to drede, I wyl not disparage You, God dcfcnde, sith you descende of so grete a lynage. 170 Nou 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 erles son, and not a banysshyd man.' Here may ye see that wymen be in love meke, kinde, and stable, '75 Late never man repreve them than, or calle them variable, But rather prey God that we may to them be confortable, 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 ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS The popular ballad is a short, anouyuious poem, in simple meter, recouuting a simple narra- tive, and adapted, originally, for singing to a recurrent melody. The true ballad shows no traces of individual authorship: the story is told impersonally, without a suggestion of senti- ment or reflection from the story-toller. Ballads originate in a naive, homogeneous community, and it may fairly be said that they are composed not by any individual, but by tiie com- munity as a whole. Ballads are to be thought of as beginning, ultimately and normally, in a choral throng, in which, to the accompaniment of dancing and singing, one person after another contributes an improvised verse, couplet, or short stanza to a simple but ever increas- ing story. The story grows by 'incremental repetition'; that is, in his improvisation, each singer in succession both repeats a part of the preceding improvisation and adds to the story a new element of his own. After contributing their bits to the narrative, the several singers disappear as individuals, leaving as a result a simple narrative poem, which is henceforth regarded as the composition not of one person or of particular persons, but of the gathering as a whole. Although such a process of composition can be secui'ely inferred, no extant ballad shows so simple a form as would result immediately from such communal authorship. Since all true ballads are transmitted orally, variations in style and alterations of the narrative are inevitable; and the hand of a dominating individual may often be inferred. A large propor- tion of the ballads actually preserved do, however, bear unmistakable marks of their ultimate choral and community origin, and all ballads worthy of the name are the actual possession of the folk as a whole. From the fact that ballads are transmitted orally, and are committed to writing only by happy accident, the body of preserved and published ballads of any people will represent, inevitably, only a small proportion of the whole sum of ballads produced during the history of that people. The English language, including Scottish, is fortunate in the preservation of at least three hundred and six ballads. Although the greater part of these ballads are recorded only in comparatively modern documents, many of the stories themselves are of very ancient origin. The oldest English ballad completely recorded dates from the thirteenth cen- tury. The most important of ballad manuscrijits, — the so-called Percy Folio, — was written about the year 1050. Only some eleven of our ballads are preserved in documents older than the seventeenth century. On the theory of ' communal authorship ' one can readily explain the chief formal charac- teristics of popular ballads : refrain, repetition, and dialogue. ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE 1. When shawes beene sheene, and shradds full fayre, And leeves both large and longe, It is merry, walking in the fayre fforrest, To hearc the small birds songe. 2. The woodweele sang, and wold not cease, 5 Amongst the leaves a lyne ; And it is by two wight yeomen. By dearc God, that I meane. 3. * Me thought they did mee beate and binde, And tonke my bowe mee froe ; 10 If I bee Robin alive in this lande, rie be wrocken on both them towe.' 4. ' Sweavens are swift, master,' quoth John, ' As the wind that blowes ore a hill ; Ffor if itt be never soe lowde this night, To-morrow it may be still.' 16 5. ' Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, Ffor John shall goe with mee; For rie goe seeke yond wight yeomen In greenwood where they bee.' 20 6. They cast on their gowne of greene, A shooting jrone are they. ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE 39 Untill they came to the merry green- wood, Where they had gladdest bee ; There were they ware of a wight yeo- man, -25 His body leaned to a tree. 7. A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, Had beene many a mans banc, And he was cladd in his capiiU-hydc, Topp, and tayle, and mayne. 30 8. ' Stand you still, master,' quoth Litle John, ' Under this trusty tree, And I will goe to yond wight yeoman, To know his meaning trulye.' 9. ' A, John, by me thou setts noe store, 35 And that's a ffarley thinge ; How oiTt 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 4° 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, 45 The gates he knowes eche one. 12. And when hee came to Barnesdale, Great heavinesse there hee hadd ; He flfound two of his fellowes Were slaine both in a slade, so 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, 55 ' With Crist his might and mayne ; I'le make yond fellow that flyes soe fast To be both glad and fifaine.' 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,' Litle John, sayd ' That ere thou grew on a tree ! Ffor this day thou art my bale, 65 My boote when thou shold bee ! ' 17. This shoote it was but looselye shott. The arrowe flew in vaine, And it mctt one of the sheriffes men ; Good William a Trent was slaine. 7° 18. It had beene better for William 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, 7S Six can doe more then three : And they have tane Litle John, And bound him fifast 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 fifayle,' 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 ^s 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 2T,. ' Good morrow, good fellow,' quoth Sir Guy; ' Good morrow, good fifellow,' 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, 95 ' 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 40 EN(iLlSlI AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS Afore yec did part awaye ; Let us some other pastime find, '"S Good tTcllow, I thee pray. 27. 'Let us some otlicr mastcrycs make, And wee will walkc in the woods even ; Wee may chance meet with Robin Hoodc Att some unsctt steven.' "o 28. They cutt them downc the summer shroggs Which grew both under a bryar, And sett them three score rood in twinn, To shoote the prickes full neare. 29. 'Leade on, good ffellow,' sayd Sir Guye, 'Lead on, I doe bidd thee:' J'S ' Nay, by my faith,' quoth Robin Hood, ' The leader thou shalt bee.' 30. The first good shoot that Robin Icdd, Did not shoote an inch the pricke fierce ; Guy was an archer good enoughe, i-i But he cold neere shoote soe. 31. The second shoote Sir Guy shott. He shott within the garlande; But Robin Hoode shott it better then bee, '^5 For he clove the good pricke-wande. 32. ' Gods blessing on thy heart ! ' sayes Guye, ' Goode fifellow, thy shooting is goode ; For an thy hart be as good as thy hands, Thou were better then Robin Hood. :i3. 'Tell me thy name, good fifellow,' quoth Guy, '^' ' Under the leaves of lyne : ' ' Nay, by my faith,' quoth good Robin, ' Till thou have told me thine.' 34. ' I dwell by dale and downe,' quoth Guye, '-^^ ' And I have done many a curst turne ; And he that calles me by my right name, Calles me Guye of good Gysborne.' 35. ' ]\ly dwelling is in the wood,' sayes Robin ; ' By thee I set right nought ; '40 My name is Rol)in Hood of Barncsdale, A fifellow thou has long sought.' 36. He that had neither beene a kithe nor kin Might have scene a full fayrc sight. To see how together these yeomen went, 145 With blades both brownc and bright; 37. To have scene how these yeomen to- gether fought Two howers of a summers day; lit was neither Guy nor Robin Hood That ffettled them to flye away. J5o 38. Robin was reacheles on a roote, And stumbled at that tyde. And Guy was quicke and nimble withall, And hitt him ore the left side. 39. 'Ah, deere Lady!' sayd Robin Hoode, 'Thou art both mother and may! '56 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 all thy liffe. Which thing must have an ende.' '66 42. Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe. And nicked Sir Guy in the fiface, "Phat hee was never on a woman borne Cold tell who Sir Guye was. '70 43. Sales, ' Lye there, lye there, good Sir Guye, And with me be not wrothe; H thou have had the worse stroakcs at my hand. Thou shalt have the better cloathe.' 44. Robin did off his gowne of greene, i7S Sir Guye hee did it throwe; And hee put on that capuU-hyde That cladd him topp to toe. 45. ' The bowe, the arrowes, and litle home. And with me now I'le beare; '^^'^ Ffor now I will goe to Barnesdale To see how my men doe ffare.' 46. Robin sett Guycs home tn his nmulli. A lowd blast in it he did blow ; ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND BURIAL 41 That beheard the sheriffe of Notting- ham, '8s 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 capull-hyde. 49. ' Come hither, thou good Sir Guy, Aske of mee what thou wilt have : ' * rie none of thy gold,' sayes Robin Hood, 197 ' Nor rie 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.' 206 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.' 21° 53. But Robin hee hyed him towards Litle John, Hee thought hee wold loose him bclive ; The sherifife and all his companye Fast after him did drive. 54. ' Stand abacke ! stand abacke ! ' sayd Robin; 215 'Why draw you mee soe neere? Itt was never the use in our counlrye Ones shrift another shold heere.' 55 But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knifife, And losed John hand and fifoote, 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 22s And ffcttle him to slioote. 57. Towards his house in Nottingam 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. ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND BURIAL 1. When Robin Hood and Little John Down a down a down a down Went oer yon bank of broom. Said Robin Hood bold to Little John, ' We have shot for many a pound.' 5 Hey down, a down, a down. 2. ' But I am not able to shoot one shot more. My broad arrows will not flee ; But I have a cousin lives down below. Please God, she will bleed me.' Jo 3. Now Robin he is to fair Kirkly gone. As fast as he can win ; But before he came there, as we do hear. He was taken very ill. 4. And when he came to fair Kirkly-hall, He knockd all at the ring, '6 But none was so ready as his cousin herself For to let bold Robin in. 5. ' Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin,' she said, 'And drink some beer with me?' 20 ' No, I will neither eat nor drink, Till I am blooded by thee.' 6. ' Well, I have a room, cousin Robin,' she said, ' Which you did never see, And if you please to walk therein, 25 You blooded by me shall be.' 42 ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS 7. She took him by the lily-white hand, And led him to a private room, And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, While one drop of blood would run down. 3" 8. She blooded him in a vein of the arm, And locked him up in the room ; Then did he bleed all the live-long day. Until the next day at noon. 9. He then bethought him of a casement there, 3S Thinking for to get down ; But was so weak he could not leap, He could not get him down. 10. He then bethought him of his bugle- horn. Which hung low down to his knee ; 40 He set his horn unto his mouth. And blew out weak blasts three. 11. Then Little John, when hearing him, As he sat under a tree, ' I fear my master is now near dead, 45 He blows so wearily.' 12. Then Little John to fair Kirkly is gone, As fast as he can dree; But when he came to Kirkly-hall, He broke locks two or three : 5° 13. Until he came bold Robin to see, Then he fell on his knee ; 'A boon, a boon,' cries Little John, ' Master, I beg of thee.' 14. ' What is that boon,' said Robin Hood, 'Little John, thou begs of me?' 56 'It is to burn fair Kirkly-hall, And all their nunnery.' 15. ' Now nay, now nay,' quoth Robin Hood, 'That boon I '11 not grant thee; 60 I never hurt woman in all my lif?. Nor men in woman's company. 16. ' I never hurt fair maid in all my time, Nor at mine end shall it be; But give me my bent bow in my hand, 65 And a broad arrow I '11 let Hee And where this arrow is taken up. There shall my grave digged be. 17. * Lay me a green sod under my head. And another at my feet; 7° And lay my bent bow by my side. Which was my music sweet ; And make my grave of gravel and green. Which is most right and meet. 18. 'Let me have length and breadth enough, 75 With a green sod under my lieacl ; That they may say, when I am dead. Here lies bold RoImu Hood.' 19. These words they readily granted him, Which did bold Robin please : ^° And there they buried bold Robin Hood, Within the fair Kirkleys. THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN 1. Yt felle abowght the Lamasse tyde. Whan husbondcs Wynnes ther haye. The dowghtye Dowglasse bowynd hym to ryde, In Ynglond to take a praye. 2. The yerlle of Fyffe, wythowghten stryffe. He bowynd hym over Sulway ; 6 The grete wolde ever to-gethcr ryde; That raysse they may rewe for aye. 3. Over Hoppertope hyll they cam in, And so down by Rodclyffe crage ; 'o Upon Grene Lynton they lighted dowyn, Styrande many a stage. 4. And boldely brente Northomberlond, And haryed many a towyn ; They dyd owr Ynglyssh men grete w range, '5 To battell that were not bowyn. 5. Then spake a berne upon the bent. Of comforte tliat was not colde, And sayd, ' We have brente Northom- berlond, We have all welth in holde. -° 6. ' Now we have haryed all Bamborowc schyre, All the welth in the worlde have wee ; I rede we ryde to Newe Castell, So styll and stalworthlye.' 7. Upon the morowc, when it was day, 25 The standerds schone fulle bryght ; To the Newe Castell tliey toke the waye. And thethcr they cam full ryght. THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN 43 8. Syr Henry Perssy laye at the New Castell, I tell yow wythowtten drede ; 3° He had byn a march-man all hys dayes, And kepte Barwyke upon Twede. g. To the Newe Castell wlien they cam, The Skottes they cryde on hyght, ' Syr Hary Perssy, and thow byste within, 35 Com to the fylde, and fyght. 10. ' For we have brente Northomberlonde, Thy erytage good and ryght, And syne my logeyng I have take, Wyth my brande dubbyd many a knyght.' 40 11. Syr Harry Perssy cam to the walles, The Skottyssch oste for to se, And sayd, ' And thow hast brente North- omberlond, Full sore it rewyth me. 12. 'Yf thou hast haryed all Bamborowe schyre, 4S Thow hast done me grete envye ; For the trespasse thow hast me done, The tone of us schall dye.' 13. 'Where schall I byde the?' sayd the Dowglas, ' Or where wylte thow com to me ? ' so ' At Otterborne, in the hygh way, Ther mast thow well logeed be. 14. ' The roo full rekeles ther sche rinnes, To make the game and glee; The fawken and the fesaunt both, ss 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 Dow- glas, ' 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, 65 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 ; 7o 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 75 To chose ther geldynges gresse. 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 tlie daye. 80 21. Fie pryckcd to hys pavyleon-dore. As faste as he myghl ronne ; ' Awaken, Dowglas,' cryed the knyght, ' For hys love that syttes in trone. 22. ' Awaken, Dowglas,' cryed the knyght, 85 ' For thow maste waken wyth wynnc ; Yender have I spyed tlie prowde Perssye, And seven stondardes wyth hym.' 23. ' Nay by my trowth,' the Dowglas sayed, ' It ys but a fayned taylle ; 9o He durst not loke on my brede banner For all Ynglonde so haylle. 24. ' Was I not ycsterdaye at the Newe Castell, That stondes so fayre on Tyne? For all the men the Perssy had, 95 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. 1°° 26. ' The yerle of IMentaye, 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, '05 On the other hand he schall be ; Lord Jhonstoune and Lorde Maxwell, They to schall be wyth me. 28. ' Swynton, fayre fylde upon your pryde ! To batell make yow bowen ^'o Syr Davy Skotte. Syr Water Stewarde, Syr Jhon of Agurstone ! ' 44 ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS 29. The Perssy cam byfore hys ostc, Wycli was ever a gentyll knyght ; Upon the Uowglas lowde can he crye, "5 ' I wyll liolde tliat I have hyght. 30. ' For tliou haste brente Northomljer- londe, And done me grete envye ; For thys trespasse thou hast me done, The tone of us schall dye.' '-° 31. The Dowglas answer de hym agayne, VVyth 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 awayc. 33. Every man sawe that he dyd soo, That ryall was ever in rowght; uo 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 '35 Dyd helpe hym well that daye. 35. But nyne thowzand, ther v^^as no moo, The cronykle wyll not layne ; Forty thowsande of Skottes and fowre That day fowght them agayne. ho 36. But when the batell byganne to joyne. In hast ther cam a knyght; The letters fayre furth hath he tayne. And thus he sayd full ryght: 2,"]. ' My lorde your father he gretes yow well, 145 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 hym 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 Harye Perssy, 'That dyed for yow and me, Wende to my lorde my father agayne, '55 And saye thow sawe me not with yee. 40. ' My 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. '6° 41. ' And if that I weynde of thys growende. For soth, onfowghten awaye, He wolde me call but a kowarde knyglit In hys londe another daye. 42. ' Yet had I lever to be rynde and rente, By Mary, that mykkel maye, '66 Then ever my manhood schulde be re- provyd Wyth a Skotte another daye. 4.3. ' Wherefore schote, archars, for my sake. And let scharpe arowcs 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 '75 Thys day wyll 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 starres thre. 'So 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. Upon Sent Androwe lowde can they crye, And thrysse they schowte on hyght, '86 And syne merked them one owr Yng- lysshe men. As I have tolde yow ryght. 48. Sent George the bryght, owr Ladyes knyglit, To name they were full fayne; 190 Owr Ynglyssh men they cryde on hyght, And thrysse the schowtte agayne. 49. Wyth that scharpe arowes bygan to flee, I tell yow in sertayne; Men of armes byganne to joyne, '95 Many a dowghty man was ther slayne. 50. The Perssy and the Dowglas mette. That ether of other was fayne ; They swapped togetlier wliyll that the swette, Wyth swordes of fyne collayne : 200 CAPTAIN CAR OR EDOM O GORDON 45 51. Tyll the bloode from ther bassonnettes ramie, 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, 205 Thow arte sum man of myght ; And so I do by thy burnysshcd brande ; Thow arte an yerle, or elles a knyght.' 53. ' By my good faythe,' sayd the noble Perssye, 'Now haste thow rede full ryght ; 2'° 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 thee bectte, ~^s 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 felle to the growynde. ~~° 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 styll on eke a syde, Wyth many a grevous grone ; ^^6 Ther they fowght the day, and all the nyght. And many a dowghty man was slayne. 58. Ther was no freke that ther wolde flye, But styffely in stowre can stond, 230 Ychone hewyng on other whyll they myght drye, Wyth many a baylleful 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. 236 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 save, 246 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, 255 That the Ferssys standerd bore. 65. Ther was slayne upon the Ynglyssh perte, For soth as I yow saye. Of nyne thowsand Ynglyssh men Fvye hondert cam awaye. 260 66. The other were slayne in the fylde ; Cryste kepe ther sowlles from wo ! Seyng ther was so fewe fryndes Agaynst so many a foo. 67. Then on the morne they mayde them beerys 265 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 ; 270 Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyflfe, And the Perssy was lede awaye. 69. Then was ther a Scottysh prisoner tayne, Syr Hewe Mongomery was hys name ; For soth as I yow saye, 2-5 He borowed the Perssy home agayne. 70. Now let us all for the Perssy praye To Jhesu most of myght. To bryng hys sowlle to the blysse of heven. For he was a gentyll knyght. 280 CAPTAIN CAR OR EDOM O GORDON I. It befell at Martynmas, When wether waxed colde, Captaine Care said to his men, ' We must go take a holde.' 46 ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS Syck, sikc, and to-towc sikc, s And sike and like to die ; The sikcst niglite that ever I abode, God Lord have mercy on me ! 2. ' Haille, master, and wether you will. And wether ye like it best ; ' lo ' To the castle of Crecrynbroghe, And there we will take our reste.' 3. ' I knowe whcr is a gay castle, Is builded of lyme and stone; Within their is a gay ladie, 'S 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, ^s 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, 3° Or Captaine Care and all his men Were lighte aboute the place. 8. ' Gyve over thi howsse, thou lady gay. And I will make the a bande ; 34 To-nighte thou shall ly within my 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 will not geve over my hous,' she saithe, * Not for feare of my lyfife ; It shalbe talked throughout the land. The slaughter of a wyfife. 11. 'Fetch me my pestilett, 45 And charge me my gonne. That I may shott at this bloddy butcher, The lord of Easter-towne.' 12. Styfly upon her wall she stode. And lett the pellettes flee; 50 But then she myst the blody bucher, And she slew other three. 13. ' I will not geve over my hous,' she saithe, ' Netheir for lord nor lownc ; Nor yet for traitour Captaine Care, ss The lord of Easter-towne. 14. ' I desire of Captaine Care, And all his bloodye 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; 65 Wyth sped, before the rest, He cut his tonge out of his head. His hart out of his brest. 17. He lapt them in a handkerchef. And knet it of knotes three, 70 And cast them over the castell-wall. At that gay ladye. 18. 'Eye upon the, Captayne Care, And all thy bloddy band! For thou hast slayne my eldest sonne, 75 The ayre of all my land.' 19. Then bespake the yongest sonne, That sat on the nurses knee, Sayth, ' Mother gay, geve over your house; It smoldereth me.' So 20. ' I wold geve my gold,' she saith, ' And so I wolde my ffee. For a blaste of the westryn wind. To dryve the smoke from thee. 21. ' Fy upon the, John Hamleton, 85 That ever I paid the hyre ! For thou hast broken my castle-wall. And kyndled in the fifyre.' 22. The lady gate to her close parler. The fire fell aboute her head ; 9° She toke up her children thre, Seth, ' Babes, we are all dead.' 22,. Then bespake the hye steward. That is of hye degree; Saith, ' Ladie gay, you are in close, 95 Wether ye fighte or flee.' KEMP OWYNE 47 24. Lord Hamleton dremd in his dream, In Carvall where he laye, His halle were all of fyre, His ladie slayne or daye, '°o 25. * Busk and bowne, my mery men all, Even and go ye with me ; For I dremd that my haal was on fyre, My lady slayne or day.' 26. He buskt him and bownd hym, >o5 And like a worthi knighte; And when he saw his hall burning. His harte was no dele lighte. 27. He sett a trumpett till his mouth. He blew as it plesd his grace; no Twenty score of Hamlentons Was light aboute the place. 28. 'Had I knowne as much yesternighte As I do to-daye, Captaine Care and all his men "S Should not have gone so quite. 29. * Fye upon the, Captaine Care, And all thy blody bande ! Thou haste slayne my lady gay, More wurth then all thy lande. 120 30. * If thou had ought eny ill w ill,' he saith, ' Thou shoulde have taken my lyffe, And have saved my children thre. All and my lovesome wyffe.' THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL 1. There lived a wife at Usher's Well, And a wealthy wife was she; She had three stout and stalwart sons, And sent them oer the sea. 2. They hadna been a week from her, 5 A week but barely ane, Whan word came to the carline wife That her three sons were gane. 3. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely three, ^° Whan word came to the carlin wife That her sons she 'd never see. 4. 'I wish the wind may never cease, Nor fashes in the flood, Till my three sons come hame to me, '5 In earthly flesh and blood.' It fell about the Martinmass, When nights are lang and mirk, The carlin wife's three sons came hame, And their hats were o the birk. 20 It neither grew in syke nor dvcn, Nor yet in ony sheugh ; But at the gates o Paradise, That birk grew fair eneu^. 7, ' Blow up the fire, my maidens, 25 Bring water from the well ; For a' my house shall feast thi« night. Since my three sons are well.' 8. And she has made to them a bed, She's made it large and wide, 30 And she 's taen her mantle her about. Sat down at the bed-side. 9. Up then crew the red, red cock, And up and crew the gray ; The eldest to the youngest saicf. 35 ' 'T is time we were away.' 10. The cock he hadna crawd but once. And clappd his wings at al. When the youngest to the eldest said, ' Brother, we must awa. 40 11. 'The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin worm doth chide; Gin we be mist out o our place, A sair pain we maun bide. 12. ' Faer ye weel, my mother dear! 45 Fareweel to barn and byre ! And fare ye weel, the bonny lass That kindles my mother's fire ! ' KEMP OWYNE 1. Her mother died when she was young. Which gave her cause to make great moan ; Her father married the warst woman That ever lived in Christendom. 2. She served her with foot and hand, 5 In every thing that she could dee. Till once, in an unlucky time. She threw her in ower Craigy's sea. 3. Says, ' Lie you there, dove Isabel, And all my sorrows lie with thee; 48 ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS Till Kemp Owyne come ower the sea, And borrow you with kisses three Let all the warld do what they will, Oh borrowed shall yon never be ! ' 4. Her breath grew Strang, her hair grew lang, • '5 And twisted thrice about the tree. And all the people, far and near, Thought that a savage beast was she. 5. These news did come to Kemp Owyne, Where he lived, far beyond the sea ; 20 He hasted him to Craigy's sea, And on the savage beast lookd he. 6. Her breath was Strang, her hair was lang. And twisted was about the tree. And with a swing she came about: ^s ' Come to Craigy's sea, and kiss with me. 7. 'Here is a royal belt,' she cried, ' That I have found in the green sea ; And while your body it is on, Drawn shall your blood never be ; 30 But if you touch me, tail or fin, I vow my belt your death shall be.' 8. He stepped in, gave her a kiss. The royal belt he brought him wi ; Her breath was Strang, her hair was lang, 35 And twisted twice about the tree, And with a swing she came about : ' Come to Craigy's sea, and kiss with me. 9. 'Here is a royal ring,' she said, ' That I have found in the green sea ; 40 And while your finger it is on. Drawn shall your blood never be ; But if you touch me, tail or fin, I swear my ring your death shall be.' 10. He stepped in, gave her a kiss, 45 The royal ring he brought him wi ; Her breath was Strang, her hair was lang. And twisted ance about the tree. And with a swing she came about : 'Come to Craigy's sea, and kiss with me. 50 11. 'Here is a royal brand,' she said, ' That I have found in the green sea ; And while your body it is on, Drawn shall your blood never be; But if you touch me, tail or fin, 55 I swear my brand your death shall be.' 12. He stepped in, gave her a kiss, Tlie royal brand he brought him wi ; Iler brcatli was sweet, her hair grew short, And twisted nane about the tree, 60 And smilingly she came about, As fair a woman as fair could be. THE D^AION LOVER 1. ' O where have you been, my long, long love, This long seven years and mair?' ' O I 'm come to seek my former vows Ye granted me before.' 2. ' O hold your tongue of your former vows, 5 For they will breed sad strife ; hold your tongue of your former vows, F"or I am become a wife.' 3. He turned him right and round about. And the tear blinded his ce : 'o 'I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground. If it had not been for thee. 4. ' I might hae had a king's daughter. Far, far beyond the sea ; 1 might have had a king's daughter, '5 Had it not been for love o thee.' 5. ' If ye might have had a king's daughter, Yerscl ye had to blame ; Ye might have had taken the king's daughter, For ye kend that I was nane. 20 6. ' If I was to leave my husband dear. And my two babes also, O what have you to take me to, If with you I should gOi 7. ' I hae seven ships upon the sea — 25 The eighth brought me to land — With four-and-twenty bold mariners. And music on every hand.' 8. She has taken up her two little babes, Kissd them baith check and cliin : 3° ' O fair ye weel, my ain two babes, For I '11 never see you again.' SIR PATRICK SPENS 49 9. She set her foot upon the ship, No mariners could she behold ; But the sails were o the taffetie, 35 And the masts o the beaten gold. 10. She had not sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When dismal grew his countenance, 4° And drumlie grew his ee. 11. They had not saild a league, a league, A league but barely three. Until she espied his cloven foot. And she wept right bitterlie. 45 12. 'O hold your tongue of your weeping,' says he, ' Of your weeping now let me be ; I will shew you how the lilies grow On the banks of Italy.' 13. ' O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills. That the sun shines sweetly on?' 51 ' O yon are the hills of heaven,' he said, ' Where you will never win.' 14. ' O whaten a mountain is yon,' she said, ' All so dreary wi frost and snow ? ' 55 ' O yon is the mountain of hell,' he cried, ' Where you and I will go.' 15. He strack the tap-mast wi his hand, The fore-mast wi his knee, And he brake that gallant ship in twain. And sank her in the sea. Ci LORD RANDAL ' 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. Fir I 'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down.' ' Where gat ye your dinner. Lord Randal, my son ? 5 Where gat ye your dinner, my hand- some young man ? ' * I dined wi my 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 Ran- dal, my son ? What gat ye to your dinner, my hand- some young man? ' 'o ' I gat eels boiled in broo ; mother make my bed soon, For I 'm weary wi hunting, 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 swelld and they died ; mother, make my bed soon, 'S For I 'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down.' 5. ' O I fear ye are poisond. Lord Randal, my son I O I fear ye are poisond, my handsome young man ! ' ' O yes ! I am poisond ; mother, make my bed soon. For I 'm sick at the heart and I fain wald lie down.' 20 N^ SIR PATRICK SPENS 1. The king sits in Dumferling toune, Drinking the blude-reid wine: * O whar w ill I get guid sailor, To sail this schip of mine?' 2. Up and spak an eldern knicht, 5 Sat at the kings richt kne: * Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor, That sails upon the se.' 3. The king has written a braid letter. And signd it wi his hand, 10 And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand. 4. The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud lauch lauched he; The next line that Sir Patrick red, i5 The teir blinded his ee. 5. * 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 6. * Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne:' 50 ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS ' O say na sae, my master deir, For I fcir a deadlie storme. 7. ' Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone, ^5 Wi the auld moone in hir arnic. And I fcir, I feir, my deir master, That we will cum to harme.' 8. O our Scots nobles wer richt laith To weet their cork-heild schoone ; 3° Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, Thair hats they swam aboone. 9. O lang, lang may their ladies sit, Wi thair fans into their hand. Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence 35 Cum sailing to the land. 10. O lang, lang may the ladies stand, Wi thair gold kems in their hair, Waiting for thar ain deir lords, For they '11 se thame na mair. 40 11. Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdonr, It 's fiftie fadom deip, And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, Wi the Scots lords at his feit. THOMAS RYMER 1. True Thomas lay oer yond grassy hank, And he beheld a ladle gay, A ladie that was brisk and bold. Come riding oer the fernie brae. 2. Her skirt was of the grass-green silk, 5 Her mantel of the velvet fine. At ilka tett of her horse's mane Hung fifty silver bells and nine. 3. True Thomas he took off his hat And bowed him low down till his knee: 'o ' All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven ! For your peer on earth I never did see.' 4. ' O no, O no, True Thomas,' she says, ' That name does not belong to me ; I am but the queen of fair Elfland, '5 And I 'm come here for to visit thee. 5. ' But ye maun go wi me now, Thomas, True Thomas, ye maun go wi mc, For ye maun serve me seven years, '9 Thro weel or wae as may chance to be.' 6. She turned about her milk-white steed, And took True Thomas uj) Ijcliind, And aye whencer her bridle rang, The steed flew swifter than the wind. 7. For forty days and forty nights 25 Me wade thro red blude to the knee. And he saw neither sun nor moon, P.ut heard the roaring of the sea. 8. O they rade on and further on, I'ntil they came to a garden green: 3° ' Light down, light down, ye ladie free, Some of that fruit let me pull to thee.' 9. ' O no, O no, True Thomas,' she says, ' That fruit maun not be touched by thee, For a' the plagues that are in hell 35 Light on the fruit of this countrie. 10. ' But I have a loaf here in my lap. Likewise a bottle of claret wine, And here ere we go farther on. We '11 rest a while, and ye may dine.' 4° ]i. When he had eaten and drunk his fill, ' Lay down your head upon my knee,' The lady sayd, ' ere we climb yon hill, And I will show you fairlies three. 12. 'O see ye not yon narrow road, 45 So thick beset wi thorns and briers? That is the path of righteousness, Tho after it but few enquires. . 13. 'And see not ye that braid braid road. That lies across yon lillie leven? so That is the path of wickedness, Tho some call it the road to heaven. 14. ' And see ye not that bonny road, Which winds about the fernie brae? That is the road to fair Elfland, ss Where you and I this night maun gae. 15. ' But Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, Whatever ye may hear or see, For gin ae word you should chance to speak, You will neer get back to your ain countrie.' ^o 16. He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, And a pair of shoes of velvet green. And till seven years were past and gone True Thomas on earth was never seen. THE TWA SISTERS 51 BONNY BARBARA ALLAN 1. It was in and about the Martinmas time, When the green leaves were a falling, That Sir John Gr?eme, in the West Country, Fell in love with Barbara Allan. 2. He sent his man down through the town, To the place where she was dwelling : 6 ' O haste and come to my master dear. Gin ye be Barbara Allan.' 3. O hooly, hooly rose she up. To the place where he was lying, '" And when she drew the curtain by, ' Young man, I think you 're dying.' 4. ' O it 's I 'm sick, and very, very sick, And 't is a' for Barbara Allan : ' *0 the better for me ye 's never be, iS Tho your heart's blood were a spilling. 5. ' O dinna ye mind, young man,' said she, 'When ye was in the tavern a drink- ing, That ye made the healths gae round and round, And slighted Barbara Allan?' -o 6. He turnd his face unto the wall. And death was with him dealing: 'Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all. And be kind to Barbara Allan.' 7. And slowly, slowly raise she up, ^5 And slowly, slowly left him, And sighing said, she could not stay. Since death of life had reft him. 8. She had not gane a mile but twa, 29 When she heard the dead-bell ringing, And every jow that the dead-bell geid. It cryd, Woe to Barbara Allan! 9. ' O mother, mother, make my bed ! make it saft and narrow ! Since my love died for me to-day, 35 1 '11 die for him to-morrow.' THE TWA SISTERS I. There was twa sisters in a bowr, Edinburgh, Edinburgh There was twa sisters in a bowr, Stirling for ay There was twa sisters in a bowr. There came a knight to be their wooer, Bonny Saint Johnston stands upon Tay. 2. He courted the eldest wi glove an ring. But he lovd the youngest above a' thing. 3. He courted the eldest wi brotch an knife, But lovd the youngest as his life. n 4. The eldest she was vexed sair, And much envied her sister fair. 5. Into her bowr she could not rest, Wi grief an spite she almos brast. is 6. Upon a morning fair an clear. She cried upon her sister dear : 7. ' O sister, come to yon sea stran. An see our father's ships come to Ian.' 8. She 's taen her by the milk-white han, 20 An led her down to yon sea stran. 9. The youngest stood upon a stane. The eldest came an threw her in. 10. She tooke her by the middle sma. And dashd her bonny back to the jaw. ^s 11. 'O sister, sister, tak my han. An Ise mack you heir to a' my Ian. 12. 'O sister, sister, tak my middle, An yes get my goud and my gouden girdle. 13. ' O sister, sister, save my life, 30 An I swear Ise never be nae man's wife.' 14. ' Foul fa the han that I should tacke, It twind me an my wardles make. 15. ' Your cherry cheeks an yallovv hair Gars me gae maiden for evermair.' 35 16. Sometimes she sank, an sometimes she swam. Till she came down yon bonny mill-dam. 17. O out it came the miller's son. An saw the fair maid swimmin in. 18. ' O father, father, draw your dam. 40 Here's either a mermaid or a swan.' 19. The miller quickly drew the dam. An there he found a drownd woman. 52 ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS 20. You coiidna see her yallow hair For gold and pearle that were so rare. 45 21. You coudna sec her middle sma For gouden girdle that was sae braw. 2_'. You coudna sec her fingers white, For gouden rings tliat was sae grytc. 23. An by there came a harper fine, so That harped to the king at dine. 24. When he did look that lady upon, He sighd and made a heavy moan. 25. He 's taen three locks o her yallow hair. And wi them strung his harp sae fair, ss 26. The first tune he did play and sing, Was, ' Farewell to my father the king.' 27. The nextin tune that he playd syne. Was, * Farewell to my mother the queen.' 28. The lasten tune that he playd then, 60 Was, 'Wae to my sister, fair Ellen.' THE CRUEL BROTHER There was three ladies playd at the ba, With a hey ho and a lillie gay There came a knight and played oer them a'. As the primrose spreads so sweetly. The eldest was baith tall and fair, 5 But the youngest was beyond compare. The midmost had a graceful mien, But the youngest lookd like beautic's queen. The knight bowd low to a' the three. But to the youngest he bent his knee. 10 The ladie turned her head aside. The knight he wooed her to be his bride. The ladie blushd a rosy red, And sayd, ' Sir knight, I 'm too young to wed.' 'O ladie fair, give me your hand, '5 And I '11 make you ladie of a' my land.' , ' Sir knight, ere ye my favor win, You maun get consent frae a' my kin.' 9. He 's got consent frae her parents dear, And likewise frae her sisters fair. 20 10. He 's got consent frae her kin each one, But forgot to spick to her lirutlicr John. 11. Now, wlicii the wedding day was come. The knight would take his bonny bride home. 12. And many a lord and many a kniglit -5 Came to behold that ladie bright. 13. And tliere was nae man that did her see But wishd himself bridegroom to be. 14. Her father dear led her down the stair, And her sisters twain they kissd her there. 30 15. Her mother dear led her thro the closs, And licr brother John set her on her horse. 16. She leand her oer the saddle-bow, To give him a kiss ere she did go. 17. He has taen a knife, baith lang and sharp, 35 And stabbed that bonny bride to the heart. 18. She hadno ridden half thro the town. Until her heart's blude staind her gown. 19. ' Ride softly on,' says the best young man, ' For I think our bonny bride looks pale and wan.' 40 20. ' O lead me gently up yon hill, And I '11 there sit down, and make my will' 21. ' O what will you leave to your father dear? ' ' The silver-shode steed that brought me here.' 22. ' What will you leave to your mother dear ? ' 45 ' My velvet pall and my silken gear.' 23. 'What will you leave to your sister Anne? ' ' My silken scarf and my gowdcn fan.' EDWARD 53 24. ' What will you leave to your sister Grace ? ' ' My bloody deaths to wash and dress.' so 25. 'What will you leave to your brother John ? ' ' The gallows-tree to hang him on.' 26. ' What will you leave to your brother John's wife ? ' ' The wilderness to end her life.' 27. This ladie fair in her grave was laid, S5 And many a mass was oer her said. 28. But it would have made your heart right sair, To see the bridegroom rive his haire. EDWARD ' Why dois your brand sae drap wi bluid, Edward, Edward, Why dois your brand sae drap wi bluid, And why sae sad gang yee O ? ' * O I hae killed my hauke sae guid, 5 Mither, mither, O I hae killed my hauke sae guid. And I had nae mair bot hce O.' ' Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, Edward, Edward, 'o Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, My deir son I tell thee O.' ' O I hae killed my reid-roan steid, Mither, mither, O I hae killed my reid-roan steid, '5 That erst was sae fair and frie O.' ' Your steid was auld, and ye hae got mair, Edward, Edward, Your steid was auld, and ye hae got mair, Sum other dule ye drie O.' -° ' O I hae killed my fadir deir, Mither, mither, O 1 hae killed my fadir deir, Alas, and wae is niee O ! ' 4. * And whatten penance wul ye drie for that, 25 Edward, Edward, And whatten penance will ye drie for that ? My deir son, now tell me O.' ' He set my feit in yonder boat, Mither, mither, 3° lie set my feit in yonder boat. And He fare ovir the sea O.' 5. ' And what wul ye doe wi your towirs and your ha, Edward, Edward? And what wul you doe wi your towirs and your ha, 35 That were sae fair to see O ? ' * He let thame stand tul they doun fa, Mither, mither. He let thame stand tul ihey down fa, For here nevir mair maun I bee O.' 4° 6. ' And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what wul ye leive to your bairns and j'our wife. Whan ye gang ovir the sea O ? ' * The warldis room, late them beg thrae life, 45 Mither, mither, The warldis room, late them beg thrae life. For thame nevir mair w'ul I see O.' 7. ' And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir, Edward, Edward ? so And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir? My deir son, now tell me O.' ' The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir, IMither, mither. The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir, 55 Sic counseils ye gave to me O.' SIR THOMAS WYATT (1503?-! 542) Wyatt was preeminently a courtier. Well cduoated at Cambridge, and, possibly, also at Oxford, he began his career at court in several oflices connected with the jierson of the king, from which he advanced speedily to diplomatic services, during the period 1520-1540, in France, Italy, Spain, and Flanders. In^JLSSG^ Wyatt -was knighted, and in 1542, he represented Kent in parliaTiient. A vigorous tradition peT-sists that Wyatt was attached to the English court not only through his official appointments, but also, indirectly, as the youthful lover of Anne Boleyn. Well-read in Italian, French, and classical literature, Wyatt deliberately formed his style by imitating Italian and French models. He is conspicuous in the history of English literature chiefly from tlie fact that he introduced into English the sonnet form, with its refining^ in- fluence upon English meter and diction. Several of Wyatt's sonnets are direct translations from Petrarch, upon whom, throughout, he drew largely for his rime-scheme, his vocabulary, and his conventional ideas. Besides sonnets, Wyatt wrote other lyrics, epigrams, satires, and devotional verse. In his lyrics other than sonnets, is found his finest work. A collection of Wyatt's poems was printed in Songs and Sonnets written by the right honorable Lord Henry Hotvard, late Earl of Surrey, and others, published by Richard Tottel in 1557, and commonly known as TotteVs Miscellany. THE LOVER FOR SHAME-FASTNESS HIDETH HIS DESIRE WITHIN HIS FAITHFUL HEART The long love that in my thought I harbor, And in my heart doth keep his residence, Into my face presseth with bold pretence, And there campeth displaying his banner. She that me learns to love and to suffer, s And wills that my trust, and lust's negli- gence Be reined by reason, shame, and reverence, With his hardiness takes displeasure. Wherewith love to the heart's forest he fleeth. Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry, lo And there him hideth, and not appeareth. What may I do, when my master feareth? But in the field with him to live and die? For good is the life, ending faithfully. THE LOVER COMPARETH HIS STATE TO A SHIP IN PERILOUS STORM TOSSED ON THE SEA My galley charged with forgetfulness Thorough sharp seas, in winter nights doth pass, 'Tween rock and rock ; and eke my foe, alas. That is my lord, steereth with cruelness. And every hour, a thought in readiness, S As though that death were light in such a case. An endless wind doth tear the sail apace Of forced sighs, and trusty fearfulness. A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain Hath done the wearied cords great hinder- ance, '" Wreathed with error, and with ignorance. The stars be hid that led me to this pain ; Drowned is reason that should be my com- fort. And I remain, despairing of the port. THE LOVER HAVING DREAMED OF ENJOYING OF HIS LOVE, COM- PLAINETH THAT THE DREAM IS NOT EITHER LONGER OR TRUER Unstable dream, according to the place. Be steadfast once, or else at least be true. By tasted sweetness make me not to rue The sudden loss of thy false feigned grace. By good respect in such a dangerous case 5 Thou broughtst not her into these tossing seas, But madest my spirit to live, my care t'en- crease. My body in tempest her delight t'embrace. The body dead, the spirit had his desire; 54 THE LOVER COMPLAINETH 55 Painless was th' one, the other in delight. lo Why then, alas! did it not keep it right, But thus return to leap into the fire. And where it was at wish, could not remain? Such mocks of dreams do turn to deadly- pain ! A RENOUNCING OF LOVE Farewell, Love, and all thy laws for ever ! Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more : Senec and Plato call me from thy lore To perfect wealth my wit for to endeavor. In blind error when I did persever, 5 Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh aye so sore, Taught me in trifles that I set no store ; But 'scape forth thence, since liberty is lever. Therefore, farewell ! go trouble younger hearts. And in me claim no more authority. 1° With idle youth go use thy property. And thereon spend thy many brittle darts ; For hitherto though I have lost my time. Me list no longer rotten boughs to climb. THE LOVER BESEECHETH HIS MIS- TRESS NOT TO FORGET HIS STEADFAST FAITH AND TRUE IN- TENT Forget not yet the tried intent Of such a truth as I have meant ; My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet ! Forget not yet when first began 5 The weary life ye know, since whan The suit, the service none tell can; Forget not yet ! Forget not yet the great assays. The cruel wrong, the scornful ways, lo The painful patience in delays, Forget not yet ! Forget not ! O, forget not this. How long ago hath been, and is. The mind that never meant amiss — 'S Forget not yet ! Forget not then thine own approved, The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved: Forget not this ! 20 AN EARNEST SUIT TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS NOT TO FORSAKE HIM And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay, say nay, for shame! To save thee from the blame Of all my grief and grame. And wilt thou leave me thus? 5 Say nay! say nay! And wilt thou leave me thus, That hath loved thee so long In wealth and woe among : And is thy heart so strong 10 As for to leave me thus? Say nay ! say nay ! And wilt thou leave me thus, That hath given thee my heart Never for to depart is Neither for pain nor smart : And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! And wilt thou leave me thus, And have no more pity 20 Of him that loveth thee? Alas, thy cruelty! And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! THE LOVER COMPLAINETH THE UN- KINDNESS OF HIS LOVE My lute, awake, perform the last Labor 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. S As to be heard where ear is none, As lead to grave in marble stone, My song may pierce her heart as soon. Should we 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. iS 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 56 SIR THOMAS WYATT Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain That makest but game on earnest pain. Think not alone under the sun llncjuit to cause thy lovers playn, Although my lute and I have done. -S May chance thcc lie withered and old In winter nights that arc so cold, Playning in vain unto the moon ; Thy wishes then dare not be told. Care then who list, for I have done. 3° And then may cliance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon ; Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want, as I have done. 3 5 Now cease, my lute, this is the last Labor that thou and I shall waste, And ended is that we begun. Now is the song both sung and past, My lute, be still, for I have done. 4° OF THE MEAN AND SURE ESTATE WRITTEN TO JOHN POINS My mother's maids, when they did sew and spin. They sung sometime a song of the field mouse That, for because her livelihood was but thin. Would needs go seek her townish sister's house. She thought herself endured too much pain ; s The stormy blasts her cave so sore did souse That when the furrows swimmed with 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 barley corn; sometime a bean, For which she labored hard both day and night In harvest time whilst she might go and glean ; And when her store was stroyed with the flood, Then welaway ! for she undone was clean. i5 Then was she fain to take, instead of food, Sleep, if she might, her hunger to beguile. ' My sister,' quoth she, ' hath a living good, And hence from me she dwclleth not a mile. In cold and storm she licth warm and dry 20 In bed of down, the dirt doth not defile Her tender foot, she laboreth not as I. Richly she fccdcth, and at the rich man's cost. And for her meat she needs not crave nor cry. By sea, by land, of the delicatcs, the most 25 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 till that her belly swell.' 30 And at this journey she maketh but a jape; 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. 35 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 appear, 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 speak- est thou so loud ? ' And by the hand she took her fair and well. ' Welcome,' quoth she, ' my sister, by the Rood ! ' 45 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 ' How, sister, what cheer ! ' Amid this joy befell a sorry chance, so That, welaway! the stranger bought full dear The fare she had, for, as she looked askance. Under a stool she spied two steaming eyes In a round head with sharp ears. In France Was never mouse so feared, for, though un- wise 55 Had not y-secn such a beast before. Yet had nature taught her after her guise To know her foe and dread him evermore. The towny mouse fled, she knew whither to go; Th' other had no shift, but wonders sore 60 Feared of her life. At home she wished her tho. And to the door, alas! as she did skip, OF THE MEAN AND SURE ESTATE 57 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, 65 The traitor cat had caught her by the hip, And made her there against her will remain, That had forgot her poor surety and rest For seeming wealth wherein she thought to reign. Alas, my Poins, how men do seek the best 7° And find the worst by error as they stray! And no marvel ; when sight is so opprest. And blinds the guide, anon out of the way Goeth guide and all in seeking quiet life. O wretched minds, there is no gold that may Grant that you seek ; no war, no peace, no strife. 76 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 dis- ease. 80 Live in delight even as thy lust would. And thou shalt find, when lust doth most thee please, It irketh straight, and by itself doth fade. A small thing is it that may thy mind ap- pease. None of ye all there is that is so mad §5 To seek for grapes on brambles or on 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 de- sire 9° Ye do mis-seek with more travail and care. Make plain thine heart, that it be not knotted With hope or dread, and see thy will be bare From all effects whom vice hath ever spotted. Thyself content with that is thee assigned, 95 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 sticking in thy mind. Mad, if ye list to continue your sore, 100 Let present pass and gape on time to come, And deep yourself in travail more and more. Henceforth, my Poins, this shall be all and some. These wretched fools shall have naught else of me; But to the great God and to his high dome, None other pain pray I for them to be, 106 But, when the rage doth lead them from the right. That, looking backward, virtue they may see. Even as she is so goodly fair and bright. And whilst they clasp their lusts in arms across, "° Grant them, good Lord, as thou mayst of thy might, To fret inward for losing such a loss. HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY (i5i7?-i547) Ilcnry Howard, or, as he is couunonly called, Surrey, was, like Wyatt, actively connected with the English coiirt. His courtly occupations, however, were not so much administrative and diplomatic as military and chivalric. From his early years up to manhood, Surrey was the companion of princes, and more than once his elders bargained for liis marriage with a princess. As a boy of some fifteen years, Surrey accompanied the king to France, and remained eleven months at the French court. At the age of twenty, by striking a courtier who had accused him of seditious intentions, he landed himself in confinement for a few months at Windsor. These months Surrey spent in versifying, a diversion for which he had been well prepared by previous practice -and by considerable reading in classical and contemporary litera- ture. After having distinguished himself from time to time in jousts, he was made knight of the garter in 1541. Surrey's impulsive and adventurous spirit, which established him as ' the most foolish proud boy that is in England,' led him to eminent military service in France, during which he called forth the king's reprimand by exposing himself needlessly to danger. l!y numerous angry and trenchant utterances, he eventually brought upon himself the charge of treason, which he vigorously denied, but which led, ultimately, to his beheading on Tower Hill, January 21, 1547. Although Surrey composed verse during most of his life-time, his poems first appeared in print in 1557. when Richard Tottel published Songs and Sonnets written hi/ the right honorable Lord Henri/ Hoivard, late Earl of Surrey, and others. During the same year appeared Surrey's translation of the second and fourth books of Virgil's ^^neid, a translation in which blank verse is used for the first time, in any notable way, in English. Although Surrey was the poetical disciple of his friend Wyatt, he excelled his master in all points. In particular, this superiority is apparent in range of subject, in refinement and variety of versification, and In delicacy of feeling. 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 mate hath told her tale: Summer is come, for every spray now springs ; 5 The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ; The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; The fishes flete with new repaired scale; The addcF all her slough away she slings ; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ; The busy bee her honey now she mings. n 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 6 With shamefast cloak to shadow and refrain, Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire. The coward Love then to the heart apace Taketh his flight, whereas he lurks and plains, 10 His purpose lost, and dare not show his face. 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 GERALD I NE From Tuscan came my lady's worthy race; Fair Florence was sometime her ancient seat ; The Western isle whose pleasant shore doth face Wild Camber's cliffs did give her lively heat: 58 COMPLAINT 59 Fostered she was with milk of Irish breast; Her sire, an earl; her dame, of princes' blood ; _ 6 From tender years, in Britain she doth rest. With a king's child, where she tasteth costly food; Hunsdon did first present her to mine eyen ; Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight ; Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine; '^ And Windsor, alas, doth chase me from her sight : Her beauty of kind, her virtues from above. Happy is he that can obtain her love ! COMPLAINT OF THE LOVER DIS- DAINED In Cyprus springs, whereas dame Venus dwelt, A well so hot, that whoso tastes the same, Were he of stone, as thawed ice should melt, And kindled find his breast with fired flame ; Whose moist poison dissolved hath my heart. With creeping fire my cold limbs are sup- prest, 6 Feeleth the heart that harbored freedom, smart : Endless despair long tliraldom hath imprest. Another well of frozen ice is found, Whose chilling venom of repugnant kind, 'o The fervent heat doth quench of Cupid's wound, And with the spot of change infects the mind ; Whereof my dear hath tasted, to my pain : Whereby my service grows into disdain. A COMPLAINT BY NIGHT OF THE LOVER NOT BELOVED Alas, so all things now do hold their peace ! Heaven and earth disturbed in nothing; The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease, The nightes chair the stars about doth bring. Calm is the sea; the waves work less and less; 5 So am not I, whom love, alas, doth wring, Bringing before my face the great increase Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing. In joy and woe, as in a doubtful ease. For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring; 'o But by and by, the cause of my disease Gives me a pang, that inwardly doth sting, When that I think what grief it is again, To live and lack the thing should rid my pain. VOW TO LOVE FAITHFULLY HOW- SOEVER HE BE REWARDED Set me whereas the sun doth parch the green. Or where his beams do not dissolve the ice; In temperate heat, where he is felt and seen ; In presence prest of people, mad or wise; Set me in high, or yet in low degree ; s In longest night, or in the longest day; In clearest sky, or where clouds thickest be ; In lusty youth, or when my hairs are gray : Set me in heaven, in earth, or else in hell ; In hill, or dale, or in the foaming flood; >" Thrall, or at large, alive whereso I dwell ; Sick or in health, in evil fame or good ; Hers will I be, and only with this thought Content myself, although my chance be naught. COMPLAINT OF THE ABSENCE OF HER LOVER BEING UPON THE SEA happy dames ! that may embrace The fruit of your delight ; Help to bewail the woeful case. And eke the heavy plight. Of me, that wonted to rejoice s The fortune of my pleasant choice : Good ladies, help to fill my mourning voice. In ship freight with rememberance Of thoughts and pleasures past. He sails that hath in governance 'o My life, while it will last; With scalding sighs, for lack of gale. Furthering his hope, that is his sail. Toward me, the sweet port of his avail. Alas, how oft in dreams I see is Those eyes that were my food ; Which sometime so delighted me. That yet they do me good ; Wherewith I wake with his return. Whose absent flame did make me burn : ^o But when I find the lack. Lord, how I mourn ! When other lovers in arms across, Rejoice their chief delight, Drowned in tears to mourn my loss, 1 stand the bitter night 25 6o HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY In my vviiulcnv, where I may see Before the winds how the clouds flLC : Lo, what a mariner love hath made mt- ! And in green waves when the salt flood Doth rise by rage of wind, 3" A thousand fancies in that mood. Assail my restless mind. Alas, now drenchcth my sweet foe, That with the spoil of my heart did go, And left me; but, alas, why did he so? 35 And when the seas wax calm again. To chase from me annoy. My doubtful hope doth cause me pain ; So dread cuts off my joy. Thus is my wealth mingled with woe, 40 And of each thought a doubt doth grow ; Now he comes! Will he come? Alas, no, no ! A PRAISE OF HIS LOVE WHEREIN HE REPROVETH THEM THAT COM- PARE THEIR LADIES WITH HIS Give place, ye lovers, here before That spent your boasts and brags in vain ; My lady's beauty passeth more The best of yours, I dare well sayn. Than doth the sun the candle light, 5 Or brightest day the darkest night. And thereto hath a troth as just As had Penelope the fair; For what she saith, ye may it trust As it by writing sealed were: '° And virtues hath she many mo Than I with pen have skill to show. I could rehearse, if that I would. The whole effect of Nature's plaint. When she had lost the perfect mold, '5 The like to whom she could not paint : With wringing hands, how she did cry. And what she said, I know it, I. I know she swore with raging mind, Her kingdom only set apart, -o There was no loss by law of kind That could have gone so near her heart. And this was chieily all her pain: She could not make the like again. Sith Nature thus gave her the praise, -'5 To be the chiefest work she wrought; In faith, methink, some better ways On your behalf might well be sought, Than to compare, as ye have done. To match the candle with the sun. 3" DESCRIPTION OF THE RESTLESS STATE OF A LOVER The sun hath twice brought forth his tender green And clad the earth in lively lustiness. Once have the winds the trees despoiled clean, And new again begins their cruelness, Since I have hid under my breast the harm That never shall recover health fulness. 6 The winter's hurt recovers with the warm. The parched green restored is with the shade. What warmth, alas, may serve for to disarm The frozen heart that mine in flame hath made? 'o What cold again is able to restore My fresh green years, that wither thus and fade? Alas, I see, nothing hath hurt so sore, But time in time reduceth a return ; In time my harm increaseth more and more, 15 And seems to have my cure always in scorn. Strange kinds of death, in life that I do try, At hand to melt, far off in flame to burn ; And like as time list to my cure apply. So doth each place my comfort clean re- fuse. 20 All thing alive that seeth the heavens with eye With cloak of night may cover and excuse Itself from travail of the day's unrest. Save I, alas, against all others' use, That then stir up the torments of my breast, 25 And curse each star as causer of my fate. And when the sun hath eke the dark op- prest. And brought the day, it doth nothing abate The travails of mine endless smart and pain; For then, as one that hath the light in hate, 30 I wish for night, more covertly to plain, And me withdraw from every haunted place, Lest by my cheer my chance appear too plain, .^nd in my mind I measure, pace by pace. To seek the place where I myself had lost, That day that I was tangled in the lace, 36 In seeming slack, that knitteth ever most. But never yet the travail of my thought Of better state could catch a cause to boast; VIRGIL'S ^NEID 6i For if I found, sometime that I have sought, Those stars by whom I trusted of the port, 4i My sails do fall, and I advance right naught, As anchored fast, my spirits do all resort To stand agazed, and sink in more and more The deadly harm virhich she doth take in sport. 45 Lo, if I seek, how do I find my sore! And if I flee I carry with me still The venomed shaft, which doth his force restore By haste of flight, and I may plain my fill Unto myself, unless this careful song 5° Print in your heart some parcel of my teen; For I, alas, in silence all too long Of mine old hurt yet feel the wound but green. Rue on my life, or else your cruel wrong 54 Shall well appear, and by my death be seen ! THE MEANS TO ATTAIN 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 egall friend; no grudge, no strife; 5 No charge of rule, no governance ; Without disease, the healthful life; The household of continuance; The mean diet, no delicate fare ; True wisdom joined with simpleness; 'o 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, is Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. OF THE DEATH OF SIR T[HOMAS] W[YATT] Resteth here, that quick could never rest ; Whose heavenly gifts, encreased by disdain. And virtue sank the deeper in his breast ; Such profit he by envy could obtain. 4 A head where wisdom mysteries did frame ; Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain As on a stithe where that some work of fame Was daily wrought to turn to Britain's gain. A visage stern and mild, where both did grow, Vice to condemn, in virtue to rejoice; 'o Amid great storms, whom grace assured so To live upright and smile at fortune's choice. A hand that taught what might be said in rime; That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit: u A mark, the which (unperfected, for time) Some may approach, but never none shall hit. A tongue that served in foreign realms his king ; Whose courteous talk to virtue did enflame Each noble heart ; a worthy guide to bring Our English youth by travail unto fame, ^n An eye whose judgment none affect could blind, Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile ; Whose piercing look did represent a mind With virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile. A heart where dread was never so imprest. To hide the thought that might the truth ad- vance ; In neither fortune lost, nor yet represt, 27 To swell in wealth, or yield unto mischance. A valiant corse, where force and beauty met ; Happy, alas, too happy, but for foes ! 30 Lived, and ran the race that Nature set : Of manhood's shape, where she the mold did lose. But to the heavens that simple soul is fled, Which left with such as covet Christ to know Witness of faith that never shall be dead, 35 Sent for our health, but not received so. Thus for our guilt, this jewel have we lost; The earth his bones, the heavens possess his ghost ! VIRGIL'S .ENEID BOOK II They whisted all, with fixed face attent, When Prince ^Eneas from the royal seat 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 over- throw 5 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? i" What stern Ulysses' waged soldier? And lo ! moist night now from the welkin falls. And stars declining counsel us to rest: 62 HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY But since so great is thy delight to hear Of our mishaps and Troyes last decay, >s 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 fir compacted were his ribs, For their return a feigned sacrifice, — 24 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 Tene- don, Rich, and of fame while Priam's kingdom stood, 30 Now but a bay and road unsure for ship. 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, 35 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 ; 40 Here rode their ships, there did their battles join. Astonied some the scathful gift beheld, Hchight by vow unto the chaste Minerve, All wondering at the hup'encss of the horse. And first of all, Timrctes gan advise 45 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, Willed it to drown, or underset with flame. The suspect present of the Greeks' deceit, Or bore and gauge the hollow caves un- couth ; So diverse ran the giddy people's mind. 53 Lo ! foremost of a rout that followed him, Kindled Laocoon hasted from the tower, Crying far off: "O wretched citizens, 56 What so great kind of frenzy fretteth 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, 65 I dread the Greeks, yea, when they offer gifts."' THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST (1536-1608) About the year 1553, certain English printers projected a continuation of John Lydgpce's Fall of Princes, a version of Boccaccio's De Casihus Virorum Illustrium, the design of these printers being to add stories of famous unfortunates from the period with which Boccaccio ended ' unto this presente time.' The project, under the general title A Mirror for Marjistrates, was printed in gradually enlarged editions between tlie years 1555 and IGIO. Although prob- ■ibly not a partner to the original plan, i^ackville early became an associate and a contributor. 'J'he Induction, written as an introduction to such stories as he should contril)ute, and The Complaint of Henry, Duke of Buckingham, the only ' tragedy ' actually contributed by Sackville, appeared in the edition of 1563. The Induction is commonly accounted the best achievement in English poetry between Chaucer and Spenser. Although in writing his description of the lower world Sackville evi- dently had in mind both the sixth book of Virgil's /Eneid and medieval allegory, the superb vivifying of such abstractions as Remorse of Conscience, Drend. Revenge, and the like, is to be credited to the genius of the English poet. Sackville owes his inspiration, perhaps, to Virgil, and his verse form, certainly, to Chaucer ; his masterly control of his material and hi-s powe. of phrasing are surely his own. THE INDUCTION The wrathful Winter, 'preaching on apace, With blustering blasts had all ybared the trecn, And old Saturnus, with his frosty face, With chilling cold had pierced the tender green ; 4 The mantles rent, wherein enwrapped been The gladsome groves that now lay over- thrown. The tapets torn, and every ])loom down blown. The soil, that erst so seemly was to seen, Was all despoiled of her beauty's hue ; And soote fresh flowers, wherewith the sum- mer's queen lo Had clad the earth, now Boreas' blasts down blew; And small fowls flocking, in their song did rue The winter's wrath,, wherewith each thing defaced In woeful wise bewailed the summer past. Hawthorn had lost his motley livery, is The naked twigs were shivering all for cold, And dropping down the tears abundantly; Each thing, methought, with weeping eye me told The cruel season, bidding me withhold Myself within; for I was gotten out 2c Into the fields, whereas I walked about. When lo, the night with misty mantles spread, Gan dark the day, and dim the azure skies; And Venus in her message Hermes sped To bloody Mars, to will him not to rise, 25 While she herself approached in speedy wise ; And Virgo hiding her disdainful breast. With Thetis now had laid her down to rest. Whiles Scorpio dreading Sagittarius' dart. Whose bow prest bent in fight, the string had slipped, 30 Down slid into the ocean flood apart. The Bear, that in the Irish seas had dipped His grisly feet, with speed from thence he whipped : For Thetis, hasting from the Virgin's bed. Pursued the Bear, that ere she came was fled. 35 And Phaeton now, near reaching to his race With glist'ring beams, gold streaming where they bent, Was prest to enter in his resting place: Erythius, that in the cart first went. Had even now attained his journey's stent: And, fast declining, hid away his head, 41 While Titan couched him in his purple bed. And pale Cynthea, with her borrowed light. Beginning to supply her brother's place 44 Was past the noonstead six degrees in sight, When sparkling stars amid the heaven's face, ft: 64 THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST With twinkling light shone on the earth apace, That, while they hrought about the nightes chare, The dark had dinnncd the day ere I was ware. And sorrowing I to see the summer flowers, The lively green, the lusty leas forlorn, 5' The sturdy trees so shattered with the showers. The fields so fade, that flourished so beforn, It taught me well, all earthly things be born To die the death, for naught long time may last ; S3 The summer's beauty yields to winter's blast. Then looking upward to the heaven's Icams, With nightes stars thick powdered every- where. Which erst so glistened with the golden streams That cheerful Phoebus spread down from his sphere, 60 Beholding dark oppressing day so near : The sudden sight reduced to my mind, The sundry changes that in earth we find. That musing on this worldly wealth in thought. Which comes, and goes, more faster than we see 65 The flickering flame that with the fire is wrought, My busy mind presented unto me Such fall of peers as in this realm had be ; That oft I wished some would their woes descrive. To warn the rest whom fortune left alive. And straight forth stalking with redoubled pace, 71 For that I saw the night drew on so fast, In black all clad, there fell before my face A piteous wight, whom woe had all fore- waste; Forth from her eyen the crystal tears out brast ; 75 And sighing sore, her hands she wrung and fold, Tare all her hair, that ruth was to behold. Her body small, forewithered, and forespent. As is the stalk that summer's drought op- pressed ; Her welked face with woeful tears besprent ; Her color pale; and, as it seemed her best, In woe and plaint reposed was her rest ; 82 And, as the stone that drops of water wears, So dented were her cheeks with fall of tears. Her eyes swollen with flowing streams afloat, 85 Wherewith, her looks thrown up full pite- ously. Her forceless hands together oft she smote, With doleful shrieks, that echoed in the sky; Whose plaint such sighs did straight ac- company, That, in my doom, was never man did see A wight but half so woe-begone as she. 91 I stood aghast, beholding all her plight, 'Tween dread and dolor, so distrained in heart. That, while my hairs upstarted with the sight. The tears outstreamed for sorrow of her smart : 95 But, when I saw no end that could apart The deadly dewle which she so sore did make. With doleful voice then thus to her I spake : ' Unwrap thy woes, whatever wight thou be, And stint in time to spill thyself with plaint: 100 Tell what thou art, and whence, for well I see Thou canst not dure, with sorrow thus at- taint : ' And, with that word of sorrow, all fore- faint She looked up, and, prostrate as she lay. With piteous sound, lo, thus she gan to say : ' Alas, I wretch, whom thus thou seest dis- trained 106 With wasting woes, that never shall aslake, Sorrow I am, in endless torments pained Among the Furies in the infernal lake. Where Pluto, god of hell, so grisly black. Doth hold his throne, and Lethe's deadly taste 1 1 ■ Doth reave remembrance of each thing fore- past : ' Whence come I am, the dreary destiny And luckless lot for to bemoan of those Whom fortune, in this maze of misery, I'S Of wretched chance, most woeful mirrors chose ; That, when thou seest how lightly they did lose Their pomp, their power, and that they thought most sure, THE INDUCTION 65 Thou mayst soon deem no earthly joy may dure.' Whose rueful voice no sooner had out brayed '-° Those woeful words wherewith she sor- rowed so, But out, alas, she shright, and never stayed, Fell down, and all to-dashed herself for woe; The cold pale dread my limbs gan overgo. And I so sorrowed at her sorrows eft, '^s Tliat, what with grief and fear, my wits were reft. I stretched myself, and straight my heart revives, That dread and dolor erst did so appale ; Like him that with the fervent fever strives. When sickness seeks his castle health to scale; "30 With gathered spirits so forced I fear to avale : And, rearing her, with anguish all fore- done. My spirits returned, and then I thus begun: *0 Sorrow, alas, sith Sorrow is thy name. And that to thee this drear doth well per- tain, 135 In vain it were to seek to cease the same : But, as a man himself with sorrow slain, So I, alas, do comfort thee in pain, That here in sorrow art foresunk so deep, That at thy sight I can but sigh and weep.' I had no sooner spoken of a stike, 141 But that the storm so rumbled in her breast. As ^olus could never roar the like; And showers down rained from her eyen so fast, That all bedrent the place, till at the last, Well eased they the dolor of her mind, 146 As rage of rain doth swage the stormy wind : For forth she paced in her fearful tale : ' Come, come,' quoth she, * and see what I shall show. Come, hear the plaining and the bitter bale Of worthy men by Fortune overthrow: 151 Come thou, and see them ruing all in row, They were but shades that erst in mind thou rolled : Come, come with me, thine eyes shall them behold.' What could these words but make me more aghast, 155 To hear her tell whereon I mused whilere? So was I mazed therewith, till, at the last, Musing upon her words, and what they were, All suddenly well lessoned was my fear ; For to my mind returned, how she telled Both what she was, and where her won she held. 161 Whereby I knew that she a goddess was, And, therewithal, resorted to my mind My thought, that late presented me the glass Of brittle state, of cares that here we find. Of thousand woes to silly men assigned: '66 And how she now bid me come and behold, To see with eye that erst in thought I rolled. Flat down I fell, and with all reverence Adored her, perceiving now that she, 170 A goddess, sent by godly providence, In earthly shape thus showed herself to me. To wail and rue this world's uncertainty : And, while I honored thus her godhead's might With plaining voice these words to me she shright: 175 * 1 shall thee guide first to the grisly lake. And thence unto the blissful place of rest, Where thou shall see, and hear, the plaint they make That whilom here bare swing among the best : This shalt thou see : but great is the unrest That thou must bide, before thou canst at- tain 181 Unto the dreadful place where these remain.' And, with these words, as I upraised stood. And gan to follow her that straight forth paced. Ere I was ware, into a desert wood 185 We now were come, where, hand in hand embraced. 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. But lo, while thus amid the desert dark 19c 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. 66 THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST And struck the din within our ears so deep, As, half distraught, unto the ground I fell, Besought return, and not to visit hell. '96 But she, forthwith, 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 travail end should find : 2"" Wherewith I rose, and to the place assigned Astoined I stalk, when straight we ap- proached near The dreadful place, that you will dread to hear. An hideous hole all vast, withouten shape, Of endless depth, o'erwhelmed with ragged stone, 205 With ugly mouth, and grisly jaws doth gape, And to our sight confounds itself in one: Here entered we, and yeding forth, anon An horrible loathly lake we might discern, As black as pitch, that cleped is Avern : z'o A deadly gulf, where naught but rubbish grows, With foul black swelth in thickened lumps that lies, Which up in th' air such stinking vapors throws, That over there may fly no fowl but dies Choked with the pestilent savors that arise: Hither we come ; whence forth we still did pace, 2i6 In dreadful fear amid the dreadful place: And, first, within the porch and jaws of hell, Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all be- sprent With tears; and to herself oft would she tell 220 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. Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there, Whirled on each place, as place that ven- geance brought, 226 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, 235 His cap borne up with staring of his hair, 'Stoined and amazed at his own shade for dread, And fearing greater dangers than was need. And next, within the entry of this lake, Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire, 240 Devising means how she may vengeance take. Never in rest, till she have her desire : But frets within so far forth with the fire Of wreaking flames, that now determines she 244 To die by death, or venged by death to be. When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pre- tence Had showed 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, 250 Ruing, alas ! upon the woeful plight Of Misery, that next appeared in sight. His face was lean, and somedeal pined away, And eke his hands consumed to the bone, But what his body was, I cannot say, 255 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. His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree, 260 Unless sometimes some crumbs fell to his share. Which in his wallet long, God wot. kept he. As on the which full daint'Iy would he fare: His drink, the running stream : his cup, the bare THE INDUCTION 67 Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground: ^65 To this poor life was Misery ybound. Whose wretched state when we had well be- held, With tender ruth on him, and on his fears. In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held; And, by and by, another shape appears, 270 Of greedy Care, still brushing up the breres. His knuckles knobbed, his flesh deep dented in, With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin. The morrow gray no sooner hath begun To spread his light, even peeping in our eyes, ^75 When he is up, and to his work yrun : But let the night's black misty mantles rise, And with foul dark never so much dis- guise 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 285 Of high renown ; but, as a living death. So, dead alive, of life he drew the breath. 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; 290 Reaver of sight, and yet in whom we see Things oft that tide, and oft that never be; Without respect, esteeming equally King CrcEsus' pomp, and Irus' poverty. And next, in order sad. Old Age we found : His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind, 296 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 300 The fleeting course of fast declining life. There heard we him with broke and hollow plaint Rue with himself his end approaching fast. And all for naught his wretched mind tor- ment With sweet rem.embrance of his pleasures past, 305 And fresh delights of lusty youth fore- waste ; Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek. And to be young again of Jove beseek! But and the cruel fates so fixed be, That time forepast cannot return again, 310 This one request of Jove yet prayed he: That, in such withered plight, and wretched pain, As eld, accompanied with his loathsome train. Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief. He might a while yet linger forth his life, And not so soon descend into the pit, 316 Where Death, when he the mortal corpse hath slain. With reckless hand in grave doth cover it. Thereafter never to enjoy again The gladsome light, but in the ground ylain, 320 In the depth of darkness waste and wear to naught. As he had never into the world been brought. But who had seen him sobbing, how he stood Unto himself, and how he would bemoan His youth forepast, as though it wrought him good 325 To talk of youth, all were his youth fore- gone, He would have mused, and marveled much, whereon This wretched Age should life desire so fain. And knows full well life doth but length his pain. Crookbacked he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed, 330 Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four. With old lame bones that rattled by his side. His scalp all pilled, and he with eld for- lore : His withered fist still knocking at Death's door. 68 THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST Fumbling, and driveling, as he draws his breath : 335 For brief, the shape and messenger of Death. And fast by him pale Malady was placed, Sore sick in bed, her color all foregone. Bereft of stomach, savor, and of taste, Ne could she brook no meat, but broths alone: 34o Her breath corrupt, her keepers every one Abhorring her. her sickness past recure, Detesting physic, and all physic's cure. But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see! We turned our look, and, on the other side, A grisly shape of Famine might we see, 346 With greedy looks, and gaping mouth that cried And roared for meat, as she should there have died; Her body thin and bare as any bone, 349 Whereto was left naught but the case alone. And that, alas, was gnawn on every where, All full of holes, that I ne might refrain From tears, to see how she her arms could tear. And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain, When, all for naught, she fain would so sustain 355 Her starven corpse, that rather seemed a shade, Than any substance of a creature made. Great was her force, whom stone wall could not stay. Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw ; With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay Be satisfied from hunger of her maw, 361 But eats herself as she that hath no law: Gnawing, alas, her carcass all in vain, Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein. On her while we thus firmly fixed our eyes, 365 That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight, Lo, suddenly she shrieked in so huge wise. As made hell-gates to shiver with the might : Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did light Right on her breast, and, therewithal, pale Death 370 Enthrilling it, to reave her of her breath. And by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw. Heavy, and cold, the shape of Death aright. That daunts all earthly creatures to his law; 374 Against whose force in vain it is to fight: Ne peers, ne princes, nor no mortal wight, No towns, ne realms, cities, ne strongest tower. But all, perforce, must yield unto his power. His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took. And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see) With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook, 381 That most of all my fears affrayed me: His body dight with naught but bones, parde. The naked shape of man there saw I plain, All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein. Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad. With visage grim, stern looks, and blackly hued ; 387 In his right hand a naked sword he had, That to the hilts was all with blood im- brued ; And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) 390 Famine and fire he held, and therewithal He razed towns, and threw down towers and all. Cities he sacked, and realms that whilom flowered In honor, glory, and rule, above the best. He overwhelmed, and all their fame de- voured, 395 Consumed, destroyed, wasted and never ceased. Till he their wealth, their name, and all op- pressed : His face forehewed with wounds, and by his side There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide. In mids of which, depainted there, we found Deadly Debate, all full of snaky hair, 401 That with a bloody fillet was ybound, Out breathing naught but discord every- where : And round about were portrayed, here and there. The hugy hosts, Darius and his power, 40; His kings, princes, his peers, and all his flower. Whom great Macedo vanquished there in sight, With deep slaughter, despoiling all his pride, THE INDUCTION 69 Pierced through his reahns, and daunted all his might : Duke Hannibal beheld I there beside, 410 In Canna's field, victor how he did ride, And woeful Romans that in vain withstood. And consul Paulus covered all in blood. Yet saw I more the fight at Thrasimene, And Treby field, and eke when Hannibal 415 And worthy Scipio last in arms were seen Before Carthago gate, to cry for all The world's empire, to whom it should be- fall : There saw I Pompey and Caesar clad in arms, 419 Their hosts allied and all their civil harms : With conquerors' hands, forebathed in their own blood. And Cssar weeping over Pompey's head ; Yet saw I Sulla and Marius where they stood. Their great cruelty, and the deep bloodshed Of friends: Cyrus I saw and his host dead, And how the queen with great despite hath flung 426 His head in blood of them she overcome. Xerxes, the Persian king, yet saw I there. With his huge host, that drank the rivers dry. Dismounted hills, and made the vales up- rear, 430 His host and all yet saw I slain, parde : Thebes I saw, all razed how it did lie In heaps of stones, and Tyrus put to spoil. With walls and towers flat evened with the soil. But Troy, alas, methought, above them all, 43S It made mine eyes in very tears consume : When I beheld the woeful word befall, That by the wrathful will of gods was come; And Jove's unmoved sentence and fore- doom On Priam king, and on his town so bent, I could not lin, but I must there lament. 441 And that the more, sith destiny was so stern As, force perforce, there might no force avail. But she must fall : and, by her fall, wc learn, That cities, towers, wealth, world, and all shall quail : No manhood, might, nor nothing might pre- vail ; All were there pressed full many a prince, and peer. And many a knight that sold his death full dear. Not worthy Hector, worthiest of them all, Her hope, her joy, his force is now for naught : 450 Troy, Troy, Troy, there is no boot but bale. The hugy horse within thy walls is brought ; Thy turrets fall, thy knights, that whilom fought In arms ann'd the field, are slain in bed. Thy gods defiled, and all thy honor dead. 455 The flames up spring, and cruelly they creep From wall to roof, till all to cinders waste: Some fire the houses where the wretches sleep. Some rush in here, some run in there as fast; In every where or sword or fire they taste: The walls are torn, the towers whirled to the ground ; 461 There is no mischief but may there be found. Cassandra yet there saw I how they haled From Pallas' house, with spercled tress un- done. Her wrists fast bound, and with Greeks' rout empaled : 465 And Priam eke, in vain how he did run To arms, whom Pyrrhus with despite hath done To cruel death, and bathed him in the baign Of his son's blood, before the altar slain. But how can I describe the doleful sight, 47" That in the shield so livelike fair did shine? Sith in this world, I think was never wight Could have set forth the half, not half so fine: 1 can no more, but tell hovv there is seen Fair Ilium fall in burning red gledes down, And, from the soil, great Troy, Neptunus' town. 476 Herefrom when scarce I could mine eyes withdraw. That filled with tears as doth the springing well. We passed on so far forth till we saw Rude Acheron, a loathsome lake to tell, 48° 70 THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST That boils and bubs up swelth as black as hell; Where grisly Charon, at their fixed tide, Still ferries ghosts unto the farther side. The aged God no sooner Sorrow spied, But, hasting straight unto the bank apace, With hollow call unto the rout he cried, 486 To swerve apart, and give the goddess place : Straight it was done, when to the shore we pace, Where, hand in hand as we then linked fast. Within the boat we are together placed. 490 And forth we launch full fraughted to the brink : When, with the unwonted weight, the rusty keel Began to crack as if the same should sink: We hoise up mast and sail, that in a while We fetched the shore, where scarcely we had while 49s For to arrive, but that we heard anon A three-sound bark confounded all in one. We had not long forth passed, but that we saw Black Cerberus, the hideous hound of hell. With bristles reared, and with a three- mouthed jaw soo Foredinning the air with his horrible yell. Out of the deep dark cave where he did dwell. The goddess straight he knew, and by and by, He peased and couched, while that we passed by. Thence come we to the horror and the hell, 505 The large great kingdoms, and the dreadful reign Of Pluto in his throne where he did dwell. The wide waste places, and the hugy plain, The wailings, .shrieks, and sundry sorts of pain, The sighs, the sobs, the deep and deadly groan; sio Earth, air, and all, resounding plaint and moan. Here puled the babes, and here the maids unwed With folded hands their sorry chance be- wailed ; Here wept the guiltless slain, and lovers dead. That slew themselves when nothing else availed; 5is A thousand sorts of sorrow* here, that wailed With sighs, and tears, sobs, shrieks, and all yfear. That, of, alas, it was a hell to hear. We staid us straight, and with a rueful fear. Beheld this heavy sight; while from mine eyes 520 The vapored tears down stilled here and there. And Sorrow eke, in far more woeful wise, Took on with plaint, upheaving to the skies Her wretched hands, that, with her cry, the rout 524 Can all in heaps to swarm us round about. ' Lo here ' quoth Sorrow, ' princes of re- nown. That whilom sat on top of Fortune's wheel, Now laid full low; like wretches whirled down. Even with one frown, that stayed but with a smile ; And now behold the thing that thou, ere- while, 530 Saw only in thought ; and, what thou now shalt hear. Recount the same to kesar, king, and peer.' I ROGER ASCHAM (1515-1568) Ascham was prepared for his career by gentle birth and by a thorough humanistic education at St. John's College, Cambridge. His studying of Greek resulted in his being one of the most enthusiastic advocates of the new classical learning. In 1531, he became a fellow of St. John's College, and subsequently held the appointments of reader in Greek and of public orator. Ascham's ToxophUus (1545), full of patriotism, learning, and human feeling, won for him the favor of Henry VIII, who granted him a pension, later renewed by Edward VI. In 1.548, he became tutor of the Princess E]liz.abeth, and, soon after, secretary to an embassy to the court of Charles V. He became secretary to Queen Mary, and later received preferment from Queen Elizabeth. Ascham's vigorous humanism is emphatically expressed in his School- master, written late in life, and published posthumously in 1570. THE SCHOOLMASTER those manners which you gather in Italy: From BOOK I ^ good schoolhouse of wholesome doc- trine, and worthy masters of commendable But I am afraid that over-many of our scholars, where the master had rather travelers into Italy do not eschew the 5 defame himself for his teaching-, than not way to Circe's Court, but go and ride, and shame his scholar for his learning. A run, and fly thither; they make great haste good nature of the master, and fair con- to come to her; they make great suit to ditions of the scholars. And now choose serve her; yea, I could point out some you, you Italian Englishmen, whether you with my finger that never had gone out lo will be angry with us for calling you of England but only to serve Circe in monsters, or with the Italians for calling Italy. Vanity and vice and any licence you devils, or else with your own selves to ill living in England was counted stale that take so much pains and go so far to and rude unto them. And so, being mules make yourselves both. If some yet do not and horses before they went, returned 15 well understand what is an Englishman very swine and asses home again; yet Italianated, I will plainly tell him. He everywhere very foxes with subtle and that by living and traveling in Italy busy heads; and where they may, very bringeth home into England out of Italy wolves with cruel malicious hearts. A the religion, the learning, the policy, the marvelous monster, which, for filthiness 20 experience, the manners of Italy. That of living, for dulness to learning himself, is to say, for religion, papistry or worse ; for wiliness in dealing with others, for for learning, less, commonly, than they malice in hurting without cause, should carried out with them; for policy, a fac- carry at once, in one body, the belly of a tious heart, a discoursing head, a mind to swine, the head of an ass, the brain of a 25 meddle in all men's matters; for experi- fox, the womb of a wolf. If you think ence, plenty of new mischiefs never we judge amiss and write too sore against known in England before; for manners, you, hear what the Italian saith of the variety of vanities and change of filthy Englishman, what the master reporteth living. These be the enchantments of of the scholar; who uttereth plainly what 3° Circe, brought out of Italy to mar men's is taught by him, and what is learned by manners in England ; much by example you, saying, ' In^lese Italianato e un dia- of ill life, but more by precepts of fond bolo incarnato' that is to say, you remain books of late translated out of Italian into men in shape and fashion, but become English, sold in every shop in London, devils in life and condition. This is not 35 commended by honest titles, the sooner to the opinion of one for some private spite, corrupt honest manners ; dedicated over- but the judgment of all in a common prov- boldly to virtuous and honorable person- erb, which riseth of that learning and ages, the easier to beguile simple and in- 71 72 ROGER ASCHAM nocent wits. It is pity that those which standeth in two special points — in open have authority and charge to allow and manslaughter and bold bawdry. In which ilisallow books to be printed, be no more book those be counted the noblest knights circumspect herein than they are. Ten that do kill most men without. any quarrel, sermons at Paul's Cross do not so much 5 and commit foulest adulteries by subtlest good for moving men to true doctrine, as shifts: as Sir Launcelot with the wife of one of those books do harm with enticing King Arthur, his master; vSir Tristram men to ill living. Yea, I say farther, those with the wife of King Mark, his uncle; books tend not so much to corrupt honest Sir Lamerock with the wife of King Lot, living, as they do to subvert true religion. lo that was his own aunt. This is good More papists be made by your merry books stuff for wise men to laugh at, or honest of Italy than by your earnest books of men to take pleasure at! Yet I know Louvain. And because our great physi- when God's Bible was banished the court, cians do wink at the matter, and make no and Mortc Arthur received into the count of this sore, I, though not admitted 15 prince's chamber. What toys the daily one of their fellowship, yet having been reading of such a book may work in the many years a prentice to God's true re- will of a young gentleman or a young ligion, and trust to continue a poor jour- maid that liveth wealthily and idly, wise neyman therein all days of my life, for men can judge and honest men do pity, the duty I owe and love I bear both to 20 And yet ten Morte Arthurs do not the true doctrine and honest living, though I tenth part so much harm as one of these have no authority to amend the sore my- books made in Italy and translated in self, yet I will declare my good-will to dis- England. They open not fond and corn- cover the sore to others. mon ways to vice, but such subtle, cun- St. Paul saith that sects and ill opinions 25 ning, new, and diverse shifts to carry be the works of the flesh and fruits of young wills to vanity and young wits to sin. This is spoken no more truly for the mischief, to teach old bawds new school- doctrine than sensible for the reason. points, as the simple head of an Eng- And why? For ill doings breed ill think- lishman is not able to invent, nor never ings. And of corrupted manners spring 30 was heard of in England before; yea, perverted judgments. And how? There when papistry overflowed all. Suffer be in man two special things : man's will, these books to be read, and they shall soon man's mind. Where will inclineth to displace all books of godly learning. For goodness, the mind is bent to truth, they, carrying the will to vanity and mar- Where will is carried from goodness to 35 ring good manners, shall easily corrupt vanity, the mind is scon drawn from truth the mind with ill opinions and false judg- to false opinion. And so the readiest way ment in doctrine : first, to think nothing to entangle the mind with false doctrine is of God himself — one special point that first to entice the will to wanton living, is to be learned in Italy and Italian books. Therefore, when the busy and open pap- 40 And that which is most to be lamented, ists abroad could not by their contentious and therefore more needful to be looked books turn men in England fast enough to, there be more of these ungracious from truth and right judgment in doc- books set out in print within these few trine, then the subtle and secret papists at months than have been seen in England home procured bawdy books to be trans- 45 many score years before. And because lated out of the Italian tongue, whereby our Englishmen made Italians cannot hurt over-many young wills and wits, allured but certain persons and in certain places, to wantonness, do now boldly contemn all therefore these Italian books are made severe books that sound to honesty and English to bring mischief enough openly godliness. In our forefathers' time, when 5° and boldly to all states, great and mean, papistry, as a standing pool, covered and young and old, everywhere, overflowed all England, few books were And thus you see how will enticed to read in our tongue, saving certain books wantonness doth easily allure the mind [of] chivalry, as they said, for pastime and to false opinions; and how corrupt man- pleasure, which, as some say, were made 55 ners in living, breed false judgment in in monasteries by idle monks or wanton doctrine; how sin and fleshliness bring canons: as one, for example, Morte Ar- forth sects and heresies. And, therefore, thur, the whole pleasure of which book suffer not vain books to breed vanity in THE SCHOOLMASTER 73 men's wills, if you would have God's truth declare of whose school, of what religion take root in men's minds. they be — that is, epicures in living and That Italian that first invented the Ital- ddeoi [godless] in doctrine. This last ian proverb against our Englishmen Ital- word is no more unknown now to plain ianated, meant no more their vanity in 5 Englishmen than the person was unknown living than their lewd opinion in religion, some time in England, until some English- For in calling them devils, he carrieth man took pains to fetch that devilish opin- them clean from God; and yet he carrieth ion out of Italy. These men, thus Ital- them no farther than they willingly go ianated abroad, . cannot abide our godly themselves — that is, where they may 10 Italian church at home; they be not of freely say their minds — to the open con- that parish; they be not of that fellow- tempt of God and all godliness, both in ship; they like not that preacher; they living and doctrine. hear not his sermons, except sometimes And how? I will express how, not by for company they come thither to hear the a fable of Homer, nor by the philosophy 15 Italian tongue naturally spoken, not to of Plato, but by a plain truth of God's hear God's doctrine truly preached. Word, sensibly uttered by David thus: And yet these men in matters of divin- ' These men, abominabilcs facti in studiis ity openly pretend a great knowledge, and suis, think verily and sing gladly the have privately to themselves a very com- verse before, Dixit insipiens in corde sno, 20 pendious understanding of all, which, non est Dens' — that is to say, they giv- nevertheless, they will utter when and ing themselves up to vanity, shaking off where they list. And that is this : all the the motions of grace, driving from them mysteries of Moses, the whole law and the fear of God, and running headlong ceremonies, the Psalms and prophets, into all sin, first lustily contemn God, 25 Christ and his Gospel, God and the devil, then scornfully mock his Word, and also heaven and hell, faith, conscience, sin, spitefully hate and hurt all well-willers death, and all they shortly wrap up, they thereof. Then they have in more rever- quickly expound with this one half verse ence the Triumphs of Petrarch than the of Horace : Genesis of Moses. They make more ac- 30 count of Tully's Offices than St. Paul's Credat Judaeus Apella. Epistles; of a tale in Boccaccio than a [Let the Jew Apella believe it] story of the Bible. Then they count as fables the holy mysteries of christian re- Yet though in Italy they may freely be ligion. They make Christ and his Gos- 35 of no religion, as they are in England in pel only serve civil policy. Then neither very deed to, nevertheless, returning home religion cometh amiss to them. In time into England, they must countenance the they be promoters of both openly : in profession of the one or the other, how- place, again, mockers of both privily, as I ever inwardly they laugh to scorn both, wrote once in a rude rime: — 40 And though for their private matters they can follow, fawn, and flatter noble person- New new, now old, now both, now ages contrary to them in all respects, yet neither, commonly they ally themselves with the To serve the world's course, they care not worst papists, to whom they be wedded, with whether. 45 and do well agree together in three proper opinions : in open contempt of God's For where they dare, in company where Word ; in a secret security of sin ; and in they like, they boldly laugh to scorn both a bloody desire to have all taken away by protestant and papist. They care for no sword and burning that be not of their Scripture; they make no count of general 50 faction. They that do read with indiffer- councils; they contemn the consent of the ent judgment Pygius and Machiavelli, church; they pass for no doctors; they two indift'erent patriarchs of these two re- mock the Pope ; they rail on Luther ; they ligions, do know full well what I say true, allow neither side; they like none, but Ye see what manners and doctrine our only themselves. The mark they shoot 55 Englishmen fetch out of Italy. For, find- at, the end they look for, the heaven they ing no other there, they can bring no desire, is only their own present pleasure other hither. And, therefore, many godly and private profit; whereby they plainly, and excellent learned Englishmen, not 74 ROGER ASCHAM many years ago, did make a belter choice, home in Rome, then let wise men think when open cruelty drove them out of this Italy a safe place for wholesome doctrine country, to place themselves there where and godly manners, and a fit school for Christ's doctrine, the fear of God, pun- young gentlemen of England to be brought ishment of sin, and discipline of honesty 5 up in ! were had in special regard. Our Italians bring home with them I was once in Italy myself; but I thank other faults from Italy, though not so God my abode there was but nine days. great as this of religion, yet a great deal And yet I saw in that little time, in one greater than many good men can well city, more liberty to sin than ever I heard lo bear. For commonly they come home tell of in our noble city of London in common contemners of marriage and nine years, I saw it was there as free ready persuaders of all others to the same ; to sin not only without all punishment, not because they love virginity, nor yet but also without any man's marking, as it because they hate pretty young virgins, is free in the city of London to choose i5 but, being free in Italy to go whitherso- without all blame whether a man lust to ever lust will carry them, they do not wear shoe or pantocle. And good cause like that law and honesty should be such why; for, being unlike in truth of re- a bar to their like liberty at home in ligion, they must needs be unlike in hon- England. And yet they be the greatest esty of living. For blessed be Christ, in 20 makers of love, the daily dalliers, with our city of London commonly the com- such pleasant words, with such smiling mandments of God be more diligently and secret countenances, with such signs, taught, and the service of God more rev- tokens, wagers, purposed to be lost before erently used, and that daily in many they were purposed to be made, with bar- private men's houses, than they be in 25 gains of wearing colors, flowers, and Italy once a week in their common herbs, to breed occasion of ofter meeting churches ; where making ceremonies to of him and her, and bolder talking of this delight the eye, and vain sounds to please and that, etc. And although I have seen the ear, do quite thrust out of the churches some, innocent of all ill and staid in all all service of God in spirit and truth. 30 honesty, that have used these things with- Yea, the Lord Mayor of London, being out all harm, without all suspicion of but a civil officer, is commonly, for his harm, yet these knacks were brought first time, more diligent in punishing sin, the into England by them that learned them bent enemy against God and good order, before in Italy in Circe's court; and how than all the bloody inquisitors in Italy 35 courtly courtesies soever they be counted be in seven years. For their care and now, yet, if the meaning and manners of charge is not to punish sin, not to amend some that do use them were somewhat manners, not to purge doctrine, but only amended, it were no great hurt neither to watch and oversee that Christ's true re- to themselves nor to others, ligion set no sure footing where the Pope 40 Another property of this our English hath any jurisdiction. I learned, when Italians is to be marvelous singular in I was at Venice, that there it is counted all their matters: singular in knowledge, good policy, when there be four or five ignorant of nothing; so singular in wis- brethren of one family, one only to marry, dom (in their own opinion) as scarce they and all the rest to welter with as little 45 count the best counselor the prince hath shame in open lechery as swine do here comparable with them ; common discour- in the common mire. Yea, there be as sers of all matters; busy searchers of fair houses of religion, as great provision, most secret affairs; open flatterers of as diligent officers to keep up this mis- great men ; privy mislikers of good men ; order, as Bridewell is and all the mas- 50 fair speakers, with smiling countenances ters there to keep down misorder. And, and much courtesy openly to all men ; therefore, if the Pope himself do not only ready backbiters, sore nippers, and spite- grant pardons to further these wicked ful reporters privily of good men. And purposes abroad in Italy, but also (al- being brought up in Italy in some free though this present Pope in the beginning 55 city, as all cities be there, where a man made some show of misliking thereof) may freely discourse against what he will, assign both meed and merit to the main- against whom he lust, against any prince, tenance of stews and brothel-houses at against any government, yea, against God THE SCHOOLMASTER 75 himself and his whole religion; where he me, until they begin to amend themselves, must be either Guelph or Ghibelin, either I touch not them that be good ; and I say French or Spanish, and always compelled too little of them that be not; and so, to be of some party, of some faction, he though not enough for their deserving, shall never be compelled to be of any re- 5 yet sufficiently for this time, and more ligion ; and if he meddle not over-much else when if occasion so require, with Christ's true religion, he shall have And thus far have I wandered from my free liberty to embrace all religions, and first purpose of teaching a child, yet not become, if he lust, at once, without any altogether out of the way, because this let or punishment, Jewish, Turkish, pa- lo whole talk hath tended to the only ad- pish, and devilish. vancement of truth in religion and hon- A young gentleman thus bred up in this esty of living; and hath been wholly goodly school, to learn the next and ready within the compass of learning and good way to sin, to have a busy head, a factious manners, the special points belonging in heart, a talkative tongue, fed with dis- 15 the right bringing up of youth, coursing of factions, led to contemn God But to my matter, as I began plainly and his religion, shall come home into and simply with my young scholar, so will England but very ill taught, either to be I not leave him, God wilfing, until I have an honest man himself, a quiet subject to brought him a perfect scholar out of the his prince, or willing to serve God under 20 school, and placed him in the university, the obedience of true doctrine, or within to become a fit student for logic and rhet- the order of honest living. oric : and so after to physic, law, or di- I know none will be offended with this vinity, as aptness of nature, advice of my general writing, but only such as find friends, and God's disposition shall lead themselves guilty privately therein : who 25 him. shall have good leave to be offended with JOHN LYLY (i554?-i6o6) Of the events of Lyly's life little is known. After taking his degree from Oxford, thus securing for himself the somewhat invidious title of 'university wit,' he supported himself in London by his pen. Although his nine plays had an important influence in the development of pre-Shakspercan drama, and although they represent his most valuable contribution to English literature, Lyly is best known, probably, through the extravagant style of his Euphues, ilie Anaiomy of Wit (1578) and Enplnics and his Enr/land (1580). These two works, usually referred to in combination as Euphucs, constitute, ostensibly, a romance. The story, however, meager at best, is almost infinitely attenuated by letters, ' model ' conversations, and moral preachments. The interest of Euphues. — an interest more curious and historical than human, — lies in its unremitting artificiality of style, characterized especially by balance, alliteration, citations of classical examples, and references to natural history. From EUPHUES AND HIS ENG- rather bountifully to reward, being as far LAND from rigor when she might have killed, as her enemies were from honesty when they This queen being deceased, Elizabeth, could not, giving a general pardon when being of the age of twenty-two years, of 5 she had cause to use particular punish- more beauty than honor, and yet of more ments, preferring the name of pity before honor than any earthly ' creature, was the remembrance of perils, thinking no called from a prisoner to be a prince, revenge more princely than to spare when from the castle to the crown, from the she might spill, to stay when she might fear of losing her head, to be supreme 10 strike, to proffer to save with mercy when head. And here, ladies, it may be you she might have destroyed with justice. ' will move a question, why this noble lady Here is the clemency worthy commenda- was either in danger of death, or cause of tion and admiration, nothing inferior to distress, which, had you thought to have the gentle disposition of Aristides, who, passed in silence, I would, notwithstand- 15 after his exile, did not so much as note ing, have revealed. them that banished him, saying with Alex- This lady all the time of her sister's ander that there can be nothing more no- reign was kept close, as one that ten- ble than to do well to those that deserve dered not those proceedings which were ill. contrary to her conscience, who, having 20 This mighty and merciful queen, having divers enemies, endured many crosses, but many bills of private persons that sought so patiently as in her deepest sorrow beforetime to betray her, burnt them all, she would rather sigh for the liberty of resembling Julius Caesar, who. being pre- the Gospel than her own freedom. Suf- sented with the like complaints of his fering her inferiors to triumph over her, 25 commons, threw them into the fire, say- her foes to threaten her, her dissembling ing that he had rather not know the names friends to undermine her, learning in all of rebels than have occasion to revenge, this misery only the patience that Zeno thinking it better to be ignorant of those taught Eretricus to bear and forbear, that hated him than to be angry with never seeking revenge, but, with good Ly- 30 them. curgus, to lose her own eye rather than This clemency did her Majesty not only to hurt another's eye. show at her coming to the throne, but also But being now placed in the seat royal, throughout her whole government, when she first of all established religion, ban- she hath spared to shed their bloods that ished popery, advanced the Word, that be- 35 sought to spill hers, not racking the laws fore was so much defaced, who having in to extremity, but mitigating the rigor, her hand the' sword to revenge, used with mercy, insomuch as it may be said 76 EUPHUES AND HIS ENGLAND n of that royal monarch as it was of O divine nature, O heavenly nobility, Antoninus, surnamed the godly Emperor, what thing can there more be required who reigned many years without the effu- in a prince, than in greatest power to sion of blood. What greater virtue can show greatest patience, in chiefest glory there be in a prince than mercy ; what 5 to bring forth chiefest grace, in abun- greater praise than to abate the edge dance of all earthly pomp to manifest which she should whet, to pardon where abundance of all heavenly piety? O for- she should punish, to reward where she tunate England that hath such a Queen, should revenge ? ungrateful if thou pray not for her. I myself being in England when her lo wicked if thou do not love her, miserable Majesty was for her recreation in her if thou lose her. barge upon the Thames, heard of a gun * * * that was shot off, though of the party un- Touching the beauty of this prince, her wittingly, yet to her noble person danger- countenance, her personage, her majesty, ously, which fact she most graciously 15 I cannot think that it may be sufificiently pardoned, accepting a just excuse before commended, when it cannot be too much a great amends, taking more grief for her marveled at ; so that I am constrained to poor bargeman, that was a little hurt, say as Praxitiles did, when he began to than care for herself that stood in great- paint Venus and her son, who doubted est hazard. O rare example of pity, O 20 whether the world could afford colors singular spectacle of piety. good enough for two such fair faces, Divers besides have there been which and I, whether our tongue can yield by private conspiracies, open rebellions, words to blaze that beauty, the perfection close wiles, cruel witchcrafts, have sought whereof none can imagine ; which seeing to end her life, which saveth all their 25 it is so, I must do like those that want lives, whose practices by the divine provi- a clear sight, who, being not able to dis- dence of the Almighty, have ever been cern the sun in the sky, are enforced to disclosed, insomuch that he hath kept her behold it in the water. Zeuxis, having safe in the whale's belly when her sub- before him fifty fair virgins of Sparta jects went about to throw her into the 30 whereby to draw one amiable Venus, said sea, preserved her in the hot oven, when that fifty more fairer than those could not her enemies increased the fire, not suffer- minister sufficient beauty to show the ing a hair to fall from her, much less goddess of beauty; therefore, being in any harm to fasten upon her. These despair either by art to shadow her, or injuries and treasons of her subjects, 35 by imagination to comprehend her, he these policies and undermining of for- drew in a table a fair temple, the gates eign nations so little moved her, that she open, and Venus going in so as nothing would often say, ' Let them know that, could be perceived but her back, wherein though it be not lawful for them to he used such cunning that Apelles him- speak what they list, yet it is lawful for 40 self, seeing this work, wished that \^enus us to do with them what we list,' being would turn her face, saying that if it always of that merciful mind, which was were in all parts agreeable to the back, in Theodosius, who wished rather that he he would become apprentice to Zeuxis, might call the dead to life than put the and slave to Venus. In the like manner living to death, saying with Augustus -iS fareth it with me, for having all the when she should set her hand to any ladies in Italy, more than fifty hundred, condemnation, * I would to God we could whereby to color Elizabeth, I must say not write.' Infinite were the examples with Zeuxis that as many more will not that might be alleged, and almost incredi- suffice, and therefore in as great an agony ble, whereby she hath shown herself a 50 paint her court with her back towards lamb in meekness, when she had cause to you, for that I cannot by art portray her be a lion in might, proved a dove in beauty, wherein, though I want the skill favor, when she was provoked to be an to do it as Zeuxis did, yet viewing it eagle in fierceness, requiting injuries with narrowly, and comparing it wisely, you benefits, revenging grudges with gifts, in 55 all will say that if her face be answerable highest majesty bearing the lowest mind, to her back, you will like my handicraft forgiving all that sued for mercy, and and become her handmaids. In the mean forgetting all that deserved justice. season, I leave you gazing until she turn 78 JOHN LYLY her face, iinagiiiing her to he such a one ])hiloso])hy, wlio taught Pericles; exceed- as nature framed to that end, that no art ing in judgment Themistoclca, who in- should imitate, wherein she hath proved structcd Pythagoras. Add to these qual- hcrsclf to he exquisite, and painters to ities, those that none of these had; the be apes. ^ French tongue, the Spanish, the Itahan, This beautiful mold when I beheld to not mean in every one, but excellent in be indued with chastity, temperance, all ; readier to correct escapes in those mildness, and all other good gifts of na- languages than to be controlled; fitter to ture (as hereafter shall appear), when I teach others than learn of any; more able saw her to surpass all in beauty, and yet a lo to add new rules than to err in the old ; virgin, to excel all in piety, and yet a insomuch as there is no ambassador that l)rince, to be inferior to none in all the cometh into her court but she is willing lineaments of the body, and yet superior and al)le both to understand his message to every one in all gifts of the mind, I and utter her mind; not like unto the began thus to pray, that as she hath lived 15 kings of Assyria, who answered ambas- forty years a virgin in great majesty, so sadors by messengers, while they them- she may live four score years a mother selves either dally in sin or snort in with great joy, that as with her we have sleep. Her godly zeal to learning, with long time had peace and plenty, so by her great skill, hath been so manifestly her we may ever have quietness and 20 approved that I cannot tell whether she abundance, wishing this even from the deserve more honor for her knowledge, bottom of a heart that wisheth well to or admiration for her courtesy, who in England, though feareth ill, that either great pomp hath twice directed her prog- the world may end before she die, or she ress unto the universities, with no less live to see her children's children in the 25 joy to the students than glory to her world; otherwise how fickle their state state. Here, after long and solemn dis- is that now triumph, upon what a twist putations in law, physic, and divinity, they hang that now are in honor, they not as one wearied with scholars's argu- that live shall see, which I to think on, ments, but wedded to their orations, when sigh ! But God for his mercy's sake, 30 every one feared to offend in length, she Christ for his merits' sake, the Holy in her own person, with no less praise to Ghost for his name's sake, grant to that her Majesty than delight to her subjects, realm comfort without any ill chance, and with a wise and learned conclusion, both the prince they have without any other gave them thanks, and put herself to change, that the longer she liveth, the 35 pains. O noble pattern of a princely sweeter she may smell, like the bird Ibis, mind, not like to the kings of Persia, that she may be triumphant in victories, who in their progresses did nothing else like the palm tree, fruitful in her age but cut sticks to drive away the time, nor like the vine, in all ages prosperous, to like the delicate lives of the Sybarites, all men gracious, in all places glorious, 40 who would not admit any art to be exer- so that there be no end of her praise cised within their city that might make until the end of all flesh. the least noise. Her wit so sharp. Thus did I often talk with myself, and that if I should repeat the apt answers, wish with mine whole soul. the subtle questions, the fine speeches, Why should I talk of her sharp wit, 45 the pithy sentences, which on the sudden excellent wisdom, exquisite learning, and she hath uttered, they would rather breed all other qualities of the mind, wherein admiration than credit. But such are she seemeth as far to excel those that have the gifts that the living God hath indued been accounted singular, as the learned her withal, that look in what art or Ian- have surpassed those that have been 50 guage, wit or learning, virtue or beauty thought simple. any one hath particularly excelled most. In questioning, not inferior to Nicaulia, she only hath generally exceeded every the queen of Saba, that did put so many one in all, insomuch that there is nothing hard doubts to Solomon ; equal to Nicos- to be added that either man would wish trata in the Greek tongue, who was 55 in a woman, or God doth give to a thought to give precepts for the better creature. perfection ; more learned in the Latin I let pass her skill in music, her knowl- than Amalasunta; passing Aspasia in edge in all the other sciences, whenas I EUPHUES AND HIS ENGLAND 79 fear lest by my simplicity I should make that all nations round about her, threat- them less than they are, in seeking to ening alteration, shaking swords, throw- show how great they are, unless I were ing fire, menacing famine, murder, de- praising her in the gallery of Olympia, struction, desolation, she only hath stood where giving forth one word, I might 5 like a lamp on the top of a hill, not fear- hear seven. ing the blasts of the sharp winds, but But all these graces, although they be trusting in his providence that rideth to be wondered at, yet her politic gov- upon the wings of the four winds. Next ernment, her prudent counsel, her zeal to followeth the love she beareth to her sub- religion, her clemency to those that sub- 10 jects, who no less tendereth them than mit, her stoutness to those that threaten, the apple of her own eye, showing herself so far exceed all other virtues that they a mother to the afflicted, a physician to are more easy to be marveled at than the sick, a sovereign and mild governess imitated. to all. Two and twenty years hath she borne 15 Touching her magnanimity, her maj- the sword with such justice, that neither esty, her estate royal, there was neither offenders could complain of rigor, nor Alexander, nor Galba the Emperor, nor the innocent of wrong; yet so tempered any, that might be compared with her. with mercy as malefactors have been This is she that, resembling the noble sometimes pardoned upon hope of grace, 20 queen of Navarre, useth the marigold for and the injured requited to ease their her flower, which at the rising of the grief, insomuch that in the whole course sun opencth her leaves, and at the setting of her glorious reign, it could never be shutteth them, referring all her actions said that either the poor were oppressed and endeavors to him that ruleth tfie sun. without remedy, or the guilty repressed 25 This is that Caesar, that first bound the without cause, bearing this engraven in crocodile to the palm tree, bridling those her noble heart, that justice without that sought to rein her. This is that mercy were extreme injury, and pity good pelican, that to feed her people without equity, plain partiality, and that spareth not to rend her own person. it is as great tyranny not to mitigate 30 This is that mighty eagle, that hath laws, as iniquity to break them. thrown dust into the eyes of the hart Her care for the flourishing of the Cos- that went about to work destruction to her pel hath well appeared whenas neither subjects, into whose wings although the the curses of the Pope (which are bless- blind beetle would have crept, and so ings to good people) nor the threatenings 35 being carried into her nest, destroyed her of kings (which are perilous to a prince) young ones, yet hath she with the virtue nor the persuasions of papists (which are of her feathers, consumed that fly in his honey to the mouth) could either fear own fraud. She hath exiled the swal- her or allure her to violate the holy low that sought to spoil the grasshopper, league contracted with Christ, or to 40 and given bitter almonds to the ravenous maculate the blood of the ancient Lamb, wolves that endeavored to devour the which is Christ. But always constant in silly lambs, burning even with the breath the true faith, she hath to the exceeding of her mouth like the princely stag, the joy of her subjects, to the unspeakable serpents that were engendered by the comfort of her soul, to the great glory of 45 breath of the huge elephant, so that now God, established that religion the main- all her enemies are as whist as the bird tenance whereof she rather seeketh to Attagen, who never singeth any tune confirm by fortitude, than leave off for after she is taken, nor they being so fear, knowing that there is nothing overtaken. smelleth sweeter to the Lord than a sound 50 But whither do I wade, ladies, as one spirit, which neither the hosts of the un- forgetting himself, thinking to sound the godly nor the horror of death can either depth of her virtues with a few fathoms, remove or move. when there is no bottom ; for I know This Gospel with invincible . courage, not how it cometh to pass that, being in with rare constancy, with hot zeal, she 55 this labyrinth, I may sooner lose myself hath maintained in her own countries than find the end. without change, and defended against all Behold, ladies, in this glass a queen, kingdoms that sought change, insomuch a woman, a virgin in all gifts of the l)ody. 8o JOHN LYLY in all graces of the mind, in all perfection of either, so far to excel all men, that I know not whether I may think the place too bad for her to dwell among men. To talk of other things in that court were to bring eggs after apples, or after the setting out of the sun, to tell a tale of a shadow. But this I say, that all offices are looked to with great care, that virtue is em- braced of all, vice hated, religion daily increased, manners reformed, -that who- so seeth the place there, will think it rather a church for divine service than a court for princes' delight. This is the glass, ladies, wherein I would have you gaze, wherein I took my whole delight ; imitate the ladies in Eng- land, amend your manners, rub out the wrinkles of the mind, and be not curioui about the weams in the face. As for their Elizabeth, since you can neither sufficiently marvel at her, nor I praise her, let us all pray for her, which is the only duty we can perform, and the great- est that we can proffer. Yours to command, EUPHUES. APELLES' SONG (From ALEXANDER AND CAMPASPE) Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bows 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. 'o 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 (From ALEXANDER AND CAMPASPE) What bird so sings, yet so does wail? O '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 ! »o Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing, ' Cuckoo,' to welcome in the spring ! ' Cuckoo,' to welcome in the spring ! SAPPHO'S SONG (From SAPPHO and phao) O cruel Love ! on thee I lay J My curse, which shall strike blind the day; j Never may sleep with velvet hand ' Charm thine eyes with sacred wand ; Thy jailors still be hopes and fears ; 5 Thy prison-mates groans, sighs, and tears ; Thy play to wear out weary times. Fantastic passions, vows, and rimes ; Thy bread be frowns ; thy drink be gall ; Such as when you Phao call; >" The bed thou best on be despair ; Thy sleep, fond dreams ; thy dreams, long care; Hope (like thy fool) at thy bed's head, Mock thee, till madness strikes thee dead. As, Phao, thou dost me, with thy proud eyes. ' s In thee poor Sappho lives, in thee she dies. SONG (From gallathea) Telusa : O yes, O yes! if any maid Whom leering Cupid has betrayed To frowns of spite, to eyes of scorn. And would in madness now see torn The boy in pieces, — All Three: Let her come Hither, and lay on him her doom. Eurota: O yes, O yes! has any lost A heart which many a sigh hath cost ; Is any cozened of a tear lo Which, as a pearl, disdain does wear? All Three: Here stands the thief; let her but come Hither, and lay on him her doom. Larissa : Is any one undone by fire. And turned to ashes through desire? '5 Did ever any lady weep, Benig cheated of her golden sleep Stol'n by sick thoughts? All Three: The pirate's found And in her tears he shall be drowned. Read this indictment, let him hear ^i What he's to trust to. Boy, give ear! I SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586) Sidney's parents were Sir Henry Sidney, subsequently lord deputy in Ireland, and Lady Mary Dudley, daughter of the Duke of Noithumberland. After an agreeable schooling at Shrewsbury, Sidney took up residence at Christ Church, Oxford, a residence which he cut short in order to travel abroad, after the fashion of young men of rank. At the time of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, August 2;j-4. 1572, he was in I'aris, and subsequently his travels, during about four years, extended to Germany, Italy, and other parts of the Continent. Of these travels, one interesting legacy is his Latin correspondence with the distinguished Huguenot, Hubert Languet. In 157G-77, Sidney was abroad on a diplomatic mission to the Emperor Rudolf II. As a courtier he was esteemed and honored on the continent, both for his personal charm and for his genuine talent. Although he was a favorite of Queen Eliza- beth, his opposition to her proposed marriage with the Duke of Anjou may have been the cause of his retirement, for a time, to Wilton, where he wrote Arcadia, a pastoral romance (pub- lished 1500), in honor of his sister, the countess of Pembroke, and An Apology for Poetry (published 1595). During this period of retirement, also, he may have begun writing the sonnets and son_gs addressed to Penelope Devereux, and published, in 1591, as Astrophcl and Stella. In 1582, Sidney was knighted by the queen, who is said to have interfered later against his being offered the Polish crown. In 1585, the queen appointed him governor of Flushing, on the coast of the Netherlands. During the siege of Zutphen, in an expedition to intercept a Spanish convoy, he was mortally wounded, and died, October 17, 158G. Short-lived as he was, Sidney acquired a substantial place in English literature, as a masterly poet of the courtly order, as a charming romancer, and as a gentle but firm critic. The charm of his poetry and romance extended to his criticism, and gave to his somewhat too orthodox canons, a permanent allurement of frankness, gentleness, and humor. From AN APOLOGY FOR POETRY James of Scotland; such cardinals as Bembus and Bibiena ; such famous But since I have run so long a career preachers and teachers as Beza and in this matter, methinks, before I give Melancthon ; so learned philosophers as my pen a full stop, it shall be but a little 5 Fracastorius and Scaliger; so great ora- more lost time to inquire, why England, tors as Pontanus and Muretus ; so pierc- the mother of excellent minds, should ing wits as George Buchanan ; so grave be grown so hard a step-mother to poets, councilors as, besides many, but before who certainly in wit ought to pass all all, that Hospital of France, than whom, others, since all only proceeds from their lo I think, that realm never brought forth a wit, being, indeed, makers of themselves, more accomplished judgment, more firmly not takers of others. How can I but builded upon virtue; I say these, with exclaim, numbers of others, not only to read others' poesies, but to poetize for others' reading: Musa, mihi causas memora, quo numine 15 that poesy, thus embraced in all other laeso? places, should only find in our time a hard [Muse, bring to my mind the reasons : welcome in England, I think the very for the injury of what divinity?] earth laments it, and therefore decks our soil with fewer laurels than it was accus- Sweet poesy ! that hath anciently had 20 tomed. For heretofore poets have in kings, emperors, senators, great captains, England also flourished; and, which is to such as besides a thousand others, David, be noted, even in those times when the Adrian, Sophocles, Germanicus, not only trumpet of Mars did sound loudest. And to favor poets, but to be poets; and of now that an over-faint quietness should our nearer times can present for her 25 seem to strew the house for poets, they patrons, a Robert, King of Sicily; the are almost in as good reputation as the great King Francis of France; King mountebanks at Venice. Truly, even 6 81 82 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY that, as of the one side it giveth great any that have strength of wit; a poet praise to poesy, which, like Venus (but no industry can make, if his own genius to better purpose), had rather be troubled be not carried into it. And therefore is in the net with Mars, than enjoy tlie it an old proverb. Orator fit, pacta nasci- homely quiet of Vulcan ; so serves it for 5 tur [The orator is made, the poet a piece of a reason why they are less born]. Yet confess I always, that, as grateful to idle England, which now can the fertilest ground must be manured, so scarce endure the pain of a pen. Upon must the highest flying wit have a this necessarily followeth that base men Diedalus to guide him. That Diedalus, with servile wits undertake it, who think lo they say, both in this and in other, hath it enough if they can be rewarded of the three wings to bear itself up into the air printer; and so as Epaminondas is said, of due commendation; that is, art, imita- with the honor of his virtue, to have tion, and exercise. But these, neither made an office by his exercising it, which artificial rules, nor imitative patterns, we before was contemptible, to become 15 much cumber ourselves withal. Exer- highly respected; so these men, no more cise, indeed, we do, but that very fore- but setting their names to it, by their backwardly; for where we should exer- own disgracefulness, disgrace the most cise to know, we exercise as having graceful poesy. For now, as if all the known; and so is our brain delivered of Muses were got with child, to bring forth 20 much matter which never was begotten bastard poets, without any commission, by knowledge. For there being two they do post over the banks of Helicon, principal parts, matter to be expressed until they make their readers more by words, and words to express the mat- weary than post-horses; while, in the ter, in neither we use art or imitation meantime, they, 25 rightly. Our matter is qiiodlibct [what you will], indeed, although wrongly, per- Queis meliore luto finxit praecordia Titan, forming Ovid's verse, [Whose heart-strings the Titan fastened with a better clay] Quicquid conabor dicere, versus erit ; 30 [Whatever I shall try to say will be verse] are better content to suppress the out- flowings of their wit than by publishing never marshaling it into any assured them to be accounted knights of the same rank, that almost the readers cannot tell order. where to tind themselves. But I that, before ever I durst aspire 35 Chaucer, undoubtedly, did excellently unto the dignity, am admitted into the in his Troilus and Criseydc ; of whom, company of the paper-blurrers, do find truly, I know not whether to marvel the very true cause of our wanting esti- more, either that he in that misty time mation is want of desert, taking upon us could see so clearly, or that we in this to be poets in despite of Pallas. Now, 4° clear age go so stumblingly after him. wherein we want desert, were a thank- Yet had he great wants, fit to be forgiven worthy labor to express. But if I in so reverend antiquity. I account the knew, I should have mended myself; but Mirror for Magistrates meetly furnished as I never desired the title, so have I of beautiful parts. And in the Earl of neglected the means to come by it; only, 45 Surrey's lyrics, many things tasting of overmastered by some thoughts, I a noble birth, and worthy of a noble yielded an inky tribute unto them. mind. The Shepherd's Calendar hath Marry, they that delight in poesy itself, much poetry in its eclogues, indeed, wor- should seek to know what they do, and thy the reading, if I be not deceived, how they do, and, especially, look them- 50 That same framing of its style to an old selves in an unflattering glass of reason, rustic language, I dare not allow ; since if they be inclinable unto it. neither Theocritus in Greek, Virgil in For poesy must not be drawn by the Latin, nor Sannazaro in Italian, did af- ears, it must be gently led, or rather it feet it. Besides these, I do not remember must lead; which was partly the cause 55 to have seen but few (to speak boldly) that made the ancient learned affirm it printed that have poetical sinews in was a divine gift, and no human skill, them. For proof whereof, let but most since all other knowledges lie ready for of the verses be put in prose, and then il AN APOLOGY FOR POETRY 83 ask the meaning, and it will be found imagine; and art hath taught and all that one verse did but beget another, ancient examples justified, and at this day without ordering at the first what should the ordinary players in Italy will not err be at the last; which becomes a con- in. Y^et will some bring in an example fused mass of words, with a tinkling 5 of the Eunuch in Terence, that containeth sound of rime, barely accompanied with matter of two days, yet far short of reason. twenty years. True it is, and so was Our tragedies and comedies (not with- it to be played in two days, and so fitted out cause, cried out against) observing to the time it set forth. And though rules neither of honest civility nor of 10 Plautus have in one place done amiss, let skilful poetry, excepting Gorbodiic (again us hit it with him, and not miss with him. I say of those that I have seen), which But they will say, How then shall we notwithstanding, as it is full of stately set forth a story which contains both speeches and well-sounding phrases, many places and many times? And do climbing to the height of Seneca's 15 they not know that a tragedy is tied to the style, and as full of notable morality, laws of poesy, and not of history; not which it does most delightfully teach, and bound to follow the story, but having so obtain the very end of poesy; yet, in liberty either to feign a quite new matter, truth, it is very defectious in the cir- or to frame the history to the most trag- cumstances, which grieves me, because 20 ical conveniency? Again, many things it might not remain as an exact model of may be told, which cannot be showed: if all tragedies. For it is faulty both in they know the difference betwixt report- place and time, the two necessary com- ing and representing. As, for example, I panions of all corporal actions. For may speak, though I am here, of Peru, where the stage should always represent 25 and in speech digress from that to the but one place, and the uttermost time pre- description of Calicut; but in action I supposed in it should be, both by Aris- cannot represent it without Pacolet's totle's precept, and common reason, but horse. And so was the manner the an- one day, there is both many days and cients took, by some Nuntius [Messen- many places inartificially imagined. 30 ger] to recount things done in former But if it be so in Gorboduc, how much time, or other place, more in all the rest? where you shall Lastly, if they will represent an his- have Asia of the one side, and Afric of tory, they must not, as Horace saith, be- the other, and so many other under king- gin ab ovo, [from the ^^z\ but they must doms, that the player, when he comes in, 35 come to the principal point of that one ac- must ever begin with telling where he is, tion which they will represent. By ex- or else the tale will not be conceived, ample this will be best expressed. I have Now you shall have three ladies walk to a story of young Polydorus, delivered, for gather flowers, and then we must believe safety's sake, with great riches, by his the stage to be a garden. By and by, we 40 father Priamus to Polymnestor, King of hear news of shipwreck in the same Thrace, in the Trojan war time. He. place, and then we are to blame if we after some years, hearing the overthrow accept it not for a rock. Upon the back of Priamus, for to make the treasure his of that comes out a hideous monster, with own, murdereth the child; the body of fire and smoke, and then the miserable 45 the child is taken up by Hecuba; she, the beholders are bound to take it for a cave; same day, findeth a sleight to be revenged while, in the meantime, two armies fly most cruelly of the tyrant. Where, now, in, represented with four swords and would one of our tragedy-writers begin, bucklers, and then, what hard heart will but with the delivery of the child? Then not receive it for a pitched field? 50 should he sail over into Thrace, and so Now, of time they are much more lib- spend I know not how many years, and eral; for ordinary it is. that two young travel numbers of places. But where princes fall in love; after many traverses doth Euripides? Even with the finding she is got with child ; delivered of a fair of the body ; leaving the rest to be told by boy ; he is lost, groweth a man, falls in 55 the spirit of Polydorus. This needs no love, and is ready to get another child; further to be enlarged; the dullest wit and all this in two hours' space; which, may conceive it. how absurd it is in sense, even sense may But, besides these gross absurdities, 84 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY how all their plays be neither right rather pained than delighted with laugh- tragedies nor right comedies, mingling ter. Yet deny I not, but that they may kings and clowns, not because the matter go well together; for, as in Alexander's so carrieth it, but thrust in clowns by picture well set out, we delight without head and shoulders to play a part in 5 laughter, and in twenty mad antics we majestical matters, with neither decency laugh without delight: so" in Hercules, nor discretion; so as neither the admira- painted with his great beard and furious tion and commiseration, nor the right countenance, in a woman's attire, spin- sportfulness, is by their mongrel tragi- ning at Omphale's commandment, it comedy obtained. I know Apuleius did lo breedeth both delight and laughter; for somewhat so, but that is a thing re- the representing of so strange a power in counted with space of time, not repre- love procures delight, and the scornful- sented in one moment: and I know the ness of the action stirreth laughter, ancients have one or two examples of But I speak to this purpose, that all the tragi-comedies, as Plautus hath Amphi- i5 end of the comical part be not upon such truo. But, if we mark them well, we shall scornful matters as stir laughter only, but find that they never, or very daintily, mix with it that delightful teaching which match hornpipes and funerals. So fall- is the end of poesy. And the great fault, eth it out, that, having, indeed, no right even in that point of laughter, and for- comedy in that comical part of our 20 bidden plainly by Aristotle, is, that they tragedy, we have nothing but scurrility, stir laughter in sinful things, which are unworthy of any chaste ears ; or some ex- rather execrable than ridiculous ; or in treme show of doltishness, indeed fit to miserable, which are rather to be pitied lift up a loud laughter, and nothing else ; than scorned. For what is it to make where the whole tract of a comedy should 25 folks gape at a wretched beggar, and a be full of delight as the tragedy should be beggarly clown ; or against the law of still maintained in a well-raised admira- hospitality, to jest at strangers, because tion. they speak not English so well as we do? But our comedians think there is no what do we learn? since it is certain, delight without laughter, which is very 30 wrong; for though laughter may come Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se, with delight, yet cometh it not of delight, Quam quod ridicules, homines facit. as though delight should be the cause of [Of all the griefs that harass the distrest, laughter; but well may one thing breed Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest] both together. Nay, in themselves, they 35 have, as it were, a kind of contrariety. But rather a busy loving courtier, a heart- For delight we scarcely do, but in things less threatening Thraso; a self-wise-seem- that have a conveniency to ourselves, or ing schoolmaster; a wry-transformed to the general nature. Laughter almost traveler : these, if we saw walk in stage ever cometh of things most dispropor- 40 names, which we play naturally, therein tioned to ourselves and nature : delight were delightful laughter, and teaching de- hath a joy in it, either permanent or lightfulness: as in the other, the tragedies present; laughter hath only a scornful of Buchanan do justly bring forth a tickling. For example: we are ravished divine admiration. with delight to see a fair woman, and yet 45 But I have lavished out too many words are far from being moved to laughter; we of this play matter; I do it, because, as laugh at deformed creatures, wherein cer- they are excelling parts of poesy, so is tainly we cannot delight ; we delight in there none so much used in England, and good chances; we laugh at mischances; none can be more pitifully abused ; which, we delight to hear the happiness of our 50 like an unmannerly daughter, showing a friends or country, at which he were bad education, causeth her mother Poesy's worthy to be laughed at that would honesty to be called in question. laugh : we shall, contrarily, laugh some- Other sorts of poetry, almost have we times to find a matter quite mistaken, and none, but that lyrical kind of songs and go down the hill against the bias, in the 55 sonnets, which, if the Lord gave us so mouth of some such men, as for the re- good minds, how well it might be em- spect of them, one shall be heartily sorry, ployed, and with how heavenly fruits, yet he cannot choose but laugh, and so is both private and public in singing the AN APOLOGY FOR POETRY 85 praises of the immortal beauty, the im- derbolt of eloquence, often used the figure mortal goodness of that God, who giveth of repetition. us hands to write and wits to conceive; yivit. Vivit? imo in Senatum venit, etc. of which we might well want words, but ^^^ ij^.^^_ Lives? nay comes to the Senate] never matter; of which we could turn our 5 "^ ■" eyes to nothing, but we should ever have Indeed, inflamed with a well-grounded new budding occasions. But, truly, many rage, he would have his words, as it were, of such writings as come under the ban- double out of his mouth; and so do that ner of irresistible love, if I were a mis- artificially which we see men do in choler tress, would never persuade me they were 10 naturally. And we, having noted the in love; so coldly they apply fiery grace of those words, hale them in some- speeches, as men that had rather read times to a familiar epistle, when it were lovers' writings, and so caught up certain too much choler to be choleric, swelling phrases, which hang together — How well, store of ' similiter cadences ' like a man which once told me, ' the wind 15 doth sound with the gravity of the pulpit, was at northwest and by south,' because I would but invoke Demosthenes' soul to he would be sure to name winds enough — tell, who with a rare daintiness useth than that, in truth, they feel those pas- them. Truly, they have made me think sions, which easily, as I think, may be of the sophister, that with too much bewrayed by the same forcibleness, or 20 subtlety would prove two eggs three, and, energia (as the Greeks call it), of the though he might be counted a sophister, writer. But let this be a sufficient, though had none for his labor. So these men short note, that we miss the right use of bringing in such a kind of eloquence, well the material point of poesy. may they obtain an opinion of a seeming Now for the outside of it, which is 25 fineness, but persuade few, which should words, or, as I may term it, diction, it is be the end of their fineness. even well worse ; so is that honey-flowing Now for similitudes in certain printed matron Eloquence, appareled, or rather discourses, I think all herbalists, all disguised, in a courtesan-like painted af- stories of beasts, fowls, and fishes are fectation. One time with so far-fetched 3o rifled up, that they come in multitudes to words, that may seem monsters, but must wait upon any of our conceits, which seem strangers to any poor Englishman : certainly is as absurd a surfeit to the ears another time with coursing of a letter, as as is possible. For the force of a simili- if they were bound to follow the method tude not being to prove anything to a of a dictionary : another time with figures 35 contrary disputer, but only to explain to and flowers, extremely winter-starved. a willing hearer: when that is done, the But I would this fault were only rest is a most tedious prattling, rather peculiar to versifiers, and had not as large overswaying the memory from the pur- possession among prose printers : and, pose whereto they were applied, than any which is to be marveled, among many 40 whit informing the judgment, already scholars, and, which is to be pitied, among either satisfied, or by similitudes not to some preachers. Truly, I could wish (if be satisfied. at least I might be so bold to wish, in a For my part, I do not doubt, when An- thing beyond the reach of my capacity) tonius and Crassus, the great forefathers the diligent imitators of Tully and De- 45 of Cicero in eloquence, the one (as Cicero mosthenes, most worthy to be imitated, testifieth of them) pretended not to know did not so much keep Nizolian paper- art, the other not to set by it, because with books of their figures and phrases, as by a plain sensibleness they might win credit attentive translation, as it were, devour of popular ears, which credit is the near- them whole, and make them wholly theirs. 50 est step to persuasion (which persuasion For now they cast sugar and spice upon is the chief mark of oratory) ; I do not every dish that is served to the table: like doubt, I say, but that they used these those Indians, not content to wear ear- knacks very sparingly; which who doth rings at the fit and natural place of the generally use, any man may see, doth ears, but they will thrust jewels through 55 dance to his own music; and so to be their nose and lips, because they will be noted bv the audience, more careful to sure to be fine. Tully, when he was to speak curiously than to speak truly. Un- drive out Catiline, as it were with a thun- doubtedlv (at least to my opinion, un- 86 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY doubtedly) I luive found in divers small- more fit for music, both words and tune learned courtiers a more sound style than observing quantity; and more fit lively to in some professors of learning; of which exjiress divers ])assions, by the low and I can guess no other cause, but that the lofty sound of the well-weighed syllable, courtier following that which by practice 5 Tlie latter, likewise, with his rime striketh he findeth fittest to nature, therein (though a certain music to the ear; and, in fine, lie know it not) doth according to art, since it doth delight, though by another though not by art: where the other, using way, it oljtains the same purpose; there art to show art, and not to hide art (as l)eing in either, sweetness, and wanting in these cases he should do), flieth from 10 in neither, majesty. Truly the English, nature, and indeed abuseth art. before any other vulgar language I know, But what! mcthinks I deserve to be is fit for both sorts; for, for the ancient, pounded for straying from poetry to ora- the Italian is so full of vowels, that it tory : but both have such an affinity in the must ever be cumbered with elisions. The wordish considerations, that I think this 15 Dutch so of the other side with conso- digression will make my meaning receive nants, that they cannot yield the sweet the fuller understanding: which is not to sliding fit for a verse. The French, in take upon me to teach poets how they his whole language, hath not one word should do, but only finding myself sick that hath its accent in the last syllable, among the rest, to show some one or two 20 saving two, called antepenultima; and spots of the common infection grown little more hath the Spanish ; and, there- among the most part of writers ; that, ac- fore, very gracelessly may they use knowledging ourselves somewhat awry, dactyls. The English is subject to none we may bend to the right use both of mat- of these defects. ter and manner : whereto our language 25 Now for rime, though we do not ob- giveth us great occasion, being, indeed, serve quantity, yet we observe the accent capable of any excellent exercising of it. very precisely, which other languages I know some will say, it is a mingled either cannot do, or will not do so ab- language : and why not so much the better, solutely. That caesura, or breathing- taking the best of both the other? An- 30 place, in the midst of the verse, neither other will say, it wanteth grammar. Nay, Italian nor Spanish have, the French and truly, it hath that praise, that it wanteth we never almost fail of. Lastly, even the not grammar; for grammar it might have, very rime itself the Italian cannot put in but it needs it not; being so easy in itself, the last syllable, by the French named the and so void of those cumbersome differ- 35 masculine rime, but still in the next to ences of cases, genders, moods, and the last, which the French call the female ; tenses; which, I think, was a piece of the or the next before that, which the Italians Tower of Babylon's curse, that a man term sdrucciola: the example of the for- should be put to school to learn his mer is, huono, suono ; of the sdrucciola is, mother tongue. But for the uttering 40 /f;» ma, sanina. The French, of the sweetly and properly the conceits of the other side, hath both the male, as bon, son, mind, which is the end of speech, that and the female, as plaise, taise ; but the hath it equally with any other tongue in sdrucciola he hath not; where the Eng- the world, and is particularly happy in lish hath all three, as ' due,' ' true,' compositions of two or three words to- 45 ' father,' * rather,' ' motion.' ' potion ' ; gether, near the Greek, far beyond the with much more which might be said, but Latin; which is one of the greatest beau- that I find already the tritlingness of ties can be in a language. this discourse is much too much enlarged. Now, of versifying there are two sorts. So that since the ever praiseworthy the one ancient, the other modern ; the an- 50 poesy is full of virtue-breeding delight- cient marked the quantity of each syllable, fulness, and void of no gift that ought to and according to that, framed its verse; be in the noble name of learning; since the modern, observing only number, with the blames laid against it are either false some regard of the accent, the chief life or feeble; since the cause why it is not of it standcth in that like sounding of the 55 esteemed in England is the fault of poet- words, which we call rime. Whether of apes, not poets; since, lastly, our tongue these be the more excellent, would bear is most fit to honor poesy, and to be lion- many speeches; the ancient, no doubt ored by poesy; I conjure you all that ASTROFHEL AND STELLA 87 have had the evil luck to read this ink- poets ; that while you live, you live in Vi^asting toy of mine, even in the name of love, and never get favor, for lacking the Nine Muses, no more to scorn the sa- skill of a sonnet; and when you die, your cred mysteries of poesy ; no more to laugh memory die from the earth for want of at the name of poets, as though they were 5 an epitaph. next inheritors to fools; no more to jest at the reverend title of a rimer; but to believe, with Aristotle, that they were the ASTROPHEL AND STELLA ancient treasurers of the Grecians' divin- i ity; to believe with Bembus, that they 10 Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love were the first bringers in of all civility; ^^ gj^^^ to believe, with Scaliger, that no philoso- jhat she, dear she, might take some pleasure pher s precepts can sooner make you an q£ j^ p^jj-, honest man, than the reading of Virgil ; pleasure might cause her read, reading might to believe, with Clauserus, the translator 15 make her know of Cornutus, that it pleased the heavenly Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace deity by Hesiod and Homer, under the obtain veil of fables, to give us all knowledge, i ^^^^^^ ^^ ^ords to paint the blackest face logic, rhetoric, philosophy natural and of ^oe 5 moral, and Quid non? [Why not] to 20 studying inventions fine, her wits to enter- believe, with me, that there are many tain mysteries contained in poetry, which of oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence purpose were written darkly, lest by pro- would flow fane wits it should be abused ; to believe, Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my with Landin, that they are so beloved of 25 sunburnt brain the gods that whatsoever they write pro- But words came halting forth, wanting In- ceeds of a divine fury. Lastly, to believe vention's stay • themselves, when they tell you they will invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame make you immortal by their verses. Study's blows; 10 Thus doing, your names shall flourish in 30 And others' feet still seemed but strangers' the printers' shops: thus doing, you shall \^ my way. be of kin to many a poetical preface : thus Thus, great with child to speak, and help- doing, you shall be most fair, most rich, j^ss in my throes, most wise, most all: you shall dwell upon Biting my truant pen, beating myself for superlatives : thus doing, though you be 35 spite ; Libcrtino patre notiis [Born of a freedman < pool,' said my Muse to me, 'look in thy father], you shall suddenly grow Herculca heart and write.' proles [Descendant of Hercules], Si quid mea Carmina possunt : 40 vii [If my poems are good for anything] When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes. Thus doing, your soul shall be placed with In color black why wrapt she beams so Dante's Beatrice, or Virgil's Anchises. bright? ,,,,.. But if (fie of such a but!) you be born 45 ^^'Ould she, in beamy black, like pamtcr so near the dull-making cataract of Nilus, wise, ■ ^ , , ^ that you cannot hear the planet-like music Frame daintiest luster, mixed of shades and of poetrv; if you have so earth-creeping light? . , . a mind that it cannot lift itself up to look Or did she else that sober hue devise, 5 to the sky of poetry, or rather, by a cer- 50 In object best to knit and strength our tain rustical disdain, will become such a sight; Mome, as to be a Momus of poetry; then. Lest, if no veil these brave gleams did dis- though I will not wish unto you the ass's guise, ears of Midas, nor to be driven by a They, sunlike, should more dazzle than de- poet's verses, as Bubonax was, to hang 55 hght ? himself; nor to be rimed to death, as is Or would she her miraculous power show, said to be done in Ireland; yet thus much That, whereas black seems Beauty's con- curse I must send you in the behalf of all trary, >o SIR PHILIP SIDNEY She even in black doth make all beauties flow? Both so, and thus,— she, minding Love should be Placed ever there, ^ave him this mourning weed To honor all their deaths which for her bleed. You that do searcli for every purling spring Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows, And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring; You that do dictionary's method bring 5 Into your rimes, running in rattling rows ; You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes With new-born sighs and denizened wit do sing ; You take wrong ways ; those far-fet helps be such As do bewray a want of inward touch, lo And sure, at length stolen goods do come to light : But if, both for your love and skill, your name You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame, Stella behold, and then begin to endite. Your words, my friend, right healthful caustics, blame My young mind marred, whom Love doth windlass so ; That mine own writings, like bad servants, show My wits quick in vain thoughts, in virtue, lame ; That Plato I read for naught but-if he tame s Such coltish years ; that to my birth I owe Nobler desires, lest else that friendly foe, Great Expectation, wear a train of shame: For since mad March great promise made of me. If now the May of my years much decline, lo What can be hoped my harvest-time will be? Sure, you say well, ' Your wisdom's golden mine Dig deep with Learning's spade.' Now tell me this — Hath this world aught so fair as Stella is? 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 heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! Sure, if that long-with-love-acquaintcd eyes 5 Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, I read it in thy looks ; thy languished grace, To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me. Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? 'o Are beauties there as proud as here they • be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? Morpheus, the lively son of deadly Sleep, Witness of life to them that living die, A prophet oft, and oft an history, A poet eke, as humors fly or creep; Since thou in me so sure a power dost keep, 5 That never I with closed-up sense do lie. But by thy work my Stella I descry. Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weep ; Vouchsafe, of all acquaintance, this to tell, Whence hast thou ivory, rubies, pearl, and gold, 10 To show her skin, lips, teeth, and head so well? 'Fool!' answers he; 'no Indes such treas- ures hold ; But from thy heart, while my sire charmeth thee, Sweet Stella's image I do steal to me.' Come, Sleep ! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace. The baiting-place of wit, the I)alm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's re- lease, Th' indifferent judge between the high and low ; With shield of proof shield me from out the press 5 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. ASTROPHEL AND STELLA 89 Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light, A rosy garland and a weary head: •' And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me. Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well that I obtained the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes And of some sent from that sweet enemy, France ; 4 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 My blood from them who did excel 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 heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. No more! My Dear, no more these counsels try! give my passions leave to run their race ! Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace ! Let folk o'ercharged with brain, against me cry! Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye! 5 Let me no steps but of lost labor trace ! Let all the earth in scorn recount my case; But do not will me from my love to fly ! 1 do not envy Aristotle's wit ; Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame; 1° Nor ought do care, though some above me sit; Nor hope, nor wish another course to frame : But that which once may win thy cruel heart. Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art. Stella, since thou so right a princess art Of all the powers which life bestows on me : That ere by them ought undertaken be. The first resort unto that sovereign part. Sweet, for a while give respite to my heart, 5 Which pants as though it still should leap to thee; And on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy To this great cause, which needs both use and art. And as a queen, who from her presence sends Whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit! 10 Till it have wrought what thy own will at- tends. On servants' shame oft master's blame doth sit. O let not fools in me thy works reprove; And scorning, say, 'See, what it is to love!' ELEVENTH SONG ' Who is it that this dark night Underneath my window plaineth?' It is one who from thy sight Being, ah ! exiled, disdaineth Every other vulgar light. s ' Why, alas ! and are you he? Be not yet those fancies changed ? ' Dear, when you find change in me. Though from me you be estranged. Let my change to ruin be. 10 'Well, in absence this will die; Leave to see, and leave to wonder.' Absence sure will help, if I Can learn how myself to sunder From what in my heart doth lie. 15 ' But time will these thoughts remove ; Time doth work what no man knoweth.' Time doth as the subject prove; With time still the affection grovveth In the faithful turtle-dove. 20 'What if we new beauties see? Will not they stir new affection ? ' I will think they pictures be, (Image-like, of saint's perfection) Poorly counterfeiting thee. ^=5 ' But your reason's purest light Bids you leave such minds to nourish,' Dear, do reason no such spite ; Never doth thy beauty flourish More than in my reason's sight. 3« ' But the wrongs Love bears will make Love at length leave undertaking.' 90 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY No, the more fools it do sliake, In the ground of so firm making, Deeper still they drive the stake. ' Peace, I think that some give ear ! Come no more, lest I get anger ! ' Bliss, I will my bliss forbear; Fearing, sweet, you to endanger; But my soul shall harbor there. ' Well, be gone ! be gone, I say. Lest that Argus' eyes perceive you ! ' O unjust is Fortune's sway, Which can make me thus to leave you And from louts to run away. SONG: THE NIGHTINGALE The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new cloth- ing, springeth. Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making, And mournfully bewailing, S Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth For Tereus' force on her chaste will pre- vailing. O Philomela fair, O take some gladness. That here is juster cause of painful sad- ness: 1° Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth ; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart in- vadeth. LOVE IS DEAD Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread ; For Love is dead : All Love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain : Worth, as naught worth, rejected, s And Faith fair scorn doth gain. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzie, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! 'o Weep, neighbors, weep ; do you not hear it said That Love is dead? His death-bed, peacock's folly; His winding-sheet is shame ; His will, false-seeming holy; 'S His sole exec'tor, blame. From so ungrateful fancy. From such a female franzie, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us ! 20 Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read, For Love is dead ; Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress' marble heart ; Which epitaph containeth, 2s 'Her eyes were once his dart.' From so ungrateful fancy. From such a female franzie. From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us ! 30 Alas, I lie: rage hath this error bred; Love is not dead ; Love is not dead, but sleepeth In her unmatched mind. Where she his counsel keepeth, 35 Till due deserts she find. Therefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a franzie. Who Love can temper thus. Good Lord, deliver us ! 4° DORUS TO PAMELA (From Arcadia) My sheep are thoughts, which I both guide and serve ; Their pasture is fair hills of fruitless love. On barren sweets they feed, and feeding sterve. I wail their lot, but will not other prove; My sheep-hook is wan hope, which all up- holds; 5 My weeds, desire, cut out in endless folds; What wool my sheep shall bear, whilst thus they live. In you it is, you must the judgment give. A DITTY My true-love hath my heart and I have his, By just exchange one for the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. There never was a better bargain driven : My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. -^ His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides : He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. *' HAKLUYT'S VOYAGES Richard Ilakluyt (1553-161G) has been well termed by Professor Raleigh 'the Homer of our heroic age ' ; yet his aim was uot so much to record great deeds as to inspire them, to urge his countrymen to explore and colonize unknown countries, to encourage trade with the distant parts of the earth, and to furnish maps and other helps to navigation. A clergyman and a student, he had no. experience of the adventures he described and prompted; but he was much more than a mere compiler. He brought to his self-appointed task the devotion and enthusiasm of a lofty purpose, and must be given a high rank among those who founded the British Empire and established the Anglo-Saxon race beyond the seas. It was fortunate for posterity that the Elizabethan age of commercial enterprise and romantic adventure found a chronicler with leisure and ability to save its achievements from oblivion, for the voyagers themselves were, as a rule, too busy making history to write it. Most of them were much readier with the sword Ihiin with the pen; Grenville's desperate resolution, Gilbert's religious valor, and Drake's restless daring would have been lost to literature, and perhaps even to history, if we had had to depend on their own records. Raleigh must be mentioned as a conspicuous exception; he combined with the spirit of adventure a literary power which makes his narratives a strange contrast to the matter-of-fact or garrulous reports of his less gifted fellows. DEDICATORY EPISTLE TO SIR Lord, and his wonders in the deep, &c. FRANCIS WALSINGHAM Which words of the prophet, together with (From the first edition of the Voyages, '"Y cousin's discourse (things of high and j_o N rare dehght to my young nature), took in 5 me so deep an impression that I constantly Right honorable, I do remember that be- resolved, if ever I were preferred to the ing a youth, and one of her Majesty's university, where better time and more scholars at Westminster, that fruitful convenient place might be ministered for nursery, it was my hap to visit the cham- these studies, I would by God's assistance her of Mr. Richard Hakluyt, my cousin, a lo prosecute that knowledge and kind of lit- gentleman of the Middle Temple, well erature, the doors whereof, after a sort, known unto you, at a time when I found were so happily opened before me. lying open upon his board certain books According to which my resolution, of cosmography, with a universal map. when, not long after, I was removed to He, seeing me somewhat curious in the i5 Christ Church in Oxford, my exercises view thereof, began to instruct my igno- of duty first performed, I fell to my in- rance by showing me the division of the tended course, and by degrees read over earth into three parts after the old ac- whatsoever printed or written discoveries count, and then according to the latter, and voyages I found extant either in the and better distribution, into more. He 20 Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, Portugal, pointed with his wand to all the known French, or English languages, and in my seas, gulfs, bays, straits, capes, rivers, public lectures was the first that produced empires, kingdoms, dukedoms, and terri- and showed both the old imperfectly com- tories of each part, with declaration also posed, and the new lately reformed maps, of their special commodities, and particu- 25 globes, spheres, and other instruments of lar wants, which, by the benefit of traffic this art for demonstration in the common and intercourse of merchants, are plenti- schools, to the singular pleasure and gen- fully supplied. From the map he brought eral contentment of my auditory. In con- me to the Bible, and turning to the 107th tinuance of time, and by reason principally Psalm, directed me to the 23rd and 24th 30 of my insight in this study, I grew fa- verses, where I read, that they which go miliarly acquainted with the chiefest cap- down to the sea in ships and occupy by tains at sea, the greatest merchants, and the great waters, they see the works of the the best mariners of our nation ; by which 91 92 HAKLUYT'S VOYAGES means having gotten somewhat more than ages they have been men full of activity, common knowledge, I passed at length the stirrers abroad, and searchers of the re- narrow seas into France with Sir Ed- mote parts of the world, so in this most ward Stafford, her Majesty's careful and famous and peerless government of her discreet Ligier, where during my five 5 most excellent Majesty, her subjects, years' abode with him in his dangerous through the special assistance and blessing and chargeable residence in her Highness' of God, in searching the most opposite service, I both heard in speech, and read corners and quarters of the world, and to in books other nations miraculously ex- speak plainly, in compassing the vast globe tolled for their discoveries and notable en- 10 of the earth more than once, have excelled terprises by sea, but the English of all all the nations and people of the earth, others for their sluggish security, and For which of the kings ^f this land before continual neglect of the like attempts, es- her Majesty had their banners ever seen pecially in so long and happy a time of in the Caspian sea? which of them hath peace, either ignominiously reported, or 15 ever dealt with the emperor of Persia as exceedingly condemned ; which singular her Majesty hath done, and obtained for opportunity, if some other people, our her merchants large and loving privileges? neighbors, had been blessed with, their who ever saw, before this regiment, an protestations are often and vehement, they English Ligier in the stately porch of the would far otherwise have used. * * * 20 Grand Signor at Constantinople? who ever Thus both hearing and reading the oblo- found English consuls and agents at Trip- quy of our nation, and finding few or none olis in Syria, at Aleppo, at Babylon, at of our own men able to reply herein ; and Balsara, and which is more, who ever further, not seeing any man to have care heard of Englishman at Goa before now? to recommend to the world the industrious 25 what English ships did heretofore ever \ labors and painful travels of our country- anchor in the mighty river of Plate? pass t men: for stopping the mouths of the re- and repass the unpassable (in former opin- proachers, myself being the last winter re- ion) Strait of Magellan, range along the turned from France with the honorable coast of Chili, Peru, and all the backside | the Lady Sheffield, for her passing good 30 of Nova Hispania, further than any chris- behavior highly esteemed in all the tian ever passed, traverse the mighty French court, determined notwithstanding breadth of the South Sea, land upon the all difificulties to undertake the burden of Luzones in despite of the enemy, enter that work wherein all others pretended into alliance, amity, and traffic with the either ignorance or lack of leisure, or 35 princes of the Moluccas and the isle of want of sufiicient argument, whereas (to Java, double the famous cape of Bona speak truly) the huge toil and the small Speranza, arrive at the isle of St. Helena, profit to ensue were the chief causes of and last of all return home most richly the refusal. I call the work a burden in laden with the commodities of China, as consideration that these voyages lay so 40 the subjects of this now flourishing mon- dispersed, scattered, and hidden in several archy have done ? hucksters' hands, that I now wonder at * * * myself to see how I was able to endure the delays, curiosity, and backwardness of many from whom I was to receive my 45 THE LAST FIGHT OF THE RE- originals, so that I have just cause to VENGE make that complaint of the maliciousness of divers in our time which Pliny made (From ' a report of the truth of the fight of the men of his age : At nos elaborata about the isles of Azores, the last of Aug- iis abscondere atque supprimere cupimus, 50 ust, 1591, betwixt the Rcznigc, one of her et fraudare vitam etiam alienis bonis, &c. Majesty's ships and an armada of the [But we desire to hide away and suppress king of Spain. Penned by the honorable their achievements, and to rob life even of Sir Walter Raleigh, knight.') the glories of others.] The Lord Thomas Howard with six of To harp no longer upon this string, and 55 her Majesty's ships, six victualers of Lon- to speak a word of that just commenda- don. the bark Rolcigh, and two or three tion which our nation do indeed deserve : other pinnaces riding at anchor near unto it cannot be denied, but as in all former Flores, one of the westerly islands of the THE LAST FIGHT OF THE REVENGE 93 Azores, the last of August in the after- fused to turn from the enemy, alleging noon, had intelligence by one Captain that he would rather choose to die than to Middleton of the approach of the Spanish dishonor himself, his country, and her armada. Which Middleton, being in a Majesty's ship, persuading his company very good sailer, had kept them company 5 that he would pass through the two squad- three days before, of good purpose both rons in despite of them and enforce those to discover their forces the more, as also to of Seville to give him way. Which he give advice to my Lord Thomas of their performed upon divers of the foremost, approach. He had no sooner delivered the who, as the mariners term it, sprang their news but the fleet was in sight ; many of 10 luff, and fell under the lee of the Rc- our ships' companies were on shore in the vcnge. But the other course had been island, some providing ballast for their the better, and might right well have been ships, others filling of water and refresh- answered in so great an impossibility of ing themselves from the land with such prevailing. Notwithstanding, out of the things as they could, either for money, or 15 greatness of his mind, he could not be per- by force, recover. By reason whereof, suaded. In the meanwhile, as he attended our ships being all pestered and rummag- those which were nearest him, the great ing, every thing out of order, very light San Philip, being in the wind of him and for want of ballast, and that which was coming towards him, becalmed his sails most to our disadvantage, the one half 20 in such sort, as the ship could neither part of the men of every ship sick and ut- make way nor feel the helm ; so huge and terly unserviceable; for in the Revenge high carged was the Spanish ship, being there were ninety diseased, in the Bona- of a thousand and five hundred tons, venture not so many in health as could Who after laid the Revenge aboard. When handle her mainsail. For had not twenty 25 he was thus bereft of his sails, the ships men been taken out of a bark of Sir that were under his lee, luffing up, also George Carey's, his being commanded to laid him aboard, of which the next was be sunk, and those appointed to her, she the admiral of the Biscayans, a very had hardly ever recovered England. The mighty, and puissant ship commanded by rest, for the most part, were in little better 30 Brittandona. The said Philip carried state. The names of her Majesty's ships three tiers of ordnance on a side, and were these, as followeth : the Defiance, eleven pieces in every tier. She shot which was admiral ; the Revenge, vicead- eight forth right out of her chase, besides miral; the Bonaventure, commanded by those of her stern ports. Captain Cross ; the Lion by George Fen- 35 After the Revenge was entangled with ner; the Foresight by Mr. Thomas Vava- this Philip, four others boarded her, two sour ; and the Crane by Duffield. The on her larboard, and two on her starboard. Foresight and the Crane being but small The fight, thus beginning at three of the ships, only the others were of the middle clock in the afternoon, continued very ter- size ; the rest, besides the bark Raleigh, 40 rible all that evening. But the great San commanded by Captain Thin, were victual- Philip, having received the lower tier of ers, and of small force or none. The the Revenge, discharged with crossbar Spanish fleet, having shrouded their ap- shot, shifted herself with all diligence proach by reason of the island, were now from her sides, utterly misliking her first so soon at hand as our ships had scarce 45 entertainment. Some say that the ship time to weigh their anchors, but some of foundered, but we cannot report it for them were driven to let slip their cables truth, unless we were assured. The Span- and set sail. Sir Richard Grenville was ish ships were filled with companies of sol- the last that weighed, to recover the men diers, — in some two hundred besides the that were upon the island, which otherwise 5° mariners, in some five, in others eight had been lost. The Lord Thomas with the hundred. In ours there were none at all rest very hardly recovered the wind, which beside the mariners but the servants of the Sir Richard Grenville not being able to commanders and some few voluntary gen- do, was persuaded by the master and tlemen only. After many interchanged others to cut his mainsail and cast about. 55 volleys of great ordnance and small shot, and to trust to the sailing of the ship, for the Spaniards deliberated to enter the Rc- the squadron of Seville were on his venge, and made divers attempts, hoping weather bow. But Sir Richard utterly re- to force her by the multitudes of their 94 HAKLUV i'S \OVAGES armed soldiers and musketeers, but were but in the morning, bearing with the Rc- still repulsed again and again, and at all vcngc, was hunted like a hare amongst times beaten back into their own ships, or many ravenous hounds, but escaped, into the seas. In the beginning of the All the powder of the Revenge to the fight, the George Noble of London, hav- 5 last barrel was now spent, all her pikes ing received some shot through her by broken, forty of her best men slain, and the armadas, fell under the lee of the Re- tlie most part of the rest hurt. In the be- vcnge, and asked vSir Richard what he ginning of the fight she had but one hun- woiild command him, being but one of the drcd free from sickness, and fourscore and victualers and of small force. Sir Rich- lo ten sick, laid in hold upon the ballast: ard bade him save himself, and leave him a small troop to man such a ship, and a to his fortune. After the fight had thus, weak garrison to resist so mighty an army, without intermission, continued while the By those hundred all was sustained, the day lasted and some hours of the night, volleys, boardings, and enterings of fifteen many of our men were slain and hurt, 15 ships of war, besides those which beat and one of the great galleons of the ar- her at large. On the contrary, the Span- mada, and the admiral of the hulks both ish were always supplied with soldiers sunk, and in many other of the Spanish brought from every squadron, all manner ships great slaughter was made. Some of arms and powder at will. Unto ours write that Sir Richard was very danger- 20 there remained no comfort at all, no hope, ously hurt almost in the beginning of the no supply either of ships, men, or weap- fight, and lay speechless for a time ere he ons ; the masts all beaten overboard, all recovered. But two of the Revenge's own her tackle cut asunder, her upper work company brought home in a ship of Lima altogether razed, and in effect evened she from the islands, examined by some of the 25 was with the water, but the very founda- lords and others, affirmed that he was tion or bottom of a ship, nothing being never so wounded as that he forsook the left overhead, either for flight or defence, upper deck, till an hour before midnight. Sir Richard, finding himself in this dis- and then, being shot into the body 'with a tress, and unable any longer to make re- musket, as he was dressing was again 3° sistance, having endured, in this fifteen shot into the head, and withal his surgeon hours' fight, the assault of fifteen several wounded to death. This agreeth also with armadas, all by turns aboard him, and by an examination, taken by Sir Francis Go- estimation eight hundred shot of great ar- dolphin, of four other mariners of the same tillery, besides many assaults and entries; ship, being returned, which examination 35 and that himself and the ship must needs the said Sir Francis sent unto Master Wil- be possessed by the enemy, who were now liam Killigrew, of her Majesty's privy all cast in a ring round about him, (the chamber. Revenge not able to move one way or But to return to the fight: the Spanish other, but as she was moved with the ships which attempted to board the i?<:- 40 waves and billows of the sea), commanded venge, as they were wounded and beaten the master gunner, whom he knew to be off, so always others came in their places, a most resolute man, to split and sink the she having never less than two mighty ship, that thereby nothing might remain galleons by her sides and aboard her. So of glory or victory to the Spaniards, see- that ere the morning, from three of the 45 ing in so many hours' fight, and with so clock the day before, there had fifteen great a navy, they were not able to take several armadas assailed her; and all so her, having had fifteen hours' time, above ill approved their entertainment as they ten thousand men, and fifty and three sail were by the break of day far more willing of men-of-war to perform it withal ; and to hearken to a composition than hastily 50 persuaded the company, or as many as he to make any more assaults or entries, could induce, to yield themselves unto God, But as the day increased, so our men and to the mercy of none else ; but as they decreased; and as the light grew more had, like valiant resolute men, repulsed and more, by so much more grew our dis- so many enemies, they should not now comforts. For none appeared in sight but 55 shorten the honor of their nation by pro- enemies, saving one small ship called the longing their own lives for a few hours Pilgrim, commanded by Jacob Whiddon, or a few days. The master gunner readily who hovered all night to see the success, condescended and divers others ; but the THE LOSS OF SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT 95 captain and the master were of another nor any of them once to separate their opinion, and besought Sir Richard to have ships from him, unless he gave commis- care of them, alleging that the Spaniard sion so to do. Notwithstanding the vice- would be as ready to entertain a composi- admiral, Sir Richard Grenville, being in tion as they were willing to offer the same, 5 the ship called the Revenge, went into the and that there being divers sufficient and Spanish fleet and shot among them, doing valiant men yet living, and whose wounds them great hurt, and thinking the rest of were not mortal, they might do their coun- the company would have followed ; which try and prince acceptable service here- they did not, but left him there, and sailed after. And whereas Sir Richard had al- 10 away. The cause why could not be leged that the Spaniards should never known. Which the Spaniards perceiving, glory to have taken one ship of her Maj- with 7 or 8 ships they boarded her, but esty, seeing they had so long and so no- she withstood them all, fighting with them, tably defended themselves, they answered, at the least 12 hours together, and sunk that the ship had six foot water in hold, 15 two of them, one being a new double fly- three shot under water, which were so boat of 600 tons, and admiral of the fly- weakly stopped as with the first working boats, the other a Biscayan. But in the of the sea, she must needs sink, and was end, by reason of the number that came besides so crushed and bruised as she upon her, she was taken, but to their great could never be removed out of the place. 20 loss, for they had lost in fighting and by And as the matter was thus in dispute, drowning above 400 men, and of the Eng- and Sir Richard refusing to hearken to lish were slain about 100, Sir Richard any of those reasons, the master of the Grenville himself being wounded in his Revenge (while the captain won unto him brain, whereof afterwards he died. He the greater party) was convoyed aboard 25 was carried into the ship called San Paul, the General Don Alfonso Bazan. Who wherein was the admiral of the fleet, Don (finding none over hasty to enter the Re- Alonzo de Bazan. There his wounds were vcnge again, doubting lest Sir Richard dressed by the Spanish surgeons, but Don would have blown them up and himself, Alonzo himself would neither see him nor and perceiving by the report of the mas- 3o speak with him. All the rest of the cap- ter of the Revenge his dangerous dispo- tains and gentlemen went to visit him, sition) yielded that all their lives should be and to comfort him in his hard fortune, saved, the company sent for England, and wondering at his courage and stout heart, the better sort to pay such reasonable ran- for that he showed not any sign of faint- som as their estate would bear, and in the 35 ness nor changing of color. But feeling mean season to be free from galley or im- the hour of death to approach, he spake prisonment. To this he so much the these words in Spanish, and said: Here rather condescended as well, as I have die I, Richard Grenville, with a joyful and said, for fear of further loss and mischief quiet mind, for that I have ended my life to themselves, as also for the desire he 40 as a true soldier ought to do, that hath had to recover Sir Richard Grenville, fought for his country, queen, religion, whom for his notable valor he seemed and honor, whereby my soul most joyful greatly to honor and admire. departeth out of this body, and shall al- * * ways leave behind it an everlasting fame 45 of a valiant and true soldier, that hath done his duty, as he was bound to do. From LINSCHOTEN'S TESTIMONY When he had finished these or such other like words, he gave up the ghost, with The 13th of September the said ar- great and stout courage, and no man mada arrived at the island of Corvo, 50 could perceive any true sign of heaviness where the Englishmen with about 16 ships in him. as then lay, staying for the Spanish fleet, * * * whereof some or the most part were come, and there the English were in good hope THE LOSS OF SIR HUMPHREY GIL- to have taken them. But when they per- 55 BERT ceived the king's army to be strong, the admiral, being the Lord Thomas Howard, (From a report of the voyage and suc- coiiiniandod his fleet not to fall upon them, cess thereof, attempted in the year of our g6 HAKLUYT'S VOYAGES Lord, 1583, by Sir Humphrey Gilbert, days and nights back again, as before we knight, with other gentlemen assisting him had done in eight days from Cape Race in that action, intended to discover and to unto the place where our ship perished, plant christian inhabitants in place con- which hindrance thitherward and speed venient, upon those large and ample 5 back again, is to be imputed unto the swift countries extended northward from the current, as well as to the winds, which cape of Florida, lying under very temper- we had more large in our return, ate climes, esteemed fertile and rich in This Monday the general came aboard minerals, yet not in the actual possession the Hind to have the surgeon of the Hind of any christian prince, written by Mr. 10 to dress his foot, which he hurt by tread- Edward Ilaie, gentleman, and principal ing upon a nail. At what time we com- actor in the same voyage, who alone con- forted each other with hope of hard suc- tinued to the end, and by God's special cess to be all past, and of the good to assistance returned home with his retinue come. So agreeing to carry out lights safe and entire.') i5 always by night, that we might keep to- So upon Saturdav in the afternoon, the gether, he departed into his frigate, being 31st of August, we changed our course by no means to be entreated to tarry in the and returned back for England, at which Hind, which had been more for his se- very instant, even in winding about, there curity. Immediately after followed a passed along between us and towards the 20 sharp storm which we overpassed for that land which we now forsook, a very lion time. Praised be God. to our seeming, in shape, hair, and color, The weather fair, the general came not swimming after the manner of a beast, aboard the Hind again to make merry by moving of his feet, but rather sliding together with the captain, master, and upon the water with his whole body (ex- 25 company, which was the last meeting, and cepting the legs) in sight; neither yet continued there from morning until night, diving under, and again rising above the During which time there passed sundry water, as the manner is of whales, dol- discourses, touching affairs past and to phins, tunnies, porpoises, and all other come, lamenting greatly the loss of his fish, but confidently showing himself above 30 great ship, more of the men, but most of water without hiding. Notwithstanding, all of his books and notes, and what else we presented ourselves in open view and I know not ; for which he was out of gesture to amaze him, as all creatures will measure grieved, the same doubtless be- be commonly at a sudden gaze and sight ing some matter of more importance than of men. Thus he passed along turning his 35 his books, which I could not draw from head to and fro, yawning and gaping wide, him, yet by circumstance I gathered the with ugly demonstration of long teeth and same to be the ore which Daniel the Saxon glaring eyes, and to bid us a farewell had brought unto him in the New-found- (coming right against the Hind) he sent land. Whatsoever it was, the remem- forth a horrible voice, roaring or bellow- 40 brance touched him so deep as not able to ing as doth a lion, which spectacle we all contain himself, he beat his boy in great beheld so far as we were able to discern rage, even at the same time, so long after the same, as men prone to wonder at the miscarrying of the great ship, because every strange thing, as this doubtless was, upon a fair day, when we were becalmed to see a lion in the ocean sea, or fish in 45 upon the coast of the New-found-land, shape of a lion. What opinion others had near unto Cape Race, he sent his boy thereof, and chiefiy the general himself, aboard the admiral to fetch certain things, I forbear to deliver. But he took it for amongst which, this being chief, was yet bonum omen [a good omen], rejoicing forgotten, and left behind. After which that he was to war against such an enemy, 50 time, he could never conveniently send if it were the devil. again aboard the great ship; much less The wind was large for England at our he doubted her ruin so near at hand, return, but very high, and the sea rough. Herein my opinion was better confirmed insomuch as the frigate wherein the gen- diversely, and by sundry conjectures, eral went was almost swallowed up. 55 which maketh me have the greater hope Monday in the afternoon (Sept. 2), we of this rich mine. For whereas the gen- passed in the sight of Cape Race, having eral had never before good conceit of made as much way in little more than two these north parts of the world, now his ■li THE LOSS OF SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT 97 ;; I mind was wholly fixed upon the New- frigate, which was overcharged upon their :c, { found-land. And as before he refused not decks, with fights, nettings, and small ar- el ! to grant assignments liberally to them that tillery, too cumljersome for so small a iti I required the same into these north parts, boat that was to pass through the ocean cb , now he became contrarily affected, refus- 5 sea at that season of the year, when by ! ing to make any so large grants, especially course we might expect much storm of tl I of St. John's, which certain English mer- foul weather, whereof indeed we had Hi chants made suit for, offering to employ enough. i(]. I their money and travel upon the same. But when he was entreated by the cap- 111, I Yet neither by their own suit, nor of 10 tain, master, and other his well-willers of 1;. [Others of his own company, whom he the Hind, not to venture in the frigate, to I seemed willing to pleasure, it could be ob- this was his answer: I will not forsake 1;, Itained. my little company going homeward, with ii). ! Also laying down his determination in whom I have passed so many storms and ^ [the spring following, for disposing of his 15 perils. And in very truth, he was urged li( I voyage then to be re-attempted, he as- to be so over hard, by hard reports given ;;. [signed the captain and master of the of him, that he was afraid of the sea, al- , Golden Hind unto the south discovery, and beit this was rather rashness than advised V reserved unto himself the north, affirming resolution, to prefer the wind of a vain |that this voyage had won his heart from 20 report to the weight of his own life. ill,, jthe south, and that he was now become a Seeing he would not bend to reason, he ■A [northern man altogether. had provision out of the Hind, such as lill I Last, being demanded what means he was wanting aboard his frigate. And so !had at his arrival in England to compass we committed him to God's protection, and jthe charges of so great preparation as he 25 set him aboard his pinnace, we being more ;:; iintended to make the next spring, having than 300 leagues onward of our way home. t,|| idetermined upon two fleets, one for the By that time we had brought the islands 1,;; I {south, another for the north: Leave that of Azores south of us; yet we then keep- ,,;' |to me (he replied), I will ask a penny of ing much to the north, until we had got 1. lino man. I will bring good tidings unto 30 into the height and elevation of England, „■( iher Majesty, who will be so gracious to we met with very foul weather and terri- ',(.') [lend me 10,000 pounds, willing us there- ble seas, breaking short and high, pyramid ,v Ifore to be of good cheer, for he did thank wise. The reason whereof seemed to pro- ^God (he said) with all his heart for that ceed either of hilly grounds, high and low, le had seen, the same being enough for us 35 within the sea, (as we see hills and dales ill, and that we needed not to seek any upon the land), upon which the seas do further. And these last words he would mount and fall ; or else the cause proceed- often repeat, with demonstration of great eth of diversity of winds, shifting often ■ fervency of mind, being himself very con- in sundry points, all which having power lident and settled in belief of inestimable 40 to move the great ocean, which again is ijood by this voyage, which the greater not presently settled, so many seas do en- unnber of his followers nevertheless mis- counter together as there had been diver- rusted altogether, not being made partak- sity of winds. Howsoever it cometh to ;rs of those secrets, which the general pass, men which all their life time had oc- ■cept unto himself. Yet all of them that 45 cupied the sea, never saw more outrageous lire living may be witnesses of his words seas. We had also upon our mainyard, an md protestations, which sparingly I have apparition of a little fire by night, which lelivered. _ seamen do call Castor and Pollux. But Leaving the issue of this good hope unto we had only one, which thev take an evil jod, who knoweth the truth only, and can 50 sign of more tempest ; the same is usual it his good pleasure bring the same to in storms. ight, I will hasten to the end of this trag- Monday the ninth of September, in the 'dy, which must be knit up in the person afternoon, the frigate was near cast away, )f our general. And as it was God's or- oppressed by waves; yet at that time re- linance upon him, even so the vehement 55 covered ; and giving forth signs of joy, persuasion and entreaty of his friends the general sitting abaft with a book in ■ould nothing avail to divert him from his hand, cried out unto us in the //;';/(/ (so I wilful resolution of going through in his oft as we did approach within hearing) : 98 HAKLUYT'S VOYAGES We are as near to heaven by sea as by ance) in short time breaketh them, where- 1 land. Reiterating the same speech, well by their bodies are notably preserved in beseeming a soldier, resolute in Jesus health, and know not many grievous dis- Christ, as I can testify he was. eases, wherewithal we in England arc The same Monday night, about twelve 5 often times afflicted, of the clock, or not long after, the frigate This tcppozvoc is of so precious cstiuii being ahead of us in the Golden Hind, tion amongst them, that they think tluir suddenly her lights were out, whereof, as gods are marvelously delighted tlicrewuh. it were in a moment, we lost the sight, ami Whereupon sometimes they make hal- withal our watch cried, the general was cast lo lowed fires, and cast some of the powder away, which was too true. For in that mq- therein for a sacrifice. Being in a storm ment, the frigate was devoured and swal- upon the waters, to pacify their gods, . lowed up of the sea. Yet still w^e looked they cast some up into the air and into the ' out all that night and ever after, until we water. So a weir for fish being newly set arrived upon the coast of England, omit- 15 up, they cast some therein and into the air. ting no small sail at sea, unto which we Also, after an escape of danger, they ca-^t gave not the tokens between us agreed some into the air likewise; but all done upon, to have perfect knowledge of each with strange gestures, stamping, sometime, other, if we should at any time be sepa- dancing, clapping .of hands, holding up of^ rated. 20 hands, and staring up into the heavens. In great torment of weather and peril uttering therewithal, and chattering' of drowning, it pleased God to send safe strange words and noises. home the Golden Hind, which arrived in We ourselves, during the time we were Falmouth, the 22nd day of September, be- there, used to suck it after their manner, ing Sunday, not without as great danger ^5 as also since our return, and have found escaped in a flaw, coming from the south- many rare and wonderful experiments of east, with such thick mist that we could the virtues thereof, of which the relation not discern land, to put in right with the would require a volume by itself. The haven. use of it by so many of late, men and 30 women of great calling, as else, and some learned physicians also, is sufHcient wit- A REPORT OF VIRGINIA ness. * * * (From 'a brief and true report of the new-found land of Virginia, of the com- 35 modities there found and to be raised, as From RALEIGH'S DISCOVERY OF well merchantable as others. Written by GUIAXA Thomas Heriot, servant to Sir Walter Raleigh, a member of the colony and there Upon this river one Captain George, employed in discovering a full twelve- 40 that I took with Berreo, told me there > month.') was a great silver mine, and that it was There is an herb which is sowed apart near the banks of the said river. But by by itself, and is called by the inhabitants this time as well Orinoco, Caroli, as all the uppozvoc. In the W^est Indies it hath rest of the rivers were risen four or five divers names, according to the several 45 feet in height so as it was not possible by places and countries where it groweth and the strength of any men, or with any boat is used; the Spaniards generally call it whatsoever to row into the river against tobacco. The leaves thereof being dried the stream. I therefore sent Captain and brought into powder, they use to take Thyn, Captain Grenville, my nephew John the fume or smoke thereof by sucking it, 50 Gilbert, my cousin Butshead Gorges, Cap- through pipes made of clay, into their tain Clark, and some thirty shot more to stomach and head, from whence it pur- coast the river by land, and to go to a geth superfluous phlegm and other gross town some twenty miles over the valley humors, and opens all the pores and pas- called Amnatapoi. And they found guides sages of the body ; by which means the use 55 there to go farther towards the mountain thereof not only preserveth the body from foot to another great town called Capure- obstructions, but also (if any be, so that pana, belonging to a casique called Ha- they have not been of too long continu- haracoa (that was a nephew to old To- RALEIGH'S DISCOVERY OF GUIANA 99 piawari, king of Arromaia, our chiefest a flint, and is altogether as hard or harder ; friend) because this town and province of and besides the veins lie a fathom or two Capurepana adjoined to Macureguarai, deep in the rocks. But we wanted all which was a frontier town of the empire, things requisite, save only our desires and And the meanwhile myself with Captain 5 good will, to have performed more if it Gifford, Captain Calfield, Edward Han- had pleased God. To be short, when both cock, and some half a dozen shot marched our companies returned, each of them overland to view the strange overfalls of brought also several sorts of stones that the river of Caroli which roared so far appeared very fair, but were such as they off, and also to see the plains adjoining, 10 found loose on the ground, and were for and the rest of the province of Canuri. the most part but colored, and had not any I sent also Captain Whiddon, William gold fixed in them ; yet such as had no Connocke, and some eight shot with them, judgment or experience kept all that to see if they could find any mineral stone glistered, and would not be persuaded alongst the riverside. When we were 15 but it was rich because of the luster, and come to the tops of the first hills of the brought of those and of marquesite witiial, plains adjoining to the river, we beheld from Trinidad, and have delivered of those that wonderful breach of waters which stones to be tried in many places, and have ran down Caroli, and might from that thereby bred an opinion that all the rest mountain see the river how it ran 20 is of the same. Yet some of these stones in three parts, above twenty miles off. I showed afterward to a Spaniard of the And there appeared some ten or twelve Caracas, who told me that it was el madre overfalls in sight, every one as high over del oro, that is, the mother of gold, and the other as a church-tower, which fell that the mine was farther in the ground, with that fury, that the rebound of water 25 * * * made it seem as if it had been all covered I will enter no further into discourse of over with a great shower of rain ; and in their manners, laws, and customs, and some places we took it at the first for a because I have not myself seen the cities smoke that had risen over some great of Inca, I cannot avow on my credit what town. For mine own part, I was well 3o I have heard, although it be very likely persuaded from thence to have returned, that the Emperor Inca hath built and being a very ill footman, but the rest were erected as magnificent palaces in Guiana all so desirous to go near the said strange as his ancestors did in Peru, which were thunder of waters, as they drew me on by for their riches and rareness most marvel- little and little, till we came into the next 35 ous and exceeding all in Europe, and I valley, where we might better discern the think of the world, China excepted; which same. I never saw a more beautiful coun- also the Spaniards (which I had) assured try, nor more lively prospects, hills so me to be true, as also the nations of the raised here and there over the valleys, borderers, who, being but savages to those the river winding into divers branches, 40 of the inland, do cause much treasure to the plains adjoining without bush or stub- be buried with them. For I was informed ble, all fair green grass, the ground of of one of the casiques of the valley of hard sand, easy to march on, either for Amariocapana, which had buried with horse or foot, the deer crossing in every him, a little before our arrival, a chair of path, the birds towards the evening sing- 45 gold most curiously wrought, which was ing on every tree with a thousand sev- made either in Macureguaray adjoining, eral tunes, cranes, and herons of white, or in Manoa. But if we should have crimson, and carnation perching in the grieved them in their religion at the first, riverside, the air fresh with a gentle east- i^efore they had been taught better, and erly wind, and every stone that we 50 have digged up their graves, we had lost stooped to take up, promised either gold them all. And therefore I held my first or silver by its complexion. Your lord- resolution that her Majesty should either ship shall see of many sorts, and I hope accept or refuse the enterprise ere any- some of them cannot be bettered under the thing should be done that might in any sun ; and yet we had no means but with our 55 sort hinder the same. x\nd if Peru had so daggers and fingers to tear them out here many heaps of gold, whereof those Incas and there, the rocks being most hard, of were princes, and that they delighted so that mineral spar aforesaid, which is like much therein ; no doubt but this which lOO HAKLUYT'S VOYAGES now livcth and reifjnelh in Manoa, hath lost not any one, nor had one ill disjwscd the same honor, and 1 am assured hath to my knowledge, nor found any calentura, more abundance of gold within his terri- or other of those pestilent diseases which tory than all Peru and the West Indies. dwell in all hot regions, and so near the For the rest, which myself have seen, I 5 equinoctial line, will promise these things that follow, which I know to be true. Those that are desirous to discover and to see many na- SIR FRANCIS DRAKE AT SAN DO-- tions may be satisfied within this river, MINGO which bringcth forth so many arms and lo branches leading to several countries and (From 'a summary and true discourse provinces, above 2000 miles east and west, of Sir Francis Drake's West Indian voy- and 800 miles south and north, and of age, begun in the year 1585. Wherein these the most either rich in gold or in were taken the cities of Saint lago, Santo other merchandises. The common soldier 15 Domingo, Cartagena, and the towM of shall here fight for gold, and pay himself, Saint Augustine in Florida. Published by instead of pence with plates of half a foot Mr. Thomas Gates.') broad, whereas he breaketh his bones in All things being thus considered on, other wars for provant and penury, the whole forces were commanded in the Those commanders and chieftains that 20 evening to embark themselves in pin- shoot at honor and abundance, shall find naces, boats, and other small barks _ap- there more rich and beautiful cities, more pointed for this service. Our soldiers temples adorned with golden images, more being thus embarked, the general put him- sepulchres filled with treasure than either self into the bark Francis as admiral, and Cortez found in Mexico, or Pizarro in 25 all this night we lay on the sea, bearing Peru; and the shining glory of this con- small sail until our arrival to the landing quest will eclipse all those so far ex- place, which was about the breaking of tended beams of the Spanish nation, the day, and so we landed, being New There is no country which yieldeth more Year's Day, nine or ten miles to the west- pleasure to the inhaljitants, either for those 30 ward of that brave city of San Domingo, common delights of hunting, hawking, for at that time, nor yet is known to us fishing, fowling, or the rest, than Guiana any landing place where the sea surge doth. It hath so many plains, clear rivers, doth not threaten to overset a pinnace or abundance of pheasants, partridges, quails, boat. Our general, having seen us all rails, cranes, herons, and all other fowd, 35 landed in safety, returned to his fleet, be- deer of all sorts, porks, hares, lions, tigers, queathing us to God, and the good conduct leopards, and divers other sorts of beasts, of Master Carliell, our lieutenant general: either for chase or food. It hath a kind at which time, being about eight of the of beast called cama, or anta, as big as an clock, we began to march, and about noom English beef, and in great plenty. 40 time, or towards one of the clock, we ap- To speak of the several sorts of every proached the town, where the gentlemen kind, I fear would be troublesome to the and those of the better sort, being some reader, and therefore I will omit them and hundred and fifty brave horses, or rather conclude that both for health, good air, more, began to present themselves. But pleasure, and riches I am resolved it can- 45 our small shot played upon them, which not be equaled by any region either in the were so sustained with good proportion east or west. Moreover the country is so of pikes in all parts, as they, finding no healthful, as of an hundred persons and part of our troop unprepared to receive more (which lay without shift most slut- them, (for you must understand they tishly, and were every day almost melted 50 viewed all round about), they were thus with heat in rowing and marching, and driven to give us leave to proceed to- suddenly wet again with great showers, wards the two gates of the town, which and did eat of all sorts of corrupt fruits, were the next to the seaward. They had and made meals of fresh fish without manned them both, and planted their ord- seasoning, of tortugas, of lagartos or croc- 55 nance for that present and sudden alarm odiles, and of all sorts good and bad. with- without the gate, and also some troops of out either order or measure, and besides small shot in ambuscade upon the highway lodged in the open air every night) we side. We divided our whole force, being DRAKE IN CALIFORNIA loi I some thousand or twelve hundred men, into our hands; who without all order or I into two parts, to enterprise both the gates reason, and contrary to that good usage i at one instant, the lieutenant general hav- wherewith we had entertained their mes- ' ' ing openly vowed to Captain Powel (who sengers, furiously struck the poor boy led the troop that entered the other gate ) 5 through the body with one of their horse- that with God's good favor he would not men's staves; with which wound the boy j rest until our meeting in the market place. returned to the general, and after he had Their ordnance had no sooner dis- declared the manner of this wrongful ! charged upon our near approach and cruelty, died forthwith in his presence, i made some execution amongst us, though 10 Wherewith the general l)eing greatly pas- ■ ; not much, but the lieutenant general be- sioned, commanded the provost martial, to •,j gan forthwith to advance both his voice cause a couple of friars, then prisoners, »|i of encouragement, and pace of marching, to be carried to the same place where the o|| the first man that was slain with the ord- boy was struck, accompanied with suffi- nance being very near unto himself: and 15 cicnt guard of our soldiers, and there pres- thereupon hasted all that he might to keep cntly to be hanged, dispatching at the them from the re-charging of the ord- same instant another poor prisoner, with nance. And notwithstanding their am- this reason wherefore this execution was buscades, we marched, or rather ran so done, and with this message further, that roundly into them, as pell mell we entered 20 until the party who had thus murdered the gates, and gave them more care every the general's messenger were delivered man to save himself by flight than reason into our hands, to receive condign punish- to stand any longer to their broken fight, ment, there should no day pass, wherein We forthwith repaired to the market there should not two prisoners be hanged, place : but to be more truly understood, a 25 until they were all consumed which were place of very fair spacious square ground, in our hands. whither also came, as had been agreed. Whereupon, the day following, he that Captain Powel with the other troop ; which had been captain of the king's galley, place with some part next unto it, we brought the offender to the town's end, of- strengthened with barricades, and there, 3° fering to deliver him into our hands; but j as the most convenient place, assured our- it was thought to be a more honorable selves, the city being far too spacious for revenge to make them there in our sight so small and weary a troop to undertake to perform the execution themselves, to guard. Somewhat after midnight, they which was done accordingly. who had the guard of the castle, hearing 3s * * ^k us busy about the gates of the said castle, abandoned the same, some being taken prisoners, and some fleeing away by the DRAKE IN CALIFORNIA help of boats to the other side of the haven, and so into the country. 40 (From ' the famous voyage of Sir Fran- The next day we quartered a little more cis Drake into the South Sea, and there- at large, but not into the half part of the hence about the whole globe of the earth, town, and so making substantial trenches, begun in the year of our Lord, 1577.') and planting all the ordnance that each The fifth day of June, being in 43 de- part was correspondent to other, we held 45 grees towards the pole Arctic, we found this town the space of one month. the air so cold that our men, being griev- In the which time happened some acci- ously pinched with the same, conijjlaincd dents, more than are well remembered for of the extremity thereof; and the further the present, but amongst other things, we went, the more the cold increased upon it chanced that the general sent on his 50 us. Whereupon we thought it best for message to the Spaniards a negro boy with that time to seek the land, and did so, a flag of white, signifying truce, as is the finding it not mountainous, but low plain Spaniards' ordinary manner to do there, land, till we came within 38 degrees to- when they approach to speak to us. wards the Line. In which height it Which boy unhappily was first met withal 55 pleased God to send us into a fair and by some of those who had been belonging good bay, with a good wind to enter the as oflicers for the king in the Spanish gal- same, ley, which with the town was lately fallen In this bay we anchored, and the people I02 IIAKLUYT'S VOYAGES of the country, having their houses close and amongst them the king hiiuscll", a man by the water's side, showed themselves of goodly stature and comely personage, unto us, and sent a present to our gen- with many other tall and warlike men ; be- eral. fore whose coming were sent two ambas- When they came unto us, they greatly 5 sadors to our general to signify that their wondered at the things that we brought, king was coming, in doing of which mes- but our general (according to his natural sage their speech was continued al)out and accustomed humanity) courteously half an hour. This ended, they by signs entreated them, and liberally bestowed on requested our general to send some thing them necessary things to cover their 10 by their hand to their king as a token that nakedness, whereupon they supposed us his coming might be in peace, wherein our to be gods, and would not be persuaded to general having satisfied them, they re- the contrary. The presents which they turned with glad tidings to their king, who sent to our general were feathers and marched to us with a princely majesty, cauls of network. 'S the people crying continually after their Their houses are digged round about manner ; and as they drew near unto us, with earth, and have from the uttermost so did they strive to behave themselves brims of the circle clifts of wood set upon in their actions with comeliness, them, joining close together at the top In the fore-front was a man of goodly like a spire steeple, which by reason of 20 personage, who bore the scepter or mace that closeness are very warm. before the king, whereupon hung two Their beds is the ground with rushes crowns, a less and a bigger, with three strewed on it, and lying about the house, chains of a marvelous length. The have the fire in the midst. The men go crowns were made of knit work wrought naked, the women take bulrushes and ^5 artificially with feathers of divers colors; comb them after the manner of hemp, the chains were made of a bony substance, and thereof make their loose garments, and few be the persons among them that which being knit about their middles, hang are admitted to wear them ; and of that down about their hips, having also about number also the persons are stinted, as their shoulders a skin of deer with the 3o some ten, some twelve, and so forth, hair upon it. These women are very obe- Next unto him which bare the scepter was dient and serviceable to their husbands. the king himself with his guard about his After they were departed from us, they person, clad with coney skins, and other came and visited us the second time and skins. After them followed the naked brought with them feathers and bags of 35 common sort of people, everyone having tobacco for presents. And when they his face painted, some with white, some came to the top of the hill (at the bottom with black, and other colors, and having whereof we had pitched our tents) they in their hands one thing or another for a stayed themselves, where one appointed present, not so much as their children, but for speaker wearied himself with making 40 they also brought their presents. a long oration, which done, they left their In the meantime our general gathered bows upon the hill, and came down with his men together and marched within his their presents. fenced place, making against their ap- In the meantime the women, remaining proaching a very warlike show. They be- on the hill, tormented themselves lamen- 45 ing troo])ed together in their order and a tably, tearing their flesh from their cheeks, general salutation being made, there was whereby we perceived that they were presently a general silence. Then he that about a sacrifice. In the meantime our bare the scepter before the king, being in- general with his company went to prayer formed by another, whom they assigned and to reading of the Scriptures, at which 50 to that office, with a manly and lofty exercise they were attentive, and seemed voice proclaimed that which the other greatly to be affected with it. But when spoke to him in secret, continuing half an they were come unto us, they restored hour; which ended, and a general amen, again unto us those things which before as it were, given, the king with the whole we bestowed upon them. 55 number of men and women (the chil- The news of our being there being dren excepted) came down without any spread through the country, the people weapon ; who descending to the foot of the that inhabited round about came down, hill, set themselves in order. DRAKE IN CALIFORNIA 103 In coming towards our bulwarks and ointments, agreein.^ to the state of their tents, the scepter-bearer began a song, griefs, beseeching God to cure their dis- observing his measures in a dance, and eases. Every third day they brought that with a stately countenance ; whom the their sacrifices to us, until they under- king with his guard, and every degree of 5 stood our meaning that we had no pleas- persons, following, did in like manner ure in them. Yet they could not be long sing and dance, saving only the women, al^sent from us, but daily frequented our which danced and kept silence. The gen- company to the hour of our departure, eral permitted them to enter within our which d'eparture seemed so grievous unto bulwark, where they continued their song 10 them that their joy was turned into sor- and dance a reasonable time. When they row. They entreated us that being ab- had satisfied themselves, they made signs sent we would remember them, and by to our general to sit down, to whom the stealth provided a sacrifice, which we mis- king and divers others made several ora- liked. tions, or rather supplications, that he 15 Our necessary business being ended, would take their province and kingdom our general with his company traveled up into his hand, and become their king, mak- into the country to their villages, where ing signs that they would resign unto him we found herds of deer by 1000 in a their right and title of the whole land, and company, being most large and fat of become his subjects. In which, to per- 20 body. suade us the better, the king and the We found the whole country to be a rest with one consent and with great rev- warren of a strange kind of conies, their erence, joyfully singing a song, did set bodies in bigness as be the Barbary the crown upon his head, enriched his conies, their heads as the heads of ours, neck with all their chains, and offered 25 the feet of a want, and the tail of a rat, unto him many other things, honoring being of great length. Under her chin him by the name of Hioh, adding there- is on either side a bag, into the which she unto, as it seemed a sign of triumph, which gathereth her meat, when she hath filled thing our general thought not meet to re- her belly abroad. The people eat their ject, because he knew not what honor and 3° I^odies and make great account of their profit it might be to our country. Where- skins, for their king's coat was made of fore in the name and to the use of her them. Majesty he took the scepter, crown, and Our general called this country Nova dignity of the said country into his hands, Albion, and that for two causes : the one wishing that the riches and treasure 35 in respect of the white banks and clilTs thereof might so conveniently be trans- which lie towards the sea; and the other ported to the enriching of her kingdom because it might have some affinity with at home, as it aboundeth in the same. our country in name, which sometime The common sort of people leaving the was so called. king and his guard with our general, 40 There is no part of earth here to be scattered themselves together with their taken up, wherein there is not some prob- sacrifices among our people, taking a dili- able show of gold or silver. gent view of every person; and such as At our departure hence our general pleased their fancy, (which were the set up a monument of our being there, youngest) they, inclosing them about, 45 as also of her Majesty's right and title offered their sacrifices unto them with to the same, namely a plate, nailed upon lamentable weeping, scratching, and tear- a fair great post, whereupon was en- ing the flesh from their faces with their graven her Majesty's name, the day and nails, whereof issued abundance of blood, year of our arrival there, with the free But we used signs to them of disliking 50 giving up of the province and people into this, and stayed their hands from force, her Majesty's hands, together with her and directed them upwards to the living highness' picture and arms in a piece of God, whom only they ought to worship. six pence of current English money un- They showed unto us their wounds, and der the plate, whereunder was also writ- craved help of them at our hands, where- 55 ten the name of our general, upon we gave them lotions, plasters, and * * * EDMUND SPENSER ( i55-'-i599) Although Siionser's fatlier was 'a gentleman by biiHi.' he seems to have lacked adequate resources for bringiug up his sou. In spite of insufficient means, however, Spenser received a thoroughly good education, first as a 'poor scholar' in the Merchant Tailors' School in London, under Richard Mulcaster, and later, during seven years, as a sizar, or needy student, at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. At the university he gained not only a high standing in classical studies, but also the permanent friendship of Gabriel Harvey, Fellow of I'embroke, the Hobbinol of Spenser's pastoral verse. After leaving the university, in irtTO, Spenser seems to have retired for a year or so into the country, where, according to a persistent tradi- tion, he met the Rosalind of the Shepherd's Calendar. He began his active career as a private secretary, first, perhaps, to Sir Henry Sidney, in Ireland, certainly to Birliop Young of Rochester, in 1578, and finally to the Earl of Leicester, in 1579. In this last position he met Leicester's nephew. Sir Philip Sidney, and Sir Edward Dyer, with both of whom he formed an intimate literary and personal friendship. His friendship with Sidney, Spen.ser recorded in Astrophel: A Pastoral Elegy (1595). Under Leicester's roof was completed the Shepherd's Calendar, published in 1579. The enthusiastic reception of the poem among men of letters promptly established Spenser as the chief of English poets then living. In 1580, Spenser went to Ireland as secretary to the lord deputy, Arthur Grey, and, except for two visits to England, he remained in Ireland until a month before his death. In 1581, he became clerk of the faculties in the Court of Chancery, and in the succeeding years prospered sufficiently to acquire land and to buy the office of clerk of the council of Munster, in 1588, when, probably, he began to reside upon his new estate at Kilcolman Castle. In 1589, Sir \Yalter Raleigh visited Spenser, who showed him the first three books of the Faery Queen, and who departed with his eminent visitor during that same year for London, there to present his work to the queen and to publish it. If the poet expected reward in the form of a government office in London, he was disappointed, for in 1591, after obtaining a pension of fifty pounds, he returned home. Raleigh's visit and the sojourn in London are reflected in Colin Cloufs Come Home Again (1595). After his return to Ireland, Spenser seems to have worked assiduously upon the Faery Queen, for the second three books were completed before June 11, 1594, when he married Elizabeth Boyle, the inspiration of the Amoretti and of Epithalamion. In 1596, Spenser again visited London, to publish Books IV-VI of the Faery Queen, and, no doubt, to seek office, — once more unsuccessfully. To this London visit is assigned the writing of the Four Hymns, the Prothalamion, and the prose tract. View of the Present State of Ireland. In this iast work the poet vigorously records his contempt for the Irish, a contempt that must have grown into bitter hatred when, in 1598, Irish rebels burned Kilcolman Castle and drove Spenser and his family to Cork. After having prepared for the queen an account of the situation in Ireland, Spenser set out with dispatches for London, where he died, January 10, 1599. From THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDAR FEBRUARIE .^GLOGA SECUNDA CUDDIE. THENOT. Cud. 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, s As doen high towers in an earthquake: They wont in the wind wagge their wrigle tailcs, Perke as peacock : but nowe it avales. The. Lewdly complainest thou, laesie ladde, Of winters wracke, for making thee sadde. Must not the world wend in his commun course, u 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, *5 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDAR 105 Where will he live tyll the lusty prime? Sclfe have I worne out thrise threttie yeares, Some in much joy, 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 chiefe care; Winter or sommer they mought well fare. Cud. No marveile, Thenot, if thou can beare ^5 Cherefully the winters wrathfull cheare : For age and winter accord full nie. This chill, that cold, this crooked, that wrye; And as the lowring wether lookes downe. So semest thou like Good Fryday to frowne. But my flowring youth is foe to frost, 31 My shippe unwont in stormes to be tost. The. The soveraigne of seas he blames in vaine. That, once seabeate, will to sea againc. So loytring live you little heardgroomes, 35 Keeping your beastes in the budded brnomes : 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 corne, 4° You thinken to be lords of the ycare. 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, 45 Which cruddles the blood, and pricks the harte. Then is your carelesse corage accoied, Your carefull heards with cold bene an- noied : Then paye you the price of your surquedrie. With weeping, and wayling, and misery, so 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, 55 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 cnclinc. 60 Tho wouldest thou learnc to caroU of love, And hery with hymnes thy lasses glove : Tho wouldest thou pypc of Phyllis prayse : But Phyllis is myne for many dayes : I wonne her with a grydle of gelt, 65 Embost with buegle about the belt : 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. 7° 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 the wynd. 75 Weenest of love is not his mynd? Seemeth thy flocke thy counsell can, So lustlesse bene they, so weakc, so wan, Clothed with cold, and hoary wyth frost. Thy flocks father his corage hath lost : 80 Thy ewes, that wont to have blowen bags, Like wailefuU widdowes hangen their crags : The rather lambes bene starved with cold. All for their maister is lustlesse and old. The. Cuddie, I wote thou kenst little good, So vainely tadvaunce thy headlessehood. 86 For youngth is a bubble blown up with breath, Whose witt is weakenesse, whose wage is death. Whose way is wildernesse, whose ynne penaunce. And stoopegallaunt age, the hoste of gree- vaunce. 90 But shall I tel thee a tale of truth, Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth, Keeping his sheepe on the hils of Kent? Cud. To nought more, Thenot, my mind is bent, Then to heare novells of his devise: 9S They bene so well thewed, and so wise, What ever that good old man bespake. The. Many meete tales of youth did he make. And some of love, and some of chevalrie: But none fitter then 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 amies full strong and largely dis- playd. But of their leaves they were disarayde: »o5 The bodie bigge, and mightely pight. Throughly rooted, and of wonderous hight: io6 EDMUND SPENSER VVhilome had bene the king of the field, And mochell mast to the husband did yielde, And with his nuts larded many swine. "o But now the gray mosse marred his rinc, His bared boughs were beaten with stormes, His toppe was bald, and wasted with wormes, His honor decayed, his braunches sere. ih Hard by his side grewe a bragging Brere, Which proudly thrust into thclement, And seemed to threat the firmament. Yt was embellisht with blossomes fayre. And thereto aye wonncd to repayre H9 The shepheards daughters, to gather flowres, To peinct their girlonds with his colowres : And in his small bushes used to shrowde The sweete nightingale singing so lowde : Which made this foolish Brere wexe so bold, That on a time he cast him to scold 1-5 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 cremsin redde, '30 With leaves engrained in lusty greene Colours meete to clothe a mayden queene? Thy wast bignes but combers the grownd, And dirks the beauty of my blossomes round. The mouldie mosse, which thee accloieth. My sinamon smell too much annoieth. 136 Wherefore soone, I rede thee, hence remove. Least thou the price of my displeasure prove.' So spake this bold Brere with great dis- daine : Little him answered the Oake againe, mo But yielded, with shame and greefe adawed. That of a weede he was overawed. Yt chaunced after upon a day. The husbandman selfe to come that way. Of custome for to survewe his grownd, '45 And his trees of state in compasse rownd. Him when the spitefull Brere had espyed, Causlesse complained, and lowdly cryed Unto his lord, stirring up sterne strife : 'O my liege Lord, the god of my life, 150 Pleaseth you ponder your suppliants plaint. Caused of wrong, and cruell constraint. Which I your poore vassall dayly endure : And but your goodnes the same recure, Am like for desperate doole to dye, J55 Through fclonous 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 '^° (As most usen ambitious folke) His colowred crime with craft 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, 165 To be the primrose of all thy land. With flowring blossomes to furnish the prime. And scarlot berries in sommer time? How falls it then, that this faded Oake, Whose bodie is sere, whose braunches broke, "7o Whose naked amies stretch unto the fyre, Unto such tyrannic doth aspire ; Hindering with his shade my lovely light, And robbing me of the swete sonnes sight? So beate his old boughes my tender side, '75 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 : '8° 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, '^s 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 "9° Had kindled such coles of displeasure. That the good man noulde stay his leasure, But home him hasted with furious heatc. Encreasing his wrath with many a threatc. His harmefull hatchet he hent in hand, 195 (Alas, that it so ready should stand!) And to the field alone he speedeth, (Ay little helpe to harme there needeth.) Anger nould let him speake 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. As halfe unwilling to cutte the graine: Semed, the sencelcsse yron dyd feare, 205 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. THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDAR 107 But sike fancies vveren foolerie, 211 And broughten this Oake to this miserye. For nought mought they quitten him from decay : For fiercely the goodman at him did laye. The blocke oft groned under the blow, 215 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 quake, Thearth shronke under him, and seemed to shake. --° There lyeth the Oake, pitied of none. Now stands the Brere like a lord alone, Pu fifed up with pryde and vaine pleasaunce : But all this glee had no continuaunce. For eftsoncs winter gan to approche, 225 The blustring Boreas did encroche, And beate upon the solitarie Brere : For nowe no succoure was scene him ncrc. Now gan he repent his pryde to late : For naked left and disconsolate, -3'^ 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 235 Of cattcll, 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. -40 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. 245 Hye thee home, shepheard, the day is nigh wasted. THENOTS EMBLEME. Iddio, pcrche e vecchio, Fa suoi al siio csscinpio. CUDDIES EMBLEME. Nhino vecchio Spavcnta Iddio. OCTOBER .l^GLOGA DECIMA PIERCE. CUDDIE. Piers. Cuddie, for shame! hold up thy heavye head. And let us cast with what delight to chace And weary thys long lingring Phoebus race. VVhilome thou wont the shepheards laddes to leade In rymes, in ridles, and in bydding base: 5 Now they in thee, and thou in sleepc art dead. Cud. Piers, I have pyped erst so long with payne. That all mine oten reedes bene rent and wore : And my poore Muse hath spent her spared store, Yet little good hath got, and much lesse gayne. 'o Such pleasaunce makes the grashopper so poore. And ligge so layd, when winter doth her straine. The dapper ditties that I wont devise, To feede youthes fancie and the flocking fry, Delighten much: what I the bett for thy? i5 They han the pleasure, I a sclender prise: I beate the bush, the byrds to them doe flye : What good thereof to Cuddie can arise? Piers. Cuddie, the prayse is better then the price, The glory eke much greater then the gayne: O what an honor is it, to restraine 21 The lust of lawlesse youth with good ad- vice. Or pricke them forth with pleasaunce of thy vaine, Whereto thou list their trayned willes en- tice ! Soone as thou gynst to sette thy notes in frame, 25 O how the rurall routes to thee doe cleave ! Seemeth thou doest their soule of sense bereave, All as the shepheard, that did fetch his dame From Plutoes balefull bowre withouten leave : His musicks might the hellish hound did tame. 3° Cud. So praysen babes the peacoks spotted traine, And wondren at bright Argus blazing eye; But who rewards him ere the more forthy? Or feedes him once the fuller by a graine? Sike prayse is smoke, that sheddeth in the skye, 35 Sike words bene wynd, and wasten soone in vayne. io8 EDMUND SPENSER Piers. Abandon then the base and viler clowne : Lyft up thy selfe out of the lowly dust, And sing of bloody Mars, oi wars, of s^iusts: Turne thee to those that weld the awful crowne, '♦'^ To doubted knights, whose woundlesse ar- mour rusts, And helnics unbruzed wexen dayly browne. There may thy Muse display her fiutlryng wing. And stretch her selfe at large from east to west: Whither thou list in fayre Elisa rest, 45 Or if thee please in bigger notes to sing, Advaunce the worthy whome shee loveth best, That first the white beare to the stake did bring. And when the stubborne stroke of stronger stounds Has somewhat slackt the tenor of thy string, 50 Of love and lustihead tho niayst thou sing, And carrol lowde, and leade the myllers rownde, All were Elisa one of thilke same ring. So mought our Cuddies name to heaven sownde. Cud. Indeede the Romish Tityrus, I heare, S5 Through his Mecoenas left his oaten reede, Whereon he earst had taught his flocks to feede. And laboured lands to yield the timely eare. And eft did sing of warres and deadly drede. So as the heavens did quake his verse to here. 60 But ah ! Meccenas is yclad in claye, And great Augustus long ygoe is dead, And all the worthies liggen wrapt in leade, That matter made for poets on to play: For, ever, who in derring doe were dreade, The loftie verse of hem was loved aye. 66 But after vertue gan for age to stoupe, And mighty manhode brought a bedde of ease. The vaunting poets found nought worth a pease To put in preace emong the learned troupe. Tho gan the streames of flowing wittes to cease, ^i And sonnebright honour pend in shamefull coupe. And if that any buddes of poosie Yet of the old stocke gan to shoote agayne, Or it mens follies mote be forst to fayne, 75 And rolle with rest in rymes of rybaudrye, Or, as it sprong, it wither must agayne : Tom Piper makes us better melodie. Piers. O picrlesse Poesye, where is then thy place? If nor in princes pallace thou doe sitt, 80 (And yet is princes pallace the most fitt) Nc brest of baser birth doth thee embrace. Then make thee winges of thine aspyring wit. And, whence thou camst, flye backe to heaven apace. Cud. Ah, Percy! it is all to weake and wanne, 85 So high to sore, and make so large a flight ; Her peeced pyneons bene not so in plight: Her Colin fittes such famous tiight to scanne: He, were he not with love so ill bedight. Would mount as high and sing as soote as swanne. 90 Piers. Ah, fon ! for love does teach him climbe so hie. And lyftes him up out of the loathsome myre : Such immortall mirrhor as he doth admire Would rayse ones mynd above the starry skie, And cause a caytive corage to aspire; 95 For lofty love doth loath a lowly eye. Cud. All otherwise the state of poet stands : For lordly Love is such a tyranne fell. That, where he rules, all power he doth ex- pell. The vaunted verse a vacant head demaundes, Ne wont with crabbed Care the Muses dwell: 'o' Unwisely weaves, that takes two webbes in hand. Who ever casts to compasse weightye prise. And thinks to throwe out thondring words of thrcate, Let powre in lavish cups and thriftie bitts of meate; '°5 For Bacchus fruite is frend to Phcebus wise. And when with wine the braine begins to sweate. The nonibcrs flowe as fast as spring doth ryse. THE FAERIE QUEENE 109 Thou kenst not, Percie, howe the ryme should rage. O if my temples were distaind with wine, And girt in girlonds of wild yvie twine, '" How I could reare the Muse on stately stage, And teache her tread aloft in buskin fine, With queint Bellona in her equipage ! But ah ! my corage cooles ere it be warme ; Forthy content us in thys humble shade, us Where no such troublous tydes han us assayde. Here we our slender pipes may safely charme. Piers. And when my gates shall han their bellies layd, Cuddic shall have a kidde to store his farme. CUDDIES EMBLEME. Agitantc calesctmus illo, &c. THE FAERIE QUEENE THE FIRST BOOKE OF THE FAERIE QUEENE, CONTAYNING THE LEGEND OF THE KNIGHT OF THE RED CROSSE OR OF HOLINESSE Lo! I the man, whose muse whylome did maske. As time her taught, in lowly shephards weeds. Am now enforst, a farre unfitler taske. For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine oaten reeds, And sing of knights and ladies gentle deeds ; 5 Whose praises having slept in silence long, Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds To blazon broade emongst her learned throng: Fierce warres and faith full loves shall mor- alize my song. 9 II Helpe then, O holy virgin, chiefe of nyne. Thy weaker novice to performe thy will ; Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still. Of Faerie knights, and fayrest Tanaquill, Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long 15 Sought through the world, and suffered so much ill. That 1 must rue his undeserved wrong: O helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my dull tong. And thou, most dreaded impe of highest Jove, Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart 20 At that good knight so cunningly didst rove, That glorious fire it kindled in his hart, Lay now thy deadly heben bowe apart, And with thy mother mylde come to mine ayde : Come both, and with you bring triumphant }*rart, 25 In loves and gentle jollities arraid, .\fter his murdrous spoyles and bloudie rage allayd. And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly bright, Mirrour of grace and majestic divine. Great Ladie of the greatest Isle, whose light 30 Like Phoebus lampe throughout the world doth shine. Shed thy faire beames into my feeble eyne. And raise my thoughtes, too humble and too vile. To thinke of that true . glorious type of thine. The argument of mine afflicted stile: 35 The which to heare vouchsafe, O dearest dread, a while. CANTO I The patrone of true Holinesse Foule Errour doth defeate: Hypocrisie, him to entrappe. Doth to his home entreate. A gentle knight was pricking on the plaine, Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shielde. Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did remaine. The cruell markes of many a bloody fielde; Yet armes till that time did he never wield: His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, 6 .\s much disdayning to the curbe to yield : Full jolly knight he. §e^md, and faire did sitt, no EDMUND SPENSER As one for knightly giusts and fierce en- counters fitt. But on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore, 'o Tlie deare remembrance of his dying Lord, For whose swecte 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: 'S Right faithfull true he was in deede and word, But of his cheere did secmc too solemne sad; Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad. 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 25 Upon his foe, and his new force to learne ; Upon his foe, a dragon horrible and stearne. 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 niournd, 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 had. 36 So pure and innocent, as that same lambe. She was in life and every vertuous lore, And by descent from royall lynage came Of ancient kinges and queenes, that had of yore 40 Their scepters stretcht from east to west- erne shore, And all the world in their subjection held, Till that in f email feend with foule uprore Forwasted all their land, and them expeld: Whom to avenge, she had this knight from far compeld. 45 Bf-hind her farre away a dvvarfe did lag, That lasic 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 over- cast, 50 And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine Did pourc into his lemans lap so fast, That everie wight to shrowd it did con- strain. And this faire couple eke to shroud them- selves were fain. Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, A shadie grove not farr away they spide, s6 That promist ayde the tempest to withstand: Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride. Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide. Not perceable with power of any starr ; 60 And all within were pathes and alleles wide. With footing worne, and leading inward farr : Faire harbour that them seemes, so in they entred ar. And foorth they passe, with pleasure for- ward led. Joying to heare the birdes sweete har- mony, 65 Which, therein shrouded from the tempest drcd, Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky. Much can they praise the trees so straight and by. The sayling pine, the cedar proud and tall, The vine-propp elme, the poplar never dry, The builder oake, sole king of forrests all. The aspine good for staves, the cypresse funerall, 7- The laurell, meed of mightie conquerours And poets sage, the firre that wecpeth still, The willow worne of fnrlorne paramours, The eugh obedient to the benders will, 76 THE FAERIE QUEENE III The birch for shaftes, the sallow for the mill, The mirrhe sweete bleeding in the bitter wound, The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill. The fruit full olive, and the platane round, 80 The carver holme, the maple seeldoni in- ward sound. Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, Untill the blustring storme is overblowne ; When, weening to returne whence they did stray. They cannot finde that path, which first was showne, 85 But wander too and fro in waies unknowne. Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene. That makes them doubt, their wits be not their owne : So many pathes, so many turnings scene, That which of them to take, in diverse doubt they been. 90 At last resolving forward still to fare. Till that some end they finde, or in or out, That path they take, that beaten seemd most bare, And like to lead the labyrinth about ; Which when by tract they hunted had throughout, 95 At length it brought them to a hoUowe cave, Amid the thickest woods. The champion stout Eftsoones dismounted from his courser brave, And to the dwarfe a while his needlesse spere he gave. ' Be well aware,' quoth then that ladie milde, ' Least suddaine mischiefe ye too rash pro- voke : lOI The danger hid, the place unknowne and wilde, Breedes dreadfull doubts: oft fire is with- out smoke, And perill without show: therefore your stroke. Sir knight, with-hold, till further tryall made.' 105 ' Ah, ladie,' sayd he, ' shame were to revoke The forward footing for an hidden shade : Vertue gives her selfe light, through darke- nesse for to wade.' ' Yea, but,' quoth she, ' the perill of this place I better wot then you ; though nowe too late "0 To wish you backe returne with foule dis- grace. Yet wisedome warnes, whilest foot is in the gate, To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate. This is the wandring wood, this Errours den, A monster vile, whom God and man does hate : 1 ' 5 Therefore I read beware.' ' Fly, fly ! ' quoth then The fearefuU dwarfe: 'this is no place for living men.' But full of fire and greedy hardiment. The youth full knight could not for ought be staide. But forth unto the darksom hole he went, 120 And looked in : his glistring armor made A litle glooming light, much like a shade. By which he saw the ugly monster plaine, Halfe .like a serpent horribly displaide. But th' other halfe did womans shape re- taine, 125 Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and full of vile disdaine. XV And as she lay upon the durtie ground, Her huge long taile her den all overspred. Yet was in knots and many boughtes up- wound. Pointed with mortall sting. Of her there bred 130 A thousand yong ones, which she dayly fed, Sucking upon her poisnous dugs, eachone Of sundrie shapes, yet all ill favored: Soone as that uncouth light upon them shone, Into her mouth they crept, and suddain all were gone. i33 Their dam upstart, out of her den effraide, And rushed forth, hurling her hideous taile About her cursed head, whose folds dis- plaid Were stretcht now forth at length without entraile. She lookt about, and seeing one in mayle, EDMUND SPENSER Armed to point, sought backe to turne againe; '•♦' For light she hated as the deadly bale, Ay wont in desert darknes to rcniaine, Where plain none might her see, nor she see any plaine. Which when the valiant elfe perceiv'd, he lept ■'^s As lyon fierce upon the flying pray. And with his trenchand blade her boldly kept From turning backe, and forced her to stay : Therewith enrag'd she loudly gan to bray, And turning fierce, her speckled taile ad- vannst, '5') Threatning her angrie sting, him to dis- may: Who. nought aghast, his mightie hand en- haunst : The stroke down from her head unto her shoulder glaunst. Much daunted with that dint, her sence was dazed, Yet kindling rage her selfe she gathered round, '55 And all attonce her beastly bodie raizd With doubled forces high above the ground : The, wrapping up her wrethed sterne arownd, Lept fierce upon his shield, and her huge traine All suddenly about his body wound, i6o That hand or foot to stirr he strove in vaine : God helpe the man so wrapt in Errours endlesse traine. His lady, sad to see his sore constraint, Cride out, ' Now, now, sir knight, shew what ye bee ; Add faith unto your force, and be not faint: '65 Strangle her, els she sure will strangle thee.' That when he heard, in great perplexitie, His gall did grate for griefe and high dis- daine ; And knitting all his force, got one hand free, Wherewith he grypt her gorge with so great paine, '^"^ That soone to loose her wicked bands did her constraine. Therewith she spewd out of her filthie maw A floud of poyson horrible and blacke. Full of great lumps of flesh and gobbets raw, Which stunck so vildly, that it forst him slackc 175 His grasping hold, and from her turne him backe : Her vomit full of bookes and papers was, With loathy frogs and toades, which eyes did lacke, And creeping sought way in the weedy gras : Her filthie parbreake all the place defiled has. "S-^ As when old father Nilus gins to swell With timely pride above the Aegyptian vale, His fattie waves doe fertile slime outwell, And overflow each plaine and lowly dale : But when his later spring gins to a vale, '85 Huge heapes of mudd he leaves, wherin there breed Ten thousand kindes of creatures, partly male And partly femall, of his fruitful seed; Such ugly monstrous shapes elswher may no man reed. The same so sore annoyed has the knight, 190 That, welnigh choked with the deadly stinke, His forces faile, ne can no lenger fight. Whose corage when the feend perceivd to shrinke. She poured forth out of her hellish sinke Her fruitfull cursed spawne of serpents small, 19.S Deformed monsters, fowle, and blacke as inke. Which swarming all about his legs did crall. And him encoml)red sore, but could not hurt at all. As gentle shepheard in sweete eventide. When ruddy Phebus gins to welke in west. High on an hill, his flocke to vewen wide, 201 Markcs which doe byte their hasty supper best ; A cloud of cumbrous gnattes doe him mo- lest, All striving to infixe their feeble stinges. That from their noyance he no where can rest, 205 THE FAERIE QUEENE 113 But with his clownish hands their tender wings He brusheth oft, and oft doth mar their murmurings. XXIV Thus ill bestedd, and fearefull more of shame Then of the certeine perill he stood in, Halfe furious unto his foe he came, 210 Resolvd in minde all suddenly to win. Or soone to lose, before he once would lin ; And stroke at her with more then manly force, That from her body, full of filthie sin. He raft her hatefull heade without re- morse: 215 A streame of cole black blood forth gushed from her corse. Her scattred brood, soone as their parent deare They saw so rudely falling to the ground, Groning full deadly, all with troublous feare, Gathred themselves about her body round. Weening their wonted entrance to have found 221 At her wide mouth : but being there with- stood, They flocked all about her bleeding wound, And sucked up their dying mothers bloud, Making her death their life, and eke her hurt their good. -^-5 XXVI That detestable sight him much amazde. To see th' unkindly impes, of heaven ac- curst, Devoure their dam ; on whom while so he gazd, Having all satisfide their bloudy thurst, Their bellies swolne he saw with fulnesse burst, 230 And bowels gushing forth ; well worthy end Of such as drunke her life, the which them nurst! Now needeth him no lenger labour spend ; His foes have slaine themselves, with whom he should contend. His lady, seeing all that chaunst, from farre. 235 Approcht in hast to greet his victorie, And saide, ' Faire knight, borne under hap- pie starre, Who see your vanquisht foes before you lye, Well worthie be you of that armory, Wherein ye have great glory wonne this day, 240 And proov'd your strength on a strong eni- mie. Your first adventure : many such I pray, And henceforth ever wish that like succeed it may.' Then mounted he upon his steede againe, And with the lady backward sought to wend ; 24s That path he kept which beaten was most plaine, Ne ever would to any by way bend, But still did follow one unto the end, The which at last out of the wood them brought. 249 So forward on his way (with God to frend) He passed forth, and new adventure sought : Long way he traveiled, before he heard of ought. 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, -55 And by his belte 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 repent. 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. 265 ' Ah ! my dear sonne,' quoth he. ' how should, alas! Silly old man. that lives in hidden cell. Bidding his beades all day for his trespas. Tydings of warre and worldly trouble tell? With holy father sits not with such thinges to mell. 270 114 EDMUND SPENSER XXXI ' But if of dauiigcr, which hereby doth dwell, And homebredd evil ye desire to heare, Of a straunge man 1 can you tidings tell, That wasteth all his counlric tarrc and neare." ' Of such; saide he, ' 1 chielly doe inquere, And shall you well rewarde to shew the place, -7^ In which that wicked wight his dayes doth weare : For to all knighthood it is foule disgrace. That such a cursed creature lives so long a space.' ' Far hence,' quoth he, ' in wastfull wilder- nesse, ~^° His dwelling is, by which no living wight May ever passe, but thorough great dis- tresse.' ' Now,' saide the ladie, ' draweth toward night, And well I wote, that of your later fight Ye all f orwearied be : for what so strong, 285 But, wanting rest, will also want of might? The Sunne, that measures heaven all day long. 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 be- gin : -90 Untroubled night, they say, gives counsell best.' ' Right well, sir knight, ye have advised bin,' Quoth then that aged man ; ' the way to win Is wistly to advise : now day is spent ; Therefore with me ye may take up your in _ -'95 For this same night.' The knight was well content : 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 300 In traveill to and froe: a litle wyde There was an holy chappell edifyde. Wherein the her mite dewly wunt to say His holy thinges each morne and even-tyde : '{hereby a christall streame did gently play. Which from a sacred fountaine welled forth alway. 306 XXXV Arrived there, the little house they fill, Nc looke for entertainement, where none was : Rest is their feast, and all thinges at their will ; The noblest mind the best contentment has. 310 With faire discourse the evening so they pas: For that olde man of pleasing wordes had store. And well could file his tongue as smooth as glas : He told of saintes and popes, and ever- more 314 He strowd an Ave-Mary after and before. XXXVI The drouping night thus creepeth on them fast, And the sad humor loading their eye liddes. As messenger of Alorpheus, on them cast Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleep them biddes : Unto their lodgings then his guestes he riddes : 3-'o Where when all drown.d in deadly slecpe he nndes. He to his studie goes, and there amiddes His magick bookes and artes of sundrie kindes. He seekes out mighty charmes, to troulile sleepy minds. XXXVII Then choosing out few words most horri- ble, 3-'5 (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 reproachful shame 3-^9 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, At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is pm to flight. THE FAERIE QUEENE 115 XXXVIII And forth he cald out of deepe darknes dredd Legions of sprights, the which, Hke litle flyes 335 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-seeming lyes ; The one of them he gave a message too, 341 The other by him selfe staide, other worke to doo. He, making speedy way through spersed ayre, And through the world of waters wide and deepe. To Morpheus house doth hastily repaire. 34S Amid the bowels of the earth full stcepe, And low, where 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. Whose double gates he findeth locked fast, The one faire fram'd of burnisht yvory, The other all with silver overcast; And wakeful dogges before them farre doe lye, 355 Watching to banish Care their enimy, Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe. By them the sprite doth passe in quietly. And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deepe In drowsie fit he findes : of nothing he takes keepe. 360 XLI And more, to lulle him in his slumber soft, A trickling streame from high rock tum- bling 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 won t'annoy the walled towne, Might there be heard : but carelesse Quiet lyes. Wrapt in eternall silence farrc from eni- myes. The messenger approching to him spake, 370 But his waste wordes retourned to him in vaine : So sound he slept, that nought mought him awake. 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. 375 As one then in a dreame, whose dryer braine Is tost with troubled sights and fancies weake, He mumbled soft, but would not all his silence breake. XLIII The sprite then gan more boldly him to wake, And threatened unto him the dreaded name Of Hecate: whereat he gan to quake, 381 And, lifting up his lompish head, with blame Halfe angrie asked him, for what he came. ' Hcther,' quoth he, ' me Archimago sent. He that the stubborne sprites can wisely tame; 385 He bids thee to him send for his intent A fit false dreame, that can delude the sleepers sent.' XLIV The god obayde, and calling forth straight way A diverse dreame out of his prison darke. Delivered it to him, and downe did lay 390 His heavie head, devoide of careful carke ; Whose sences all were straight benumbd and Starke. He, backe returning by the yvorie dore. Remounted up as light as cheareful larke, And on his litle winges the dreame he bore In hast unto his lord, where he him left afore. 396 Who all this while, with charmes and hid- den artes, Had made a lady of that other spright. And fram'd of liquid ayre her tender partes, So lively and so like in all mens sight, 4°° That weaker sence it could have ravisht quight : The maker selfe, for all his wondrous witt, ii6 EDMUND SPENSER Was nigh beguiled with so goodly sight: Her all in white he clad, and over it Cast a black stole, most like to seemc for Una fit. 405 Now when that ydle dreame was to him brought. Unto that Elfin knight he bad him fly, Where he slept soundly, void of evil thought. And with false shewcs abuse his fantasy, In sort as he him schooled privily: 41° And that new creature, borne without her dew. Full of the makers guyle, with usage sly He taught to imitate that lady trew, Whose semblance she did carrie under feigned hew. XLVII Thus well instructed, to their worke they haste, 415 And comming where the knight in slom- ber lay, The one upon his bardie head him plaste. And made him dreame of loves and lust- full play. That nigh his manly hart did melt away, Bathed in wanton blis and wicked joy. 420 Then seemed him his lady by him lay. And to him playnd, how that false winged boy Her chaste hart had subdewd to learne Dame Pleasures toy. XLVIII And she her selfe, of beautie soveraigne queene, 424 Fayre Venus, seemde unto his bed to bring Her, whom he, waking, evermore did weene To bee the chastest flowre that aye did spring On earthly braunch, the daughter of a king. Now a loose leman to vile service bound: And eke the Graces seemed all to sing 430 Hymen id Hymen, dauncing all around, Whylst freshest Flora her with yvie girlond crownd. XLIX In this great passion of unwonted lust. Or wonted feare of doing ought amis. He started up, as seeming to mistrust 435 Some secret ill, or hidden foe of his: Lo! there before his face his ladie is. Under blacke stole hyding her bayted hooke. And as halfe blushing oflfred him to kis, With gentle blandishment and lovely looke. Most like that virgin true, which for her knight him took. 441 All cleane dismayd to see so uncouth sight, And halfe enraged at her shamelesse guise, He thought have slaine her in his fierce de- spight ; But hastie heat tempring with sufferance wise, 445 He stayde his hand, and gan himself e ad- vise To prove his sense, and tempt her faigned truth. Wringing her hands in wemens pitteous wise, Tho can she weepe, to stirre up gentle ruth. Both for her noble blood, and for her tender youth. 450 LI And sayd, ' Ah sir, my liege lord and my love. Shall I accuse the hidden cruell fate. And mightie causes wrought in heaven above, Or the blind god, that doth me thus amate, For hoped love to winne me certaine hate? Yet thus perforce he bids me do, or die 456 Die is my dew: yet rew my wretched state You, whom my hard avenging destinie Hath made judge of' my life or death in- differently. LII ' Your owne deare sake forst me at first to leave 460 My fathers kingdom ' — There she stopt with teares ; Her swollen hart her speech seemed to be- reave ; And then againe begonne : ' My weaker yeares, Captiv'd to fortune and frayle worldly feares, 464 Fly to your fayth for succour and sure ayde : Let me not die in languor and long teares.' ' Why, dame,' quoth he, ' what hath ye thus dismayd ? What frayes ye., that were wont to comfort me affrayd ? ' LIII 'Love of your selfe,' she saide, 'and deare constraint, Lets me not sleepe, but waste the wearie night 470 THE FAERIE QUEENE 117 In secret anguish and unpittied plaint, Whiles you in careless sleepe are drowned quight.' Her doubtfull words made that redoubted knight Suspect her truth : yet since no' untruth he knew, Her fawning love with foule disdainefull spight 475 He would not shend, but said, ' Deare dame, I rew, That for my sake unknowne such griefe unto you grew. * Assure your selfe, it fell not all to ground ; For all so deare as life is to my hart, I deeme your love, and hold me to you bound ; 480 Ne let vaine feares procure your needlessc smart, Where cause is none, but to your rest de- part.' Not all content, yet seemd she to appease Her mournfull plaintes, beguiled of her art, And fed with words, that could not chose but please ; 485 So slyding softly forth, she turnd as to her ease. Long after lay he musing at her mood, Much griev'd to thinke that gentle dame so light. For whose defence he was to shed his blood. At last dull wearines of former fight 490 Having yrockt a sleepe his irkesome spright. That troublous dreame gan freshly tosse his braine With bowres, and beds, and ladies deare delight : But when he saw his labour all was vaine, With that misformed spright he backe re- turnd againe. 1 CANTO n The guilefull great enchaunter parts The Redcrosse Knight from Truth: Into whose stead faire Falshood steps, And workes him woefull ruth. By this the northerne wagoner had set His sevenfold teme behind the stedfast starre. That was in ocean waves yet never wet. But firme is fixt, and sendeth light from farre To al that in the wide deepe wandring arre: And chearefull Chaunticlere with his note shrill 6 Had warned once, that Phoebus fiery carre In hast was climbing up the easterne hill. Full envious that night so long his roome did fill: When those accursed messengers of hell, jo That feigning dreame, and that faire-forged spright. Came to their wicked maister, and gan tel Their bootelesse paines, and ill succeeding night : Who, all in rage to see his ski! full might Deluded so, gan threaten hellish paine is And sad Proserpines wrath, them to af- fright. But when he saw his threatning was but vaine, He cast about, and searcht his baleful bokes againe. Eftsoones he tooke that miscreated faire, And that false other spright, on whom he spred 20 A seeming body of the subtile aire. Like a young squire, in loves and lustyhed His wanton daies that ever loosely led, Without regard of armes and dreaded fight : Those twoo he tooke, and in a secrete bed, 25 Covered with darkenes and misdeeming night. Them both together laid, to joy in vaine delight. IV Forthwith he runnes with feigned faithfull hast Unto his guest, who, after troublous sights And dreames, gan now to take more sound repast ; 30 Whom suddenly he wakes with fearful frights, As one aghast with feends or damned sprights. And to him cals : ' Rise, rise, unhappy swaine. That here wex old in sleepe, whiles wicked wights Have knit themselves in Venus shameful chaine; . 35 ii8 EDMUND SPENSER Coinc sec, where your false lady doth her lionor staine.' All in amaze he suddenly up start With sword in hand, and with the old man went ; Who soone him brought into a secret part, Where that false couple were full closely ment 4° In wanton lust and lend cnbracement : Which when he saw, he burnt with gealous fire, The eie of reason was with rage yblent. And would have slaine them in his furious ire, But hardly was restreined of that aged sire. 4 5 Retourning to his bed in torment great. And bitter anguish of his guilty sight, He could not rest, but did his stout heart eat. And wast his inward gall with deepe de- spight, Yrkesome of life, and too long lingring night. 50 At last faire Hesperus in highest skie Had spent his lampe, and brought forth dawning light ; Then up he rose, and clad him hastily; The dwarfe him brought his steed: so both away do fly. Now when the rosy fingred Morning faire, Weary of aged Tithones saffron bed, 56 Had spred her purple robe through deawy aire, And the high hils Titan discovered, The royall virgin shooke of drousyhed. And rising forth out of her baser bowre, 6o Lookt for her knight, who far away was fled. And for her dwarfe, that wont to wait each howre : Then gan she wail and weepe, to see that woeful stowre. And after him she rode with so much specde, As her slowe beast could make ; but all in vaine : '^'^ For him so far had borne his light-foot steede, Pricked with wrath and fiery fierce dis- daine, 'I'hat him to folluw was but fruitlesse paine; \'ct she her weary linibes would never rest, But every hil and dale, each wood and plaine, 70 Did search, sore grieved in her gentle brest, He so ungently left her, whome she loved best. IX But subtill Archimago, when his guests He saw divided into double parts,. And Una wandring in woods and forrests, Th' end of his drift, he praisd his divel- ish arts, 76 That had such might over true meaning harts : Yet rests not so, but other meanes doth make. How he may worke unto her further smarts: ] For her he hated as the hissing snake, 80 And in her many troubles did most pleasure take. He then devisde himselfe how to disguise; For by his mighty science he could take As many formes and shapes in seeming w^ise, As ever Proteus to himselfe could make: 8s Sometime a fowle, sometime a -fish in lake, Now like a foxe, now like a dragon fell, That of himselfe he ofte for feare would quake. And oft would flie away. O who can tell The hidden powre of herbes, and might of magick spel ? 9° But now seemde best, the person to put on Of that good knight, his late beguiled guest: In mighty amies he was yclad anon, And silver shield ; upon his coward brest A bloody crosse, and on his craven crest 95 A bounch of heares discolourd diversly: Full jolly knight he seemde, and wel ad- drest. And when he sate uppon his courser free, Saint George himselfe ye would have deemed him to be. But he, the knight whose semblaunt he did beare, 'o° The true Saint George, was wandred far away, THE FAERIE QUEENE 119 Still flying from his thoughts and gealous feare ; Will was his guide, and griefe led him astray. At last him chaunst to meete upon the way A faithlesse Sarazin, all armdc to point, 105 In whose great shield was writ with letters gay Sans foy: full large of limbe and every joint He was, and cared not for God or man a point. Hee had a faire companion of his way, A goodly lady clad in scarlot red, no Purfled with gold and pearle of rich assay; And like a Persian mitre on her hed Shee wore, with crowns and owches gar- nished, The which her lavish lovers to her gave : Her wanton palfrey all was overspred I'S With tinsell trappings, woven like a wave, Whose bridle rung with golden bels and bosses brave. With faire disport and courting dalliaunce She intertainde her lover all the way: But when she saw the knight his speare advaunce, i-o Shee soone left of her mirth and wanton play, ■ And bad her knight addresse him to the fray : His foe was nigh at hand. He, prickte with pride And hope to winne his ladies hearte that day. Forth spurred fast : adownc his coursers side 1-^5 The red bloud trickling staind the way, as he did ride. The Knight of the Redcrosse, when him he spide Spurring so bote with rage dispiteous, Gan fairely couch his speare, and towards ride: Soone meete they both, both fell and furi- ous, 130 That, daunted with theyr forces hideous, Their steeds doe stagger, and amazed stand, ! And eke themselves, too rudely rigorous, Astonied with the stroke of their owne hand. Doe backe rebutte, and ech to other yealdeth land. 135 XVI As when two rams, stird with ambitious pride. Fight for the rule of the rich fleeced flocke. Their horned fronts so fierce on either side Doe meete, that, with the terror of the shocke Astonied, both stand sencelesse as a blocke, Forgetfull of the hanging victory: 141 So stood these twaine, unmoved as a rocke, Both staring fierce, and holding idely The broken reliques of their former cruelty. The Sarazin, sore daunted with the buffe, Snatcheth his sword, and fiercely to him flies; 146 Who well it wards, and quyteth cuff with cuff: Each others equall puissaunce envies, And through their iron sides with cruell spies Does seeke to perce : repining courage yields 150 No foote to foe. The flashing fier flies, As from a forge, out of their burning shields. And streams of purple bloud new dies the verdant fields. ' Curse on that Crosse,' quoth then the Sara- zin, ' That keepes thy body from the bitter fitt ! Dead long ygoe, I wote, thou haddest bin. Had not that charme from thee forwarned itt: 157 But yet I warne thee now assured sitt. And hide thy head.' Therewith upon his crest With rigor so outrageous he smitt, 160 That a large share it hewd out of the rest. And glauncing downe his shield, from blame him fairely blest. Who thereat wondrous wroth, the sleeping spark Of native vertue gan eftsoones revive. And at his haughty helmet making mark. So hugely stroke, that it the Steele did rive. And cleft his head. He, tumbling downe alive, 167 EDMUND SPENSER Willi bloudy mouth his mother earth did kis, Greeting his grave: his grudging ghost did strive With the fraile flesh ; at last it flitted is, Whether the soules doe fly of men that live The lady, when she saw her champion fall, Like the old ruines of a broken towre, Staid not to waile his woefull funerall, But from him fled away with all her powre ; Who after her as hastily gan scowre, '76 Bidding the dwarfe with him to bring away The Sarazins shield, signe of the conquer- oure. Her soone he overtooke, and bad to stay, For present cause was none of dread her to dismay. '^° Shee, turning backe with ruefull counte- naunce, Cride, ' Mercy, mercy, sir, vouchsafe to showe On silly dame, subject to hard mischaunce, And to your mighty wil ! ' Her humblesse low. In so ritch weedes and seeming glorious show, '^S Did much emmove his stout heroicke heart. And said, ' Deare dame, your suddein over- throw Much rueth me; but now put feare apart. And tel, both who ye be, and who that tooke your part.' Melting in teares, then gan shee thus la- ment: "90 ' The wreched woman, whom unhappy howre Hath now made thrall to your commande- ment. Before that angry heavens list to lowre, And Fortune false betraide me to your powre, '94 Was, (O what now availeth that I was?) Borne the sole daughter of an emperour, He that the wide west under his rule has, And high hath set his throne where Tiberis doth pas. ' He, in the first flowre of my freshest age, Betrothed me unto the onely haire 200 Of a most mighty king, most rich and sage; Was never prince so faith full and so faire, Was never prince so meekc and debonaire ; But ere my hoped day of spousall shone. My dearest lord fell from high honors staire, 205 Into the hands of hys accursed fone. And cruelly was slaine, that shall I ever mone. ' His blessed body, spoild of lively breath. Was afterward, I know not how, convaid And fro me hid: of whose most innocent death 210 When tidings came to mee, unhappy maid, O how great sorrow my sad soule assaid ! Then forth I went his woefull corse to find. And many yeares throughout the world I straid, A virgin widow, whose deepe wounded mind With love, long time did languish as the striken hind. 216 ' At last it chaunced this proud Sarazin To meete me wandring; who perforce me led With him away, but yet could never win The fort, that ladies hold in soveraigne dread. 220 There lies he now with foule dishonor dead, Who, whilse he livde, was called proud Sansfoy : The eldest of three brethren, all three bred Of one bad sire, whose youngest is Sansjoy, And twixt them both was born the bloudy bold Sansloy. --5 ' In this sad plight, friendlesse, unfortunate. Now miserable I Fidessa dwell. Craving of you, in pitty of my state. To doe none ill, if please ye not doe well.' He in great passion al this while did dwell, More busying his quicke eies, her face to view, 231 Then his dull eares, to heare what shee did tell; And said, ' Faire lady, hart of flint would rew The undeserved woes and sorrows which ye shew. Henceforth in safe assuraunce may yc rest, 23. s THE FAERIE QUEENE 21 Having both found a new friend you to aid, And lost an old foe, that did you molest : Better new friend then an old foe is said.' With chaunge of chear the seeming simple maid Let fal her eien, as shamefast, to the earth, And yeelding soft, in that she nought gain- said, 241 So forth they rode, he feining seemely merth, And shoe coy lookes: so dainty, they say, maketh derth. XXVIII Long time they thus together traveiled. Til, weary of their way. they came at last Where grew two goodly trees, that faire did spred 246 Their armes abroad, with gray mosse over- cast. And their greene leaves, trembling with every blast, Made a calme shadowe far in compasse round : 249 The fearefull shepheard, often there aghast. Under them never sat, ne wont there sound His merry oaten pipe, but shund th" unlucky ground. XXIX But this good knight, soone as he them can spie. For the coole shade him thither hastly got : For golden Phoebus, now ymounted hie, 255 From fiery wheeles of his faire chariot Hurled his beame so scorching cruell hot. That living creature mote it not abide ; And his new lady it endured not. There they alight, in hope themselves to hide -60 From the fierce heat, and rest their weary limbs a tide. Faire seemely pleasaunce each to other makes. With goodly purposes, there as they sit : And in his falsed fancy he her takes To be the fairest wight that lived yit ; 265 Which to expresse, he bends his gentle wit. And thinking of those braunches greene to frame A girlond for her dainty forehead fit. He pluckt a bough ; out of whose riftc there came Smal drops of gory bloud, that trickled down the same. 27° Therewith a piteous yelling voice was heard. Crying, ' O spare with guilty hands to teare My tender sides in this rough rynd em- bard : But {\y, ah ! fly far hence away, for feare Least to you hap that happened to me heare, 275 And to this wretched lady, my deare love ; O too deare love, love bought with death too deare ! ' Astond he stood, and up his heare did hove, And with that suddein horror could no member move. At last, whenas the dreadfull passion Was overpast, and manhood well awake. Yet musing at this straunge occasion, 282 And doubting much his sence, he thus be spake : ' What voice of damned ghost from Limbo- lake, Or guilefull spright wandring in empty aire. Both which fraile men doe oftentimes mis- take, 286 Sends to my doubtful eares these speaches rare, And ruefull plaints, me bidding guiltlesse blood to spare ? ' Then groning deep : ' Nor damned ghost,' quoth he. ' Nor guileful spirite to thee these words doth speake, 290 But once a man, Fradubio, now a tree; Wretched man, wretched tree ! whose na- ture weake A cruell witch, her cursed will to wreake, Hath thus transformd, and plast in open plaines, Where Boreas doth blow full bitter bleake. And scorching sunne does dry my secret vaines : 296 For though a tree I seme, yet cold and heat me paines.' ' Say on, Fradubio, then, or man or tree,' Quoth then the knight ; ' by whose mis- chievous arts Art thou misshaped thus, as now I see? He oft finds med'cine who his griefe im- parts: 301 But double griefs affikt concealing harts, As raging flames who striveth to suppresse.' [22 EDMUND SPENSER he. all my ' The author then," said smarts, Is one Duessa, a false sorceresse, 305 That many errant knights hath broght to wretchcdnesse. 'In prime of youthly yearcs, when corage hott The fire of love and joy of chevalree First kindled in my brest, it was my lott To love this gentle lady, whome ye see 310 Now not a lady, but a seeming tree; With whome as once I rode accompanyde. Me chaunced of a knight encountred bee. That had a like faire lady by his syde ; Lyke a faire lady, but did fowle Duessa hyde. 31s XXXVI ' Whose forged beauty he did take in hand All other dames to have exceded farre ; I in defence of mine did likewise stand, Mine, that did then shine as the morning starre: So both to batteill fierce arraunged arre ; In which his harder fortune was to fall 3-i Under my speare ; such is the dye of warre : His lady, left as a prise martiall, Did yield her comely person, to be at my call. * So doubly lov'd of ladies unlike faire, 3^5 Th' one seeming such, the other such in- deede. One day in doubt I cast for to compare. Whether in beauties glorie did exceede ; A rosy girlond was the victors meede. Both seemde to win, and both seemde won to bee, 330 So hard the discord was to be agreede : Frselissa was as faire as faire mote bee. And ever false Duessa seemde as faire as shee. XXXVIII ' The wicked witch, now seeing all this while 334 The doubtfull ballaunce equally to sway. What not by right, she cast to win by guile ; And by her hellish science raisd streight way A foggy mist, that overcast the day. And a dull blast, that, breathing on her face. Dimmed her former beauties shining ray, And with foule ugly forme did her dis- grace : 341 Then was she fayre alone, when none was faire in place. ' Then cridc she out, " Fye, fyc ! deformed wii^ht, Whose borrowed beautie now appcareth plaine To have before bewitched all mens sight; leave her soone, or let her soone l)e slaine." 346 Her loathly visage viewing with disdainc, Eftsoones I thought her such as she me told, And would have kild her ; but with faigned paine Tlie false witch did my wrath full hand with-hold : 350 So left her, where she now is turnd to treen mould. XL ' Thensforth I tooke Duessa for my dame. And in the witch unweeting joyd long time, Ne ever wist but that she was the same : Till on a day (that day is everie prime, 355 When witches wont do penance for their crime) 1 chaunst to see her in her proper hew, Bathing her selfe in origane and thyme: A filthy foule old woman I did vew. That ever to have toucht her I did deadly rew. 360 'Her neather partes misshapen, monstruous, Were hidd in water, that I could not see. But they did seeme more foule and hideous. Then womans shape man would beleeve to bee. Thensforth from her most beastly com- panie 36s I gan refraine, in minde to slipp away, Soone as appeard safe opportunitie: For danger great, if not assurd decay, I saw before mine eyes, if I were knowne to stray. ' The divelish hag, by chaunges of my cheare, 37° Perceiv'd mj' thought ; and drownd in slecpie night, AMORETTI 123 With wicked herbes and oyntments did be- smeare ATy body all, through charmes and magicke might, That all my senses were bereaved quight : Then brought she me into this desert waste, And by my wretched lovers side me pight. Where now enclosd in wooden wals full faste, ^T^ Banisht from living wights, our wearie daies we waste.' ' But how long time,' said then the Elfin knight, ' Are you in this misformed hous to dwell?' 380 'We may not chaunge,' quoth he, 'this evill plight Till we be bathed in a living well ; That is the terme prescribed by the spell' ■Q how,' sayd he, 'mote I that well out find, 3S4 That may restore you to your wonted well ? ' ' Time and suffised fates to former kynd Shall us restore ; none else from hence may us unbynd.' The false Duessa, now Fidessa hight. Heard how in vaine Fradubio did lament, And knew well all was true. But the good knight 390 Full of sad feare and ghastly dreriment. When all this speech the living tree had spent, The bleeding bough did thrust into the ground. That from the blood he might be innocent, And with fresh clay did close the wooden wound : 395 Then turning to his lady, dead with feare her fownd. XLV Her seeming dead he fownd with feigned feare. As all unweeting of that well she knew, And paynd himself e with busie care to reare Her out of carelesse swowne. Her eyelids blew, 400 And dimmed sight, with pale and deadly hew, At last she up gan lift : with trembling cheare Her up he tooke, too simple and too trew, And oft her kist. At length, all passed feare, He set her on her steede, and forward forth did beare. 40S AMORETTI Happy ye leaves ! when as those lilly hands, Which hold my life in their dead doing might. Shall handle you, and hold in loves soft bands, Lyke captives trembling at the victors sight. And happy lines ! on which, with starry light, S Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look, And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright. Written with teares in harts close bleeding book. And happy rymes ! bath'd in the sacred brooke Of Helicon, whence she derived is, 1° When ye behold that angels blessed looke, IMy soules long lacked foode, my heavens blis. Leaves, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please alone. Whom if ye please, I care for other none. More then most faire, full of the living fire Kindled above unto the Maker neere : No eies, but joyes, in which al powers con- spire, That to the world naught else be counted deare: Thrugh your bright beams doth not the blinded guest 5 Shoot out his darts to base affections wound ; But angels come, to lead fraile mindes to rest In chast desires, on heavenly beauty bound. You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within, You stop my toung, and teach my hart to speake, 10 You calme the storme that passion did be- gin. Strong thrugh your cause, but by your ver- tue weak. 124 EDMUND SPENSER Dark is the world where your light shined never ; Well is he borne that may behold you ever. When I behold that beauties wonderment, And rare perfection of each goodly part, Of Natures skill the onely complement, I honor and admire the Makers art. But when I feele the bitter balefulle smart 5 Which her fayre eyes unwares doe worke in mee, That death out of theyr shiny beames doe dart, I thinke that I a new Pandora see; Whom all the gods in councell did agree, Into this sinfull world from heaven to send, '° That she to wicked men a scourge should bee, For all their faults with which they did offend. But since ye are my scourge, I will intreat That for my faults ye will me gently beat. Lyke as a ship, that through the ocean wyde By conduct of some star doth make her way, Whenas a storme hath dimd her trusty guyde. Out of her course doth wander far astray; So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray 5 Me to direct, with cloudes is overcast. Doe wander now in darknesse and dismay. Through hidden perils round about me plast. Yet hope I well, that when this storme is past, My Helice, the lodestar of my lyfe, lo Will shine again, and looke on me at last, With lovely light to cleare my cloudy grief. Till then I wander carefuU comfortlesse. In secret sorrow and sad pensivenesse. After long stormes and tempests sad assay, Which hardly I endured heretofore, In dread of death, and daungerous dis- may, With which my silly barke was tossed sore, I doe at length descry the happy shore, 5 In which I hope ere long for to arryve: Fayre soyle it seemes from far, and fraught with store Of all that deare and daynty is alyve. Most happy he that can at last atchyve The joyous safety of so sweet a rest; >o Whose least delight sufficeth to deprive Remembrance of all paines which him op- prest. All paines are nothing in respect of this, All sorrowes short that gaine eternall blisse. Fresh Spring, the herald of loves mighty king, In whose cote-armour richly are displayd All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring, In goodly colours gloriously arrayd, Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd, 5 Yet in her winters bowre, not well awake; Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid, Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take: Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make. To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew, '<> Where every one that misseth then her make Shall be by him amearst with penance dew. Make hast therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime; For none can call againe the passed time. LXXII Oft when my spirit doth spred her bolder winges. In mind to mount up to the purest sky, It down is weighd with thoght of earthly j things, j And clogd with burden of mortality : Where, when that soverayne beauty it doth spy, _ s Resembling heavens glory in her light, Drawne with sweet pleasures bayt, it back doth fly. And unto heaven forgets her former flight. There my fraile fancy, fed with full delight. Doth bath in blisse, and mantleth most at ease; i° Ne thinks of other heaven, but how it might Her harts desire with most contentment please. Hart need not wish none other happinesse, But here on earth to have such hevens blisse. Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it, For that your selfe ye dayly such doe EPITHALAMION 125 But the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit And vertuous mind, is much more praysd of me. For all the rest, how ever fayre it be, S Shall turne to nought and loose that glori- ous hew : But oncly that is permanent, and free From frayle corruption, that doth flesh en- sew. That is true beautie : that doth argue you I o be divine, and borne of heavenly seed, 10 Deriv'd from that fayre Spirit from whom al true And perfect beauty did at first proceed. He onely fayre, and what he fayre hath made ; All other fayre, lyke flowres, untymely fade. EPITHALAMION Ve learned sisters, which have oftentimes Beene to me ayding, others to adorne. Whom ye thought worthy of your grace full rymes. That even the greatest did not greatly scorne To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes, s But joyed in theyr praise; And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne, Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse, Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne. And teach the woods and waters to la- ment 10 Your dolefull dreriment: Now lay those sorrowfuU complaints aside, And having all your heads with girland crownd, Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to re- sound; Ne let the same of any be envide: is So Orpheus did for his owne bride : So I unto my selfe alone will sing; The woods shall to me answer, and my eccho ring. Early, before the worlds light giving lampe His golden beame upon the hils doth spred, Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe, 21 Doe ye awake, and, with fresh lustyhed, Go to the bowre of my beloved love. My truest turtle dove : Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake, 25 And long since ready forth his maske to move, With his bright tead that flames with many a flake, And many a bachelor to waite on him. In theyr fresh garments trim. Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight, 30 For lo ! the wished day is come at last. That shall, for al the paynes and sorrowes past. Pay to her usury of long delight : And whylest she doth her dight, Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing, 35 That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. Bring with you all the nymphes that you can heare. Both of the rivers and the forrests greene. And of the sea that neighbours to her neare, Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene. 40 And let them also with them bring in hand Another gay girland, For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses. Bound truelove wize with a blew silke riband. And let them make great store of bridale poses, 45 And let them eeke bring store of other flowers. To deck the bridale bowers. And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread, For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong. Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along. And diapred lyke the discolored mead. 51 Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt. For she will waken strayt ; The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing, The woods shall to you answer, and your eccho ring. 55 Ye nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull heed The silver scaly trouts doe tend full well, And greedy pikes which use therein to feed, (Those trouts and pikes all others doo ex- cell) And ye likewise which keepe the rushy lake, Where none doo fishes take, 61 Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd light,_ And in his waters, which your mirror make, 126 h-UMUWU brUJNblLK Behold your faces as the christall bright, That when you come whereas my love doth He, . '' No blemish she may spie. And eke ye light foot mayds which kecpe the dere That on the hoary mountayne use to towre, And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devnure, With your Steele darts doo chacc from com- ming neer, ''° Be also present heere, To helpe to decke her, and to help to sing, That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time: The rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed, 75 All ready to her silver coche to clyme, And Phcebus gins to shew his glorious hed. Hark how the chcercfull birds do chaunt thcyr laies. And Carroll of loves praise! The merry larke hir mattins sings aloft, 8° The thrush replyes, the mavis descant playes, The ouzell shrills, the ruddock warbles soft. So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, To this dayes merriment. Ah ! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long, ^5 When meeter were that ye should now awake, T 'awayt the comming of your joyous mate, And hearken to the birds love-learned song. The dcawy leaves among? For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring. 9i My love is now awake out of her dreame. And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed were With darksome cloud, now shew theyr good- ly beams More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere. 95 Come now, ye damzels, daughters of de- light, Helpe quickly her to dight. But first come ye. fayre Houres, which were begot. In Joves sweet paradice, of Day and Night, Which doe the seasons of the year allot, loo And al that ever in this world is fayre Do make and still repayrc. And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene, The which doe still adorne her beauties pride, '"^ Hclpc to addornc my beautifullest bride: And as ye her array, still throw betweene Some graces to be scene : And as ye use to Venus, to her sing. The whiles the woods shal answer, and your eccho ring. Now is my love all ready forth to come: "o Let all the virgins therefore well awayt. And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome. Prepare your selves, for he is comming strayt. Set all your things in seemely good aray, Fit for so joy full day, ''5 The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see. Faire Sun, shew forth thy favourable ray. And let thy lifull heat not fervent be. For feare of burning her sunshyny face, Her beauty to disgrace. '^o O fayrest Phcebus, father of the Muse, If ever I did honour thee aright. Or sing the thing that mote thy mind de- light, Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse, But let this day, let this one day be myne. Let all the rest be thine. '^^ Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing, That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring. Harke how the minstrels gin to shrill aloud Their merry musick that resounds from far, 130 The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud. That well agree withouten breach or jar. But most of all the damzels doe delite. When they their tymbrels smyte. And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet. That all the sences they doe ravish quite, 136 The whyles the boyes run up and downe the street, Crying aloud with strong confused noyce. As if it were one voyce. ' Hymen. lo Hymen, Hymen,' they do shout. That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill UJ Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill ; To which the people, standing all about. As in approvance doe thereto applaud. And loud advaunce her laud, '45 And evermore they ' Hymen, Hymen ' sing. That al the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring. Loe ! where she comes along with portly pace. Lyke Phcehe, from her chamber of the east, Arysing forth to run her mighty race, 'So Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best. So well it her beseemes, that ye would weene Some angoll :-iie had beene. Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre, Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres atweene, '55 Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre. And being crowned with a girland greene, Seeme lyke some mayden quecnc. Her modest eyes, abashed to behold So many gazers as on her do stare, »6o Upon the lowly ground affixed are; Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold, But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud, So farre from being proud. Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing, >^s That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. Tell me, ye merchants daughters, did ye see So fayre a creature in your towne before, So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store? 170 Her goodly eyes lyke saphyres shining bright, Her forehead yvory white, Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded. Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte. Her brest like to a bowle of creame uncrud- ded, 175 Her paps lyke lyllies budded. Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre, And all her body like a pallace fayre. Ascending uppe, with many a stately stayre, To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre. Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze, 'S' Upon her so to gaze, Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing. To which the woods did answer, and your eccho ring. But if ye saw that which no eyes can see. The inward beauty of her lively spright, '86 Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high de- gree, Much more then would ye wonder at that sight. And stand astonisht lyke to those which red Medusaes mazeful hed. 190 There dwels sweet Love and constant Chas- tity, Unspotted Fayth, and comely Womanhood, Regard of Honour, and mild Modesty; There Vertue raynes as queene in royal throne. And giveth lawes alone, '95 The which the base affections doe obay. And yeeld theyr services unto her will ; Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill. Had ye once scene these her celestial threa- sures, 200 And unrevealed pleasures, Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing. That al the woods should answer, and your echo ring. Open the temple gates unto my love. Open them wide that she may enter in, 205 And all the postes adorne as doth behove, xA.nd all the pillours deck with girlands trim, For to receyve this saynt with honour dew, That commeth in to you. With trembling steps and humble rever- ence, 210 She commeth in before th' Almighties vew : Of her, ye virgins, learne obedience, When so ye come into those holy places, To humble your proud faces. Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may 215 The sacred ceremonies there partake. The which do endlesse matrimony make; And let the roring organs loudly play The praises of the Lord in lively notes, The whiles with hollow throates 220 The choristers the joyous antheme sing. That al the woods may answere, and their eccho ring. Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes, And blesseth her with his two happy hands, 225 How the red roses flush up in her cheekes. And the pure snow with goodly vermill stayne. Like crimsin' dyde in grayne : That even th' angels, which continually About the sacred altare doe remaine, 23c Forget their service and about her fly, Ofte peeping in her face, that seemes more fayre. The more they on it stare. Put her ?ad eyes, still fastened on the ground. 128 iLUiViUi\JJ CiriiiN:?!!.!^. Are governed with t^oodly modesty, 235 That sufifers not one louke to glaunce awry, Which may let in a little thought unsownd. Why blush ye. love, to give to me your hand. The pledge of all our band? Sing, ye sweet angels, Alleluya sing, ~^^ That all the woods may answere, and your eccho ring. Now al is done; bring home the bride againe. Bring home the triumph of our victory. Bring home with you the glory of her gaine, With joyance bring her and with jollity. 245 Never had man more joy full day then this, Whom heaven would heape with blis. Make feast therefore now all this live long day; This day for ever to me holy is; Poure out the wine without restraint or stay, ^50 Poure not by cups, but by the belly full, Poure out to all that wull. And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine, That they may sweat, and drunken be with- all. Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall. And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine; ^56 And let the Graces daunce unto the rest. For they can doo it best : The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing, The which the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring. ^^° Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne, And leave your wonted labors for this day: This day is holy; doe ye write it downe, That ye for ever it remember may. This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight. With Barnaby the bright, 266 From whence declining daily by degrees. He somewhat loseth of his heat and light, When once the Crab behind his back he But for this time it ill ordained was, 270 To chose the longest day in all the yeare, And shortest night, when longest fitter weare : Yet never day so long, but late would passe. Ring ye the bels. to make it weare away, And bonefires make all day, -7S And daunce about them, and about them sing: That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love ? How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend ! 280 How slowly does sad Time his feathers move ! Hast thee, O fayrest planet, to thy home Within the westerne f ome : Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest. Long though it be, at last I see it gloome, And the bright evening star with golden creast ^^^ Appeare out of the east. Fayre childe of beauty, glorious lampe of love. That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead, And guydest lovers through the nightes dread, 290 How chearefully thou lookest from above, And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light, As joying in the sight Of these glad many, which for joy doe sing. That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring! 295 Now ceasse, ye damsels, your delights fore- past ; Enough is it that all the day was youres: Now day is doen, and night is nighing fast: Now bring the bryde into the brydall boures. The night is come, now soone her disaray, And in her bed her lay; 301 Lay her in lillies and in violets. And silken courteins over her display. And odourd sheetes, and Arras coverlets. Behold how goodly my faire love does ly. In proud humility ! 3o6 Like unto Maia, when as Jove her tooke In 'i'empe, lying on the flowry gras, Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was With bathing in the Acidalian brooke. 310 Now it is night, ye damsels may be gon. And leave my love alone. And leave likewise your former lay to sing: The woods no more shal answere, nor your echo ring. Now welcome, night ! thou night so long expected, That long daies labour doest at last de- fray. And all my cares, which cruell Love col- lected, Hast sumd in one, and cancelled for aye : Spread thy broad wing over my love and me. That no man may us see, 320 And in thy sable mantle us enwrap, From feare of perrill and foule horror free. Let no false treason seeke us to entrap. Nor any dread disquiet once annoy '{"he safety of our joy : 3^5 But let the night be calme and quietsome. Without tempestuous storms or sad a fray: Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay. When he begot the great Tirynthian groome : Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lie, 330 And begot Majesty. And let the mayds and yongmen cease to sing: Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring. Let no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull teares, Be heard all night within, nor yet without : Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden feares, 336 Breake gentle sleepe with misconceived dout. Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadful sights, Make sudden sad affrights ; Ne let house-fyres, nor lightnings helplesse harmes, 340 Ne let the Pouke, nor other evill sprights, Ne let mischivous witches with theyr charmes, Ne let hob goblins, names whose sense we see not. Fray us with things that be not. Let not the shricch oule, nor the storke be heard, 345 Nor the night raven that still deadly yels, Nor damned ghosts cald up with mighty spels, Nor griesly vultures make us once affeard : Ne let th' unpleasant quyre of frogs still croking Make us to wish theyr choking. 3So Let none of these theyr drery accents sing; Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring. g But let stil Silence trew night watches keepe, That sacred Peace may in assurance rayne. And tymely Sleep, when it is tynie to sleepe, 355 May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne, The whiles an hundred little winged loves. Like divers fethercd doves. Shall fly and flutter round about our bed, And in the secret darke, that none reproves. Their prety stealthcs shall worke, and snares shal spread 361 To filch away sweet snatches of delight, Conceald through covert night. Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will: For greedy Pleasure, careless of your toyes, Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes. Then what ye do, albe it good or ill. 367 All night therefore attend your merry play. For it will soone be day : Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing, Ne will the woods now answer, nor your eccho ring. 371 Who is the same which at my window peepes? Or whose is that faire face that shines so bright ? Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes. But walkes about high heaven al the night? O fayrest goddesse, do thou not envy 3"6 My love with me to spy: For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought, And for a fleece of woll, which privily The Latmian shephard once unto thee brought, 380 His pleasures with 'thee wrought. Therefore to us be favorable now; And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge. And generation goodly dost enlarge, Encline thy will t' effect our wishful! vow. And the chast wombe in forme with timely seed, 386 That may our comfort breed: Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing, Ne let the woods us answere, nor our eccho ring. And thou, great Juno, which with awful might 390 The lawes of wedlock still dost patronize. And the religion of the faith first plight With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize. And eeke for comfort often called art Of women in their smart, 39S 130 EDMUND SPENSER Eternally bind tliuu this lovely band, Anil all thy blcshings unto us inii)art. And llioii, glad Genius, in whose gentle hand The bridale bowrc and geniall bed remaine, Without blemish or staine. 4oo And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delight With secret ayde docst succour and supply, Till they bring forth the fruit full progeny, Send us the timely fruit of this same night. And thou, fayre Hebe, and thou, Hymen free, 4^5 Grant that it may so be. Til which we cease your further prayse to sing. Ne any woods .shal answer, nor your eccho And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods, 409 In which a thousand torches flaming bright Doe burnc, that to us wretched earthly clods In dreadful darknesse lend desired light. And all ye powers which in the same re- mayne, More then we men can fayne, Poure out your blessing on us plentiously, And happy influence upon us raine, 416 That we may raise a large posterity. Which from the earth, which they may long possesse With lasting happinesse, Up to your haughty pallaces may mount, 420 And for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit, May heavenly tabernacles there inherit, Of blessed saints for to increase the count. So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this, And cease till then our tymely joyes to sing : The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho ring. ' 4^6 Song, made in lieu of many ornaments With which my love should duly have bene dect, Which cutting off through hasty accidents, Ye would not stay your dew time to expect. But promist both to recompens, 431 Be unto her a goodly ornament. And for short time an endlesse moniment. PROTHALAMION Calme was the day, and through the trem- bling ayrc Sweete breathing Zephyrus did softly play, A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre : When T, whom sullein care, 5 Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay In princes court, and expectation vayne Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away, Like empty shaddowes, did aflict my brayne, Walkt forth to ease my payne 10 Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes ; Whose rutty banckc, the wliich his river hcmmes. Was paynted all with variable flowers, And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmes. Fit to decke maydens bowres, 'S And crowne their paramours, Against the brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. There, in a meadow, by the rivers side, A flocke of nymphes I chaunced to espy, 2< All lovely daughters of the flood thereby. With goodly greenish locks all loose untyde. As each had bene a bryde: And each one had a little wicker basket, Made of fine twigs entrayled curiously, 25 In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket; And with fine fingers cropt full feateously The tender stalkes on hye. Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, They gathered some ; the violet pallid blew, The little dazie, that at evening closes, 3» The virgin lillie, and the primrose trew. With store of vermeil roses. To decke their bridegromes posies Against the brydale day, which was not long : 35 Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. With that I saw two swannes of goodly hewe Come softly swimming downe along the lee; Two fairer birds I yet did never see: The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew 40 Did never whiter shew. Nor Jove himselfe, 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 nearer 45 So purely white they were, That even the gentle streame, the which them bare, Seem'cl foule to them, and bad his billowes spare To wet their silken feathers, least they might Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre, _ so And marre their beauties bright, That shone as heavens light. Against their brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. Eftsoones the nymphes, which now had flowers their fill, ss Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, As they came floating on the christal flood ; Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still. Their wondring eyes to fill. Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fayre, 60 Of fowles so lovely, that they sure did deeme Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre Which through the skie draw Venus silver teeme ; For sure they did not seeme To be begot of any earthly seede, 65 But rather angels or of angels breede : Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say, In sweetest season, when each flower and weede The earth did fresh aray ; So fresh they seem'd as day, 70 Even as their brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes, runne 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, 76 And all the waves did strew. That like old Peneus waters they did seeme. When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore, Scattred with flowres, through Thessaly they streeme, 80 That they appeare, through lillies plenteous store. Like a brydes chamber flore. Two of those nymphes, meane while, two garlands bound Of freshest flowres which in that mead they found, The which presenting all in trim array, 85 Their snowie foreheads therewithall they crownd, Whil'st one did sing this lay, Prepar'd against that day, Against their brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 90 ' Ye gentle birdes, the worlds faire orna- ment. And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower Doth leade unto your lovers blissfull bower, Joy may you have and gentle hearts con- tent Of your loves couplement: 9S And let faire Venus, that is Queene of Love, With her heart-quelling sonne upon you smile, Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove All loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile For ever to assoile. 100 Let endlesse peace your steadfast hearts accord. And blessed plentie wait upon your lord ; And let your bed with pleasures chast abound. That fruitfull issue may to you afford, Which may your foes confound, '05 And make your joyes redound. Upon your brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes, run softlie, till I end my song.' So ended she ; and all the rest around To her redoubled that her undersong, no Which said, their bridale daye should not be long. And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground Their accents did resound. So forth those joyous birdes did passe along, Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde low, 115 As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong, Yeat did by signes his glad affection show, Making his streame run slow. And all the foule which in his flood did dwell ^ Gan Hock about these twaiiic, that did ex- cell '-•" The rest so far as Cyntliia dotli shend The lesser starres. So they, cnraiiged well, Did on those two attend, And their best service lend, Against their wedding day, which was not long: »2s Swecte Themnics, run softly, till I end my song. At length they all to nicry London came, To inory London, my most kyndly nurse. That to me gave this lifcs first native sourse: Though from another place I take my name, An house of auncient fame. '.'■ There when they came, whereas tliose bricky towres, The which on Themmes brodc aged backc doe ryde, Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers. There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde, 135 Till they decayd through pride : Next whereunto there standes a stately place. Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly grace Of that great lord which therein wont to dwell, Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case: 14° But ah ! here fits not well Olde woes, but joyes to tell, Against the bridale daye, which is not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. Yet therein, now doth lodge a noble peer, Great Englands glory and the worlds wide wonder, 146 Whose dread full name late through all Spaine did thunder. And Hercules two piJlors standing neere Did make to quake and feare. CL-'iviuiM-' ojrr:-iNC)i:,r\. Faire branch of honor, flower of chevalric. That fillest England with thy triumphes fame, 'S' Joy have thou of thy noble victorie, And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name That promiseth the same: That through thy prowesse and victorious armes i5S Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes ; And great Elisaes glorious name may ring 'ilirough al the world, fil'd with thy wide alarmes. Which some brave Muse may sing 'I'o ages following, 160 Upon the brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. Erom those high towers this noble lord issuing, Like radiant Hesper when his golden hayre In th' ocean billows he hath bathed fayre, Descended to the rivers open vewing, 166 With a great traine ensuing. Above the rest were goodly to bee scene Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature, 169 Beseeming well the bower of anie queene, With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature. Fit for so goodly stature : That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight. Which decke the bauldricke of the heavens bright. They two, forth pacing to the rivers side. Received those two faire brides, their loves delight, 176 Which, at th' appointed tyde. Each one did make his bryde. Against their brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 180 ELIZABETHAN LYRICS As a whole, the brilliant lyrical pffluence of the Elizabethan period may fairly be regarded as the product of English courtly life, and particulnrly, in its beginning, the product of the Renaissance court of Henry VIII. Wyatt and Surrey were conspicuous courtiers, and scarcely one of the contributors to Tottd's Miscellanij (1557) was free from court influence. An inevitable result of courtliness in literature is convention, a too conscious refinement, and, often, a baffling veil of literary pretence. These qualities are salient and inherent in the Elizabethan sonnet. After its introduction into English literature by Sir Thomas Wyatt, and after its chastening in the hands of Surrey and others, this poetical form was first used in masterly fashion by Sir Philip Sidney in his AstropJicl and .S'fd/a, the earliest sonnet sequence in English, composed a goots, — which 'far exceeds two thousand,' — the larger proportion are found in sonnet collections, or sonnet sequences, of which the most important, after those of Shakspere and Sidney, are the following: Delia (1592). by Samuel Daniel; Idea (1.594), by Michael Drayton; and Amoretti (1595), by Edmund Spenser. With few exceptions, these sonnets, like those of Wyatt and Surrey, are imitations of Continental models. But since lyric is essentially the expression of personal emotion, the lyrist inevitably breaks out, at times, into a frank, intimate, and spontaneous utterance which is of all sorts of expres- sion the most immediately pleasurable. Free, fresh, and various are the lyrics found in the series of miscellanies which began with TottcVs MisceUani/, and continued with The Paradise of Dainty Dericcs (157G), .1 Goryeous Gallery of Gallant Inventions (1578), A Handful of Pleasant Delights (15S4). The Phoenix' Xcst (1.59.3), The Passionate Pilgrim (1599), Eng- land's Helicon (1000), and Francis Davison's Poetical Rhapsody (1002). In one or other of these collections are represented the chief lyrical writers of the Elizabethan period. In a group apart from the lyrical miscellanies, though not conspicuously different from some of them in content, may be reckoned the Elizabethan song books. William Byrd's Psalms, i^onnets, and Songs of Sadness and Piety (1.587) and Songs of Sundry Natures (1589) were followed, during the next decade or two, by some scores of similar collections, such as John Dowland's The First Book of Songs or Airs (1597), and Thomas Campion's A Book of Airs (1(;01). Along with the songs in song books should be mentioned those that delightfully enliven many of the plays of the period, eminently those of Lyly and of Shakspere. GEORGE GASCOIGNE (1525?-! 577) A STRANGE PASSION OF A LOVER Amid my bale I bathe in bliss, I swim in heaven, I sink in hell : I find amends for every miss. And yet my moan no tongue can tell. I live and love, what would you more? 5 As never lover lived before. I laugh sometimes with little lust, So jest I oft and feel no joy; Aline eye is builded all on trust, And yet mistrust breeds mine annoy. 'c T live and lack, I lack and have ; I have and miss the thing I crave. These things seem strange, yet are they true. Believe me, sweet, my state is such, One pleasure which I would eschew, is Both slakes my grief and breeds my grutch. So doth one pain which I would shun, Renew my joys where grief begun. Then like the lark that passed the night In heavy sleep with cares opprest ; 20 Yet when she spies the pleasant light. She sends sweet notes from out her breast. So sing I now because I think How joys approach, when sorrows shrink. ^33 134 ELIZABETHAN LYRICS And as fair Philomene again -5 Can watch and sing when others sleep ; And taketh pleasure in her pain, To wray the woe tliat makes her weep. So sing I now for to bewray The loathsome life I lead alway. 3o The which to thee, dear wench, I write. That know'st my mirth, but not my moan : 1 pray God grant thee deep delight, To live in joys when I am gone. I cannot live; it will not be: 3S I die to think to part from thee. SIR EDWARD DYER (i55o?-i6o7) 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, 5 Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 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; ^° 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 'S 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 ; 2s 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 will; Their treasure is their only trust; A cloaked craft their store of skill: 4° 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, 4S Nor by deceit to breed offence: Thus do I live; thus will I die; Would all did so as well as I ! SIR WALTER RALEIGH (i552?-i6i8) THE SILENT LOVER Passions are likened 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 dis- cover 5 That they are poor in that which makes a lover. 11, 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. HIS PILGRIMAGE Give me my scallop-shell of quiet. My staff of faith to walk upon. My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation. My gown of glory, hope's true gauge: And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. Blood must be my body's balmer ; No other balm will there be given; Whilst my soul, like a quiet palmer, Traveleth towards the land of heaven, lo Over the silver mountains, Where spring the nectar fountains. There will I kiss The bowl of bliss ; And drink mine everlasting fill i5 Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before ; But, after, it will thirst no more. Then by that happy blissful day More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk appareled fresh like me. I '11 take them first, To quench their thirst 24 And taste of nectar suckets. At those clear wells Where sweetness dwells. Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. And when our bottles and all we Are filled with immortality, 30 Then the blessed paths we '11 travel, Strowed with rubies thick as gravel ; Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. From thence to heaven's bribeless hall. Where no corrupted voices brawl ; No conscience molten into gold ; No forged accuser bought or sold ; No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, For there Christ is the King's attorney. Who pleads for all, without degrees, 41 And he hath angels but no fees. And when the grand twelve million jury Of our sins, with direful fury. Against our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads his death; and then we live. Be Thou my speaker, taintless pleader ! Unblottcd lawyer ! true proceeder ! Thou giv'st salvation, even for alms, Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. 50 And this is mine eternal plea To him that made heaven and earth and sea : That, since my flesh must die so soon. And want a head to dine next noon. Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread. Set on my soul an everlasting head! 56 Then am I ready, like a palmer fit. To tread those blest paths; which before I writ. A VISION UPON THIS CONCEIT OF THE FAERY QUEEN Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay. Within that temple where the vestal flame Was wont to burn: and, passing by that way. To see that buried dust of living fame. Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept, 5 All suddenly I saw the Faery Queen; At whose approach the soul of PetrarcH wept. And from thenceforth those graces were not seen, For they this queen attended ; in whose stead Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse. Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, " And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce : W^here Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief. And cursed the access of that celestial thief. 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 wandered all our ways, S Shuts up the story of our days : But from this earth, this grave, this dust. My God shall raise me up, I trust. GEORGE PEELE (i558?-i597?) SONG FROM THE ARRAIGNMENT OF PARIS 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, S As 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, 10 And of my love my roundelay. My merry, merry roundelay. Concludes with Cupid's curse, — • Tlicy tlial do cliaiigc old love for new, Pray gods they change for worse ! ' Ambosimul. They that do change, etc. CEn. Fair and fair, etc. Par. Fair and fair, etc. Thy love is fair, etc. CEn. My love can pipe, my love can sing. My love can many a pretty thing. And of his lovely praises ring My merry, merry roundelays, Anicn to Cupid's curse,— 'They that do change,' etc. =5 Par. They that do change, etc. Ambo. Fair and fair, etc. HARVESTMEN A-SINGING From THE OLD WIVES' TALE 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. ROBERT GREENE (i56o?-i592) SONG FROM THE FAREWELL TO FOLLY Sweet are the thoughts that savor of con- tent ; The quiet 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 harbors 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: A mind content both crown and kingdom is. PHILOMELA'S ODE From PHILOMELA 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 Honor is the chief content That to man in life is lent. And some others do contend. Quiet none like to a friend. i° 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 my thoughts I did approve. Naught so sweet as is true love. Love 'twixt lovers passeth these. When nrouth kisscth and heart 'grees, -° 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. 3o No such quiet to the mind As true love with kisses kind ; 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. SONG FROM MENAPHON 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 S 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. '<> Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, Wlun tlinn 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, '5 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. -o 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. SONG FROM MENAPHON Some say Love, Foolish Love, Doth rule and govern all the gods : I say Love, Inconstant Love, s Sets men's senses far at odds. Some swear Love, Smooth-faced Love, Is sweetest sweet that men can have : I say Love, 'o Sour Love, Makes virtue yield as beauty's slave. A bitter sweet, a folly worst of all. That forceth wisdom to be folly's thrall. Love is sweet, '5 Wherein sweet ? In fading pleasures that do pain. Beauty sweet : Is that sweet That yieldeth sorrow for a gain? 20 If Love's sweet, Herein sweet. That minutes' joys are monthly woes : 'Tis not sweet. That is sweet -5 Nowhere but where repentance grows. Then love who list, if beauty be so sour ; Labor for me. Love rest in prince's bower. THE SHEPHERD'S WIFE'S SONG From THE MOURNING GARMENT 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. 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 ; "> And merrier too: For kings bethink them what the state re- quire. Where shepherds careless carol by the fire. Ah then, ah then. If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 15 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 his meat ; And blither too: For kings have often fears when they do sup, 20 Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup. Ah then, ah then. 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 dalliance with a queen; More wanton too : For kings have many griefs affects to move. 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 As doth the king at every tide or sithc; And Mithcr too : For kings have wars and broils to take in hand When shepherds laugh and love upon the land. Ah then, ah tlicn, 46 If country loves such sweet desires do gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? ROBERT SOUTHWELL (1561?-! 595) THE BURNING BABE As I in hoary winter's night stood shiver- ing 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. Who scorched with 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 : ' With this he vanished out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away, '5 And straight T called unto mind that it was Chrii-f mas-day. SAMUEL DANIEL (i 562-1619) SONNETS FROM DELIA Restore thy treasure 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 ; 5 To Arabian odors give thy breathing sweet ; Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright ; To Thetis give the honor of thy feet. Let Venus have the graces she resigned ; And thy sweet voice yield to Hermonius' spheres : lo But yet restore thy fierce and cruel mind To Hyrcan tigers and to ruthless bears. Yield to the marble thy hard heart again ; So shalt thou cease to plague and I to pain. False Hope prolongs my ever certain grief, Traitor to me, and faithful to my Love. A thousand times it promised me relief, Yet never any true effect I prove. Oft, when I find in her no truth at all, s I banish her, and blame her treachery: Yet, soon again, I must her back recall. As one that dies without her company. Thus often, as I chase my Hope from me, Straightway, she hastes her unto Delia's eyes: i" Fed with some pleasing look, there shall she be; And so sent back. And thus my fortune lies. Looks feed my Hope, Hope fosters me in vain; Hopes are unsure, when certain is my pain. Oft do I marvel, whether Delia's eyes Are eyes, or else two radiant stars that shine? For how could Nature ever thus devise Of earth, on earth, a substance so divine? Stars, sure, they are, whose motions rule desires ; 5 And calm and tempest follow their aspects : Their sweet appearing still such power in- spires. That makes the world admire so strange effects. Yet whether fixed or wandering stars are they. Whose influence rules the orb of my poor heart? lo Fixed, sure, they are, but wandering, make me stray In endless errors, whence I cannot part. Stars, then, not eyes, move you, with milder view. Your sweet aspect on him that honors you! XXXVIII Thou canst not die, whilst any zeal abound In feeling hearts, that can conceive these lines : Though thou, a Laura, hast no Petrarch found ; In base attire, yet, clearly, Beauty shines. And I, though born within a colder clime, Do feel mine inward heat as great, I know it. 6 He never had more faith, although more rime : I love as well, though he could better show it. But I may add one feather to thy fame, To help her flight throughout the fairest Isle; 10 And if my pen could more enlarge thy name. Then should'st thou live in an immortal style. For though that Laura better limned be. Suffice, thou shalt be loved as well as she ! Care.-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born : Relieve my anguish, and restore the light; With dark forgetting of my care, return ! And let the day be time enough to mourn 5 The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn. Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires. To model forth the passions of the mor- row ; 10 Never let rising sun approve you liars. To add more grief to aggravate my sor- row. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain ; And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 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 s Authentic shall my verse in time to come ; When yet th' unborn shall say, ' Lo, where 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 ; >o And these thy sacred virtues must pro- tect Against the dark, and Time's consuming rage. Though the error of my youth in them ap- pear, Suffice they show I lived and loved thee dear. MTCHAEL DRAYTON (i 563-1631) SONNETS FROM IDEA TO THE READER OF THESE SONNETS Into these loves, who but for passion looks, At this first sight, here let him lay them by, And seek elsewhere in turning other books, Which better may his labor satisfy. No far-fetched sigh shall ever wound my breast; s Love from mine eye a tear shall never wring ; Nor in ' Ah me's I ' my whining sonnets drest ! A libertine! fantasticly I sing! My verse is the true image of my mind. Ever in motion, still desiring change ; lo And as thus, to variety inclined. So in all humors sportively I range ! My Muse is rightly of the English strain. That cannot long one fashion entertain. Bright Star of Beauty, on whose eyelids sit A thousand nymph-like and enamored Graces, The Goddesses of IMemory 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, 6 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 : lo 140 liLlZ,A15illliAi\ LYKH^b I hold that vile, wliiili vulgar wit affords; in me 's that failh which lime catinot in- vade ! Let what 1 praise he still made good hy you ! Be you most worthy, whilst I am most true ! As other men, so I myself, do muse Why in this sort I wrest invention so? And why these giddy metaphors I use, Leaving the path the greater part do go? I will resolve you. I am lunatic ! 5 And ever this in madmen you shall find, What they last thought of, when the brain grew sick. In most distraction, they keep that in mind. Thus talking idly, in this Bedlam fit. Reason and I, you must conceive, are twain; 'Tis nine years now, since first I lost my wit. II Bear with me, then, though troubled be my brain ! What diet and correction, men distraught. Not too far past, may to their wits be brought. 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. In me it speaks, whether I sleep or wake; s .\nd 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; lo 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. Whilst thus my pen strives to eternize thee, Age rules my lines with wrinkles in my face. Where, in the map of all my misery, Is modeled out the world of my disgrace; Whilst in despite of tyrannizing times, S Medea-like, I make thee young again. Proudly thou scorn'st my world-outwearing rimes, And murdcr'st Virtue with thy coy dis- dain ! And though in youth my youth untimely perish To keep thee from oblivion and the grave, Ensuing ages yet my rimes shall cherish, Where I entombed, my better part shall save ; 12 And though this earthly body fade and die, ]\Iy name shall mount upon Eternity! 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, 5 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 ! ODE XI TO THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE You brave heroic minds. Worthy .your country's name, That honor still pursue; Go and subdue ! Whilst loitering hinds Lurk here at home with shame. Britons, you stay too long ; Quickly aboard bestow you ! And with a merry gale Swell your stretched sail. With vows as strong As the winds that blow you! Your course securely steer, West-and-by-south forth keep! Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals, IS A poet's brows 65 When Eolus scowls, To crown, that may sing there. You need not fear. So absolute the deep. Thy Voyages attend. Industrious Hakluyt ! And, cheerfully at sea, Whose reading shall inflame Success you still entice, 20 Men to seek fame ; 7° To get the pearl and gold; And much commend And ours to hold, To after times thy wit. Virginia, Earth's only Paradise. ODE XII Where Nature hath in store 25 Fowl, venison, and fish ; TO THE CAMBRO-BRITONS AND And the fruit ful'st soil, — THEIR HARP HIS BALLAD Without your toil, OF AGINCOURT Three harvests more. All greater than your wish. 30 Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance ; And the ambitious vine Nor now to prove our chance Crowns with his purple mass Longer will tarry; The cedar reaching high But putting to the main, 5 To kiss the sky, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, The cypress, pine. 35 With all his martial train And useful sassafras. Landed King Harry. To whom, the Golden Age And taking many a fort. Still Nature's laws doth give: Furnished in warlike sort, 1° Nor other cares attend, Marcheth towards Agincourt But them to defend 40 In happy hour; From winter's rage. Skirmishing, day by day. That long there doth not live. With those that stopped his way. Where the French general lay is When as the luscious smell With all his power. Of that delicious land. Above the seas that flows, 45 Which, in his height of pride, The clear wind throws. King Henry to deride, Your hearts to swell. His ransom to provide. Approaching the dear strand. To the King sending; 2« Which he neglects the while. In kenning of the shore As from a nation vile. (Thanks to God first given!) SO Yet, with an angry smile. you, the happiest men. Their fall portending. Be frolic then ! Let cannons roar. And turning to his men, aS Frightening the wide heaven! Quoth our brave Henry then: ' Though they to one be ten And in regions far, 55 Be not amazed ! Such heroes bring ye forth Yet have we well begun: As those from whom we came! Battles so bravely won 3o And plant our name Have ever to the sun Under that star By Fame been raised! Not known unto our North! 6o ' And for myself,' quoth he, And as there plenty grows ' This my full rest shall be : The laurel everywhere. England ne'er mourn for me, 35 Apollo's sacred tree Nor more esteem me ! You may it see Victor I will remain, 142 111^1/-^ nc 1 rnriiN i^ i xviv^o Or on this earth lie slain : Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me ! ' Poitiers ami Crcssy tell. When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell. No less our skill is. Than when our (jrandsirc great, ClaimiuR the resjal scat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies.' The Duke of York so dread The eager vanward led ; 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; Armor on armor shone; Drum now to drum did groan : To hear, was wonder; 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. 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. When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilboes drew. And on the French they flew: Not one w-as 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. Down the French host did ding. As to o'erwhelm it. And many a deep wound lent ; His arms with blood besprent, .\nd 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 Fanhopc. 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? CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (1 564- 1 593) HERO AND LEANDER From THE FIRST SESTLA.D On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood, In view and opposite two cities stood. Sea-borderers, disjoined by Neptune's might ; The one Abydos, the other Sestos bight. At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair, s Whom young Apollo courted for her hair. And offered as a dower his burning throne. Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon. The outside of her garments were of lawn. The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn ; 10 «^nKi:5 lumnK makluwh 143 Her wide sleeves green, and bordered 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 wretched lovers slain. 16 Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath, From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath ; Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves, Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives. 20 Many would praise the sweet smell as she past. When 'twas the odor which her breath forth cast : And there, for honey, bees have sought in vain, And, beat from thence, have lighted there again. About her neck hung chains of pebble- stone, 25 Which, lightened by her neck, like dia- monds shone. She ware no gloves ; for neither sun nor wind Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind. Or warm or cool them, for they took de- light To play upon those hands, they were so white. 30 Buskins of shells, all silvered, used she, And branched with blushing coral to the knee ; Where sparrows perched of hollow pearl and gold. Such as the world would wonder to behold : Those with sweet water oft her handmaid f^lls, 35 Which as she went, would chirrup through the bills. Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pined. And, looking in her face, was strooken blind. But this is true ; so like was one the other. As he imagined Hero was his mother; 4° 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 was Hero, Venus' nun, 45 As Nature wept, thinking she was undone. Because she took more from her than she left. And of such v/ondrous beauty her bereft : Therefore, in sign her treasure suffered wrack. Since Hero's time hath half the world been black. 50 .Amorous Leander, beautiful and young ( A\'hose tragedy divine Musseus 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 allured the venturous youth of Greece 57 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. 60 His body was as straight as Circe's wand ; Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand. Even as delicious meat is to the taste, So was his neck in touching, and surpast The white of Pelops' shoulder: I could tell ye, 65 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, Much less of powerful gods : let it suffice That my slack Muse sings of Leander's eyes ; 72 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. 76 Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen. Enamored of his beauty had he been. His presence made the rudest peasant melt, That in the vast uplandish country dwelt ; The barbarous Thracian soldier, moved with naught, 81 Was moved with him, and for his favor 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. 85 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.' 90 The men of wealthy Sestos every year. 144 ELIZABETHAN LYRICS For his sake whom their goddess held so dear, I'iose-chceked Adonis, kept a soleniii feast. I hither resorted many a wandering guest To meet their loves; such as had none at all, 95 Came lovers home from this great festival ; For every street, like to a firmament, Glistered with hreathing stars, who, where they went, Frighted the melancholy earth, which deemed Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seemed 'oo As if another Phaeton had got The guidance of the sun's rich chariot. But, far above the loveliest. Hero shincd, And stole away th' enchanted gazer's mind ; For like sca-nymphs' inveigling harmony, So was her beauty to the standers by; >o6 Nor that night-wandering, pale, and watery star (When yawning dragons draw her thirling car From Latmus' mount up to the gloomy sky. Where, crowned with blazing light and majesty, 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. Incensed with savage heat, gallop amain n5 From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain. So ran the people forth to gaze upon her. And all that viewed her were enamored on her. And as, in fury of a dreadful fight. Their fellows being slain or put to flight. Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead-strooken, 121 So at her presence all surprised and tooken. Await the sentence of her scornful eyes; He whom she favors lives; the other dies. There might you see one sigh ; another rage; i-^s 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, Pined as they went, and thinking on her died. I. so On this feast-day — O cursed day and hour ! — Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower 'I'o Venus' lenii)ie, where unhappily, .'\s after clianeed, they did each (jther spy. So fair a church as this had Venus none : The walls were of discolored jasper-stone. Wherein was Proteus carved ; and over- head '37 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 called it Venus' glass: There might you see the gods in sundry shapes, Committing heady riots, incest, rapes: * * * Blood-quaffing Mars, heaving the iron net, 14.=; Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set : Love kindling fire, to burn such towns as Troy: Silvanus weeping for the lovely boy That now is turned into a cypress-tree. Under whose shade the wood-gods love to be. ISO 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. Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head; iSS And thus Leander was enamored. Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gazed, Till with the fire that from his counte- nance blazed Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook: Such force and virtue hath an amorous look. 160 It lies not in our power to love or hate, For will in us is over-ruled 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 165 Of two gold ingots, like in each respect: The reason no man knows, let it suffice. What we behold is censured by our eyes. Where both deliberate, the love is slight: Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight? 170 WILLIAM SHAKSPERE (1564-1616) From VENUS AND ADONIS Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high. And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty; Who doth the world so glorious behold s That cedar-tops and hills seem burnished gold. Venus salutes him with this fair good-mor- row: ' O thou clear god, and patron of all light, From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow The beauteous influence that makes him bright, 10 There lives a son that sucked an earthly mother, May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other. This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove. Musing the morning is so much o'erworn. And yet she hears no tidings of her love: '5 She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn : Anon she hears them chant it lustily, And all in haste she coasteth to the cry. And as she runs, the bushes in the way Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face, 20 Some twine about her thigh to make her stay: She wildly breaketh from their strict em- brace. Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache, Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake. By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay; Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder 26 Wreathed up in fatal folds just in his way. The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder ; Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds Appals her senses and her spirit con- founds. 30 For now she knows it is no gentle chase. But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud. Because the cry remaineth in one place. Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud : Finding their enemy to be so curst, 35 They all strain courtesy who shall cope him first. This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear, Through which it enters to surprise her heart ; Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear. With cold-pale weakness numbs each feel- ing part : 40 Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield. They basely fly and dare not stay the field. Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy ; Till, cheering up her senses all dismayed. She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy, 45 And childish error, that they are afraid; Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more : — And with that word she spied the hunted boar. Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red. Like milk and blood being mingled both to- gether, 50 A second fear through all her sinews spread. Which madly hurries her she knows not whither : This way she runs, and now she will no further, But back retires to rate the boar for murther. A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways : 55 She treads the path that she untreads again; Her more than haste is mated with delays. Like the proceedings of a drunken brain. Full of respects, yet naught at all re- specting ; In hand with all things, naught at all effecting. 60 Here kenneled in a brake she finds a hound. And asks the weary catitiff for his master, And there another licking of his wound. ' Gainst venomed sores the only sovereign plaster : And here she meets another sadly scowl- ing 65 To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling. I40 ELlZABElJriAN LYKlLb When he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise, Another llap-inouthcd mourner, black and grim. Against the welkin volleys out his voice. Another and another answer him, 7° Clapping their proud tails to the ground below, Shaking their scratched ears, bleeding as they go. Look, how the world's poor people are amazed At apparitions, signs, and prodigies, Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed, 75 Infusing them with dreadful prophecies; So she at these sad signs draws up her breath y\nd sighing it again, exclaims on Death. ' Hard-favored tyrant, ugly, meager, lean. Hateful divorce of love/ — thus chides she Death,— 80 ' Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean To stifle beauty and to steal his breath. Who when he lived, his breath and beauty set Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet? 'If he be dead, — O no, it cannot be, 85 Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it:— O yes, it may; thou hast no eyes to see, But hatefully at random dost thou hit. Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart Mistakes that aim and cleaves an in- fant's heart. 90 'Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke. And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power. The Destinies vi^ill curse thee for this stroke ; They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower : Love's golden arrow at him should have fled, 95 And not Death's ebon dart, to strike him dead. ' Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such weeping? What may a heavy groan advantage thee? Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping Those eyes that taught all other eyes to Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigor. Since her best work is ruined with thy rigor.' Here overcome, as one full of despair, She vailed her eyelids, who, like sluices, St opt The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair '"5 In the sweet channel of her bosom dropt ; But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain, And with his strong course opens them again. O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow ! Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye; Both crystals, where they viewed each other's sorrow, Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry: ''^ But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain. Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again. Variable passions throng her constant woe, As striving who should best become her grief; "^ All entertained, each passion labors so. That every present sorrow seemeth chief. But none is best : then join they all to- gether. Like many clouds consulting for foul weather. i^o By this, far off' she hears some huntsman hallo; A nurse's song ne'er pleased her babe so well : The dire imagination she did follow This sound of hope doth labor to expel ; For now reviving joy bids her rejoice, '-5 And flatters her it is Adonis' voice. Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, Being prisoned in her eye like pearls in glass ; Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside, Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass, u^ To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground. Who is hut drunken when she seemeth drowned. hard-believing love, how strange it seems Not to believe, and yet too credulous ! Thy weal and woe are both of them ex- tremes; 135 Despair and hope makes thee ridiculous : The one doth flatter thee in thoughts un- likely, In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly. Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought ; Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame; It was not she that called him all to naught: Now she adds honors to his hateful name ; She clepes him king of graves and grave for kings, '43 Imperious supreme of all mortal things. ' No, no,' quoth she, ' sweet Death, I did but jest; i4S Yet pardon me I felt a kind of fear When-as I met the boar, that bloody beast, Which knows no pity, but is still severe ; Then, gentle shadow, — truth I must con- fess, — I railed on thee, fearing my love's de- cease. 150 "Tis not my fault: the boar provoked my tongue ; Be wreaked on him, invisible commander ; 'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong ; 1 did but act, he's author of thy slander; Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet '5S Could rule them both without ten women's wit.' Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, Her rash suspect she doth extenuate ; And that his beauty may the better thrive. With Death she humbly doth insinuate; 160 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 i6s 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 as full of fear As one with treasure laden, hemmed with thieves; 170 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 for- lorn. As falcon to the lure, away she flies; '75 The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light ; And in her haste unfortunately spies The foul boar's conquest on her fair de- light ; Which seen, her eyes, as murdered with the view. Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew; i8o Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit, Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain. And there, all smothered 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: 186 Where they resign their office and their light To the disposing of her troubled brain ; Who bids them still consort with ugly night. And never wound the heart with looks again ; 190 Who, like a king perplexed in his throne, By their suggestion gives a deadly groan, Whereat each tributary subject quakes; As when the wind, imprisoned in the ground. Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes, '95 Which with cold terror doth men's minds confound. This mutiny each part doth so surprise That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes ; And, being opened, threw unwilling light Upon the wide wound that the boar had trenched -^oo In his soft flank; whose wonted lily white With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drenched. 148 ELIZABETHAN LYRICS No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed, But stole his blood and scorned with him to bleed. -04 This solemn sympathy poor Venus 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. 210 Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly, That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three; And then she reprehends her mangling eye. That makes more gashes where no breach should be: His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled; 215 For oft the eye mistakes, the brain be- ing troubled. ' 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 turned to fire, my heart to lead : -'-'o 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 225 Of things long since, or anything ensuing? The flowers are sweet, their colors fresh and trim ; But true-sweet beauty lived and died with him. ' Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear ! Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you : 230 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 Lurked 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 ; 236 The wind would blow it of? 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. 240 ' To see his face the lion walked along Behind some hedge, because he would 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 245 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 250 Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries ; He fed them with his sight, they him with berries. ' 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: 256 If he did see his face, why then I know He thought to kiss him, and hath killed him so. ' '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. But by a kiss thought to persuade him there; 262 And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin. ' Had I been toothed like him, I must con- fess, 265 With kissing him I should have killed him first: But he is dead, and never did he bless 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. 270 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, 275 Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in dark- ness lies; Two glasses, where herself herself beheld A thousand times, and now no more re- flect ; Their virtue lost, wherein they late excelled, And every beauty robbed of his effect : 280 ' 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, 285 Find sweet beginning, but unsavory end. Ne'er settled equally, but high or low, That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe. ' It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud, Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while ; 290 The bottom poison, and the top o'erstrawed With sweets that shall the truest sight be- guile : The strongest body shall it make most weak, Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak. 'It shall be sparing and too full of riot 29s Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures ; The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet, Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures ; It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild, Make the young old, the old become a child. 300 ' It shall suspect where is no cause of fear ; It shall not fear where it should most mis- trust ; It shall be merciful and too severe. And most deceiving when it seems most just; Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward ; 305 Put fear to valor, 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, As dry combustious matter is to fire: 310 Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy. They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.' By this, the boy that by her side lay killed Was melted like a vapor from her sight, And in his blood that on the ground lay spilled, 31S A purple flower sprung up, chequered with white, Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood Which in round drops upon their white- ness stood. She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell. Comparing it to her Adonis' breath, 320 And says, within her bosom it shall dwell, Since he himself is reft from her by death: She crops the stalk, and in the breach ap- pears Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears. ' Poor flower,' quoth she, ' this was thy father's guise — 325 Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire — For every little grief to wet his eyes : To grow unto himself was his desire. And so 'tis thine ; but know, it is as good To wither in my breast as in his blood. ' Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast; 331 Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right : Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest. My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night ; There shall not be one minute in an hour 335 \Vherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.' Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies ISO ELIZABETHAN LYKlLb Tn her light chariot quickly is conveyed; 34o Holding their course to I'aphos, where their queen Means to imnuire herself and not be seen. SONNETS When do I 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 silvered o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, s 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 forsake And die as fast as they see others grow ; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence Save breed, 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 naught but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence com- ment ; When I perceive that men as plants in- crease, 5 Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height de- crease, 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 dcbateth 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. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, .And sunmier's lease hath all too short a (late : Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines. And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime de- clines, 7 By chance or nature's changing course un- trimmed ; Ikit thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; '° Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest : So long as men can breathe or eyes can see. So long lives this and this gives life to thee. Let those who are in favor with their stars Of public honor and proud titles boast, Whilst L whom fortune of such triumph bars. Unlooked for joy in that I honor most. Great princes' favorites their fair leaves spread 5 But as the marigold at the sun's eye. And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foiled, '«> Is from the book of honor razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toiled : Then happy I, that love and am beloved Where I may not remove nor be removed. When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all 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 possessed, 6 Desiring this man's art and that man's scope. With what I most enjoy contented least ; Yet in these thoughts myself almost de- spising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising u From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 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, 5 For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. And weep afresh love's long since can- celed woe. And moan the expense of many a vanished 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, All losses are restored and sorrows end. Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye. Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 5 With ugly rack on his celestial face. And from the forlorn world his visage hide. Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: Even so my sun one early morn did shine With all-triumphant splendor on my brow ; But out, alack ! he was but one hour mine ; The region cloud hath masked him from me now. 12 Yet him for this my love no wit disdaineth ; Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odor which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses, 6 Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses ; But, for their virtue only is their show. They live unwooed and unrcspected fade, lo Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made : And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth. When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rime; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, 5 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. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room lo Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgment that yourself arise. You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore. So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before. In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, 5 Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned. Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight. And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty's brow. Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, u And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow : And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand. Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 152 ELlZABh.lrtAi\ i.YKiL.:5 When I have seen by Time's fell hand de- faced 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 5 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; 1° 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. Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor bound- less 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 5 Against the wreckful siege of battering days. When rocks impregnable are not so stout. Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time de- cays? O fearful meditation ! where, alack. Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? 'o Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil 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 trimmed in jollity. And purest faith unhappily forsworn. And gilded honor shamefully misplaced, 5 And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted. And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disal)led. And art made tongue-tied by authority. And folly doctor-like controlling skill, And simple truth miscalled simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill : Tired with all these, from these would be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surlcy sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell : Nay, if you read this line, remember not 5 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 When I perhaps compounded am with clay. Do not so much as my poor name re- hearse, " 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 ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, 6 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. "> As the death-bed whereon it must expire. Consumed with that which it was nourished This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong. To love that well which thou must leave ere long. LXXVI Why is my verse so barren of new pride. So far from variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-found methods and to compounds strange? Why write I still all one, ever the same, 5 And keep invention in a noted weed, That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth and where they did proceed ? O, know, sweet love, I always write of you, And you and love are still my argument ; lo So all my best is dressing old words new. Spending again what is already spent : For as the sun is daily new and old, So is my love still telling what is told. XCVII 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 everywhere! And yet this time removed was summer's time, 5 The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime. Like widowed wombs after their lord's de- cease : Yet this abundant issue seemed to me But hope of orphans and unfathered fruit; For summer and his pleasures wait on thee. And, thou away, the very birds are mute; i^ Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer That leaves look pale, dreading the winter 's near. XCVIII From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April dressed in all his trim Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell 5 Of different flowers in odor 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; They were but sweet, but figures of de- light, 1 1 Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away. As with your shadow, I with these did play. 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. s 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 10 And to his robbery had annexed thy breath ; 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 color it had stol'n from thee. To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed. Such seems your beauty still. Three win- ters cold Have from the forests shook three sum- mers' pride. Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned s In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand. Steal from his figure and no pace perceived ; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, n Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived : For fear of which, hear this, thou age un- bred: Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rime In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights. Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, s Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have ex- pressed Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring: '« And, for they looked but with divining eyes. They had not skill enough your worth to sing: 154 lLJ^l/./\DiLi tl/\iN l^ll\.i»^0 For wc, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, hut 'ack 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, 'i'he mortal moon hath her eclipse endured And the sad augurs mock their own pre- sage ; 6 Incertainties now crown themselves assured And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time My love looks fresh, and Death to me sub- scribes, '° Since, spite of him, I '11 live in this poor rime, 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 seemed my flame to qual- ify. 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, 6 Just to the time, not with the time ex- changed, So that myself bring water for my stain. Never believe, though in my nature reigned All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood. That it could so preposterously be stained, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good; For nothing this wide universe I call, '3 Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all. 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 looked on truth Askance and strangely; but, by all above, 6 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 T never more will grind 'o On newer proof, to try an older friend, A god in love, to whom I am confined. 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, 5 And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer's hand. Pity me then and wish I were renewed ; Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infec- tion; JO No bitterness that I will bitter think. Nor double penance, to correct correction. Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye Even that your pity is enough to cure me. cxvi Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds. Or bends with the remover to remove : O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark 5 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 ; 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. What potions have I drunk of Siren tears. Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within. Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears, Still losing when I saw myself to win! What wretched errors hath my heart com- mitted. Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never ! How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted In the distraction of this madding fever! benefit of ill ! now I find true That better is by evil still made better; lo And ruined love, when it is built anew, Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. So I return rebuked to my content, And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent. CXXVIII How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap 5 To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poor lips, which should that har- vest reap. At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand ! To be so tickled, they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips, i" O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Making dead wood more blest than living lips. Since saucy jacks so happy are in this. Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. cxxx My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun ; Coral is far more red than her lips' red ; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun ; Tf hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. 1 have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; 6 And in some perfumes is there more de- light Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. T love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound ; I grant I never saw a goddess go; 'o My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground : .\nd yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare. CXLVI Poor soul, the center of my sinful earth. Thrall to 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, 7 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; lo Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more : So shalt 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 LABOR'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 ! ' a merry note. While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. A\'hcn 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 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA Who 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. S 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 helped, inhabits there. »o 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. »S 156 ELiZAKtlHAiN l.YKH^: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, S With gazing fed; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies: Let us all ring fancy's knell ; I '11 begin it,— Ding-dong, bell. Ding, dong, bell. lo From AS YOU LIKE IT tinder the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note LInto the sweet bird's throat. Come hither ! come hither ! come hither ! s Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i' the sun, lo Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets. Come hither ! come hither ! come hither ! Here shall he see No enemy 'S 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. 'o 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 '5 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: Then sigh not so, but let them go, 5 And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny! Sing no more ditties, sing no moe Of dumps so dull and heavy ! 'o The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leafy: Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny. Converting all your sounds of woe "S Into Hey nonny, nonny ! 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, s Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What 's to come is still unsure : In delay there lies no plenty; lo Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth 's a stufif will not endure. 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: But my kisses bring again, 5 Bring again; Seals of love, but sealed in vain, Sealed in vain! 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 ; And winking IMary-buds begin 5 To ope their golden eyes : With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise ! Arise, arise! From CYMBELINE Fear no more the heat o' th' sun, Nor the furious winter's rages ; Tiiou thy worldly task hast done. Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, s As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 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: lo The Scepter, Learning, Physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning-flash. Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone ; Fear not slander, censure rash; 'S Thou hast finished joy and moan : All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 20 Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee ! Quiet consummation have ; And renowned be thy grave ! From THE TEMPEST ARIEL'S SONG 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! ENGLAND'S HELICON (1600) PHYLLIDA AND CORYDON In the merry month of May, In a riiorn by break of day, Forth I walked by the wood-side, • When as May was in her pride: There I spied all alone, 5 Phyllida and Corydon. Much 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. 1° 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; '5 Then she made the shepherd call 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 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. Leaned her breast against a thorn, 'o And there sung the dolefull'st dity, 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 'S Scarce I could from tears refrain ; For her griefs so lively shown 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 lapped in lead; All thy fellow birds do sing, 23 Careless of thy sorrowing; Even so, poor bird, like thee, None alive will pity me. Ignoto TO COLIN CLOUT Beauty sat bathing in a spring. Where fairest shades did hide her; The winds blew calm, the birds did sing. The cool streams ran beside her. My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye, 5 To see what was forbidden. But better memory said, fie : So, vain desire was chidden. Hey nonny, nonny, etc. Into a slumber then I fell, 10 When fond Imagination Seemed to see, but could not tell, Her feature or her fashion. But even as babes in dreams do smile, And sometimes fall a-weeping, '5 158 ELIZABETHAN LYKICS So I awaked, as wise this while Whereon her foot she sets. As when 1 fell a-sleeping. Virtuous she is, for we find Hey nonny, nonny, etc. In body fair beauteous mind. 50 Shepherd Tony Live fair Amargana still Extolled HAPPY SHEPHERDS, SIT AND SEE In all my rime ; Hand want art, when I want will Happy shepherds, sit and see, With joy, The peerless wight For whose sake Pan keeps from yc Annoy, And gives delight. 5 T' unfold Her worth divine. But now my muse doth rest, Despair closed in my breast. Of the valor I sing; 55 Weak faith that no hope doth bring. W. P 6o Blessing this pleasant spring. Her praises must I sing; List, you swains, list to me, The whiles your flocks feeding be. lO THE SHEPHERD'S COMMENDATION First, her brow a beauteous globe OF HIS NYMPH I deem, What shepherd can express And golden hair; The favor of her face. And her cheek Aurora's robe To whom in this distress Doth seem, IS I do appeal for grace? But far more fair. A thousand Cupids fly S Her eyes like stars are bright, About her gentle eye. And dazzle with their light ; Rubies her lips to see, From which each throws a dart But to taste nectar they be. 20 That kindleth soft sweet fire Within my sighing heart. Orient pearls her teeth, her smile Possessed by desire; xo Doth link No sweeter life I try The Graces three; Than in her love to die. Her white neck doth eyes beguile The lily in the field. To think 25 That glories in his white. It ivory. For pureness now must yield. IS Alas ! her lily hand And render up his right; How it doth me command ! Heaven pictured in her face Softer silk none can be, Doth promise joy and grace. And whiter milk none can see. 30 Fair Cynthia's silver light. Circe's wand is not so straight That beats on running streams, 20 As is Compares not with her white, Her body small ; Whose hairs are all sunbeams. But two pillars bear the weight So bright my nymph doth shine Of this 35 As day unto my eyne. Majestic hall. With this there is a red, 25 Those be, I you assure, Of alabaster pure. Polished fine in each part; Ne'er Nature yet showed like art. Exceeds the damask-rose. 40 Which in her cheeks is spread. Where every favor grows; In sky there is no star, How shall I her pretty tread But she surmounts it far. 30 Express, When Phcebus from the bed When she doth walk? Of Thetis doth arise, Scarce she does the primrose head The morning blushing red, Depress, 45 In fair carnation-wise, Or tender stalk He shows in my nymph's face. 35 Of blue-veined violets, As queen of every grace. This pleasant lily white, This taint of roseate red, This Cynthia's silver light, This sweet fair Dea spread, 40 These sunbeams in mine eye, These beauties make me die. Earl of Oxford THE HERDMAN'S HAPPY LIFE What pleasure have great princes More dainty to their choice Than herdmen wild, who careless In quiet life rejoice? And fortune's fate not fearing, 5 Sing sweet in summer morning. Their dealings plain and rightful, Are void of all deceit; They never know how spiteful It is to kneel and wait 'o On favorite presumptuous, Whose pride is vain and sumptuous. All day their flocks each tendeth, At night they take their rest, More quiet than who sendeth is His ship into the east. Where gold and pearl are plenty. But getting very dainty. For lawyers and their pleading. They 'steem it not a straw ; 20 They think that honest meaning. Is of itself a law; Where conscience judgeth plainly, They spend no money vainly. Oh, happy who thus liveth ! 25 Not caring much for gold; With clothing which sufficeth, To keep him from the cold. Though poor and plain his diet, Yet merry it is and quiet. 30 Out of Mr. Bird's Set Songs 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. When women knew no woe, 6 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. At length men used charms, is 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, 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, 5 His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest. Ah, wanton, will ye? And if I sleep, then percheth he, 10 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; 'S He lends me every lovely thing; Yet cruel he my heart doth sting. Whist, wanton, still ye ! Else I with roses every day Will ship ye hence, 20 And bind ye, when ye long to play. For your oflfence. I '11 shut my eyes to keep ye in, I '11 make you fast it for your sin, I '11 count your power not worth a pin, 25 Alas ! what hereby shall I win If he gainsay me? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod? He will repay me with annoy, 30 Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee. And let thy bower my bosom be; Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee. O Cupid ! so thou pity me, 35 Spare not, but play thee. Thom.-\s Lodge SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRICS Among the lyrics of the earlier part of the seventeenth century, one discerns, somewhat clearly, at least three poetical manners, which emanated, respectively, from Edmund Spenser. Ben Jonson, and John Donne. The sensuous beauty, playful imagery, and fluent melody of Spenser are clearly present in the poems of William Browne and George Wither. The fine finish, i)oise. and chastened sweetness of Jonson are a refining influence in the shorter lyrics of Robert Ilerrick, Thomas Carew, John Suckling, and Richard Lovelace. In John Donne, incisive and subtle thinking finds fantastic, and sometimes harsh, expression in far-fetched analogies, mystifying metaphors, and dimly suggestive images. The poetical apparatus of Donne, often, and his fancy, still more often, are essential in the passionate, soaring, and mystical outbursts of George Herbert, Richard Oashaw, and Henry Vaughan. One no- tices, however, that Spenser, Jonson, and Donne did not exclusively dominate the poetical output of their conscious or unconscious disciples. Toward the middle of the century appears a new influence in poetical form, the ' heroic' or 'closed.' couplet, practiced by Edmund Waller. John Denham. Abraham Gowley. and Andrew Marvell. This verse-form, best adapted to epic and satire, had no important influence upon lyric, except, indirectly, through repression. THOMAS CAMPION (d. 1619) CHANCE AND CHANGE What if a day, or a month, or a year, Crown thy delights, with a thousand sweet contentings ! Cannot a chance of a night, or an hour. Cross thy desires, with as many sad torment- ings? Fortune, honor, beauty, youth, 5 Are but blossoms dying! Wanton pleasure, doting love. Are but shadows flying! All our joys are but toys; Idle thoughts deceiving! 'o None have power, of an hour, In their life's bereaving. but a point to the world; and a point to the world's compared Earth 's man Is but a center ! Shall then, a point of a point be so vain As to triumph in a silly point's adventure ! All is hazard that we have! ' There is nothing biding! Days of pleasure are like streams, Throut,di fair meadows gliding! 2 Weal and woe. Time doth go! Time is never turning! Secret fates guide our states; Both in mirth and mourning! BASIA Turn back, you wanton flyer, And answer my desire With mutual greeting. Yet bend a little nearer, — True beauty still shines clearer In closer meeting! Hearts with hearts delighted Should strive to be united, Each other's arms with arms enchaining,- Hearts with a thought. Rosy lips with a kiss still entertaining. What harvest half so sweet is As still to reap the kisses Grown ripe in sowing? And straight to be receiver Of that which thou art giver, Rich in bestowing? There 's no strict observing Of times' or seasons' swerving. There is ever one fresh spring abiding; — Then what we sow with our lips Let us reap, love's gains dividing. A RENUNCIATION Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white, For all those rosy ornaments in thee, — Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight, 160 Nor fair, nor sweet — unless thou pity me! I will not soothe thy fancies ; thou shalt prove 5 That beauty is no beauty without love. Yet love not me, nor seek not to allure My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine: Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure, I '11 not be wrapped up in those arms of thine: lo Now show it, if thou be a woman right — Embrace and kiss and love me, in de- spite ! SIC TRANSIT Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me ; For while thou view'st me with thy fading light Part of my life doth still depart with thee. And I still onward haste to my last night : Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly — s So every day we live a day we die. But O ye nights, ordained for barren rest. How are my days deprived of life in you When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest, By feigned death life sweetly to renew ! Part of my life in that, you life deny: u So every day we live, a day we die. BEN JONSON (i573?-i637) SONG TO CELIA Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I '11 not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine ; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope, that there It could not withered 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. SONG: TO CELIA Come, my Celia, let us prove. While we can, the sports of love. Time will not be ours for ever; He, at length, our good will sever; Spend not then his gifts in vain. S Suns that set may rise again ; But if once we lose this light, 'T is with us perpetual night. Why should we defer our joys? Fame and rumor are but toys. lo Cannot we delude the eyes Of a few poor household spies? Or his easier ears beguile. Thus removed by our wile? . 'T is no sin love's fruits to steal ; iS But the sweet theft to reveal. To be taken, to be seen. These have crimes accounted been. TO HEAVEN Good and great God! can I not think of thee, But it must straight my melancholy be? Is it interpreted in me disease. That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease? be thou witness, that the reins dost know 5 And hearts of all, if I be sad for show; And judge me after, if I dare pretend To aught but grace, or aim at other end. As thou art all, so be thou all to me. First, midst, and last, converted One and Three! lo My faith, my hope, my love; and, in this state, My judge, my witness, and my advocate ! Where have I been this while exiled from thee. And whither rapt, now thou but stoop'st to me? Dwell, dwell here still ! O, being every- where, IS How can I doubt to find thee ever here? 1 know my state, both full of shame and scorn, Conceived in sin, and unto labor born. Standing with fear, and must with horror fall. And destined unto judgment, after all. 2° I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh t' inflict another wound ; Yet dare I not complain or wish for death, With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath Of discontent; or that these prayers be 25 For weariness of life, not love of thee. 1 62 SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRICS THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS See the chariot at liand hero of Love, Wherein my Lady ridcth ! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well tho car Love guideth. As she R(Ks. all hearts do duty 5 Unto her beauty; And enamored, 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. '° 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 il riseth ! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother "5 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 All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. -° 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? ^s 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 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 5 In grace and feature, As heaven and nature seemed to strive Which owned the creature. Years he numbered scarce thirteen When fates turned cruel, '" Yet three filled zodiacs had he been The stage's jewel ; And did act, what now we moan. Old men so duly, As, soth, the Parcae thought him one, '5 He played so truly. So, by error, to his fate They all consented ; But viewing him since, alas, too late ! They have repented ; 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 little? Reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die: Which in life did harbor 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 ! Fitter, where it died, to tell. Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, MASTER WILLIAM SHAKSPERE To draw no envy, Shakspere, 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. 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways 5 Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right ; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er ad- vance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ; 'o 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. What 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 Shakspere, rise ! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room : 21 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 ex- cuses, 25 I mean 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 Lyly out- shine. Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line. 30 ,\nd though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honor thee, I would not seek For names ; but call forth thundering .^schylus, Fnripides, and Sophocles to us ; Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, 35 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. 40 Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age, but for all time ! And all the Muses still were in their prime. When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm ! 46 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. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, si Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please; But antiquated and deserted lie, As they were not of Nature's family. Yet must I not give Nature all ; thy art, 55 My gentle Shakspere, must enjoy a part. For though the poet's matter 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 60 Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same (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 fa- ther's face 65 Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakspere'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 75 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. And despairs day, but for thy volume's light. 80 A PINDARIC ODE To the immortal memory and friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius Gary and Sir H. Morison. The Strophe, or Turn Brave infant of Saguntum, clear Thy coming forth in that great year, When the prodigious Hannibal did crown His rage with razing your immortal town. Thou looking then about, 5 Ere thou wert half got out, Wise child, didst hastily return. And mad'st thy mother's womb thine urn. ■ How summed a circle didst thou leave man- kind Of deepest lore, could we the center find ! 1° The Antistrophe. or Counter-Turn Did wiser nature draw thee back. From out the horror of that sack; Where shame, faith, honor, and regard of right, Lay trampled on ? the deeds of death and night Urged, hurried forth, and hurled ^i Upon the affrighted world; 164 SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRICS Fire, famine, and fell fury met, And all on utmost ruin set : As, could they hut life's miseries foresee. No douht all infants would return like thee. -° The Epode, or Stand For what is life, if measured by the space, Not by the act? Or masked man, if valued by his face, Above his fact? Here 's one outlived his peers 25 And told forth fourscore years: He vexed time, and busied the whole state: Troubled both foes and friends; But ever to no ends: What did this stirrer but die late? 30 How well at twenty had he fallen or stood ! For three of his four score he did no good. The Strophe, or Turn He entered well by virtuous parts, Got up, and thrived with honest arts. He purchased friends, and fame, and hon- ors then, 35 And had his noble name advanced with men ; But weary of that flight. He stooped in all men's sight To sordid flatteries, acts of strife, And sunk in that dead sea of life, 4° So deep, as he did then death's waters sup. But that the cork of title buoyed him up. The Antistrophe, or Counter-Turn Alas! but Morison fell young! He never fell,— thou fall'st, my tongue. He stood a soldier to the last right end, 45 A perfect patriot and a noble friend ; But most, a virtuous son. All ofifices were done By him, so ample, full, and round, In weight, in measure, number, sound, so As, though his age imperfect might appear. His life was of humanity the sphere. The Epode, or Stand Go now, and tell our days summed up with fears. And make them years ; Produce thy mass of miseries on the stage, To swell thine age; 56 Repeat of things a throng, To show thou hast been long. Not lived: for life doth her great actions spell By what was done and wrought 60 In season, and so brought To light : her measures are, how well Each syllabe answered, and was formed, how fair: These make the lines of life, and that's her air! The Strophe, or Turn It is not growing like a tree 65 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 : 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. The Antistrophe, or Counter-Turn Call, noble Lucius, then, for wine, 75 And let thy looks with gladness shine; Accept this garland, plant it on thy head. And think, nay know, thy Morison 's not dead. He leaped the present age, Possest with holy rage, 80 To see that bright eternal day; Of which we priests and poets say Such truths as we expect for happy men ; And there he lives with memory and Ben The Epode, or Stand Jonson, who sung this of him, ere he went, Himself, to rest, 86 Or taste a part of that full joy he meant To have exprest. In this bright asterism ; — Where it were friendship's schism, 90 Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry, To separate these twi- Lights, the Dioscuri ; And keep the one half from his Harry. But fate doth so alternate the design, 95 Whilst that in heaven, this light on earth must shine, — IV The Strophe, or Turn And shine as you exalted are; Two names of friendship, but one star: Of hearts the union, and those not by chance JUJrliN UUJNJNH it)5 Made, or indenture, or leased out t' advance The profits for a time. 'oi No pleasures vain did chime, Of rimes, or riots, at your feasts. Orgies of drink, or feigned protests ; But simple love of greatness and of good, That knits brave minds and manners more than blood. 106 The Antistrophc, or Counter-Turn This made you first to know the why You liked, then after, to apply That liking; and approach so one the t' other. Till either grew a portion of the other; "o Each styled by his end. The copy of his friend. You lived to be the great sir-names And titles by which all made claims Unto the Virtue: nothing perfect done, i'5 But as a Cary or a Morison. The Epode, or Stand And such a force the fair example had. As they that saw The good and durst not practise it, were glad That such a law 120 Was left yet to mankind; Where they might read and find Friendship, indeed, was written not in words ; And with the heart, not pen, Of two so early men, 125 Whose lines her rolls were, and records; Who, ere the first down bloomed on the chin. Had sowed these fruits, and got the har- vest in. JOHN DONNE (1573-1631) SONG Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the devil's foot; Teach me to hear mermaids singing, to keep off envy's stinging. And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be'st born to strange sights. Things invisible go see. Ride ten thousand days and nights Till .Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, 'S And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair. If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. 20 Yet do not ; I would not go. Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her. And last till you write your letter, Yet she 25 Will be False, ere I come, to two or three. THE INDIFFERENT T 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 formed, and whom the town ; Her who believes, and her who tries; 5 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. Will no other vice content you? 1° 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; '5 Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go. Must I, who came to travel thorough you. Grow your fixed subject, because you are true? Venus heard me sigh this song; And by love's sweetest part, variety, she swore, 20 She heard not this till now; it should be so no more. She went, examined, and returned ere long. And said, ' Alas ! some two or three Poor heretics in love there be, Which think to stablish dangerous con- stancy. 25 But I have told them, " Since you will be true. You shall be true to them who 're false to you." ' i66 SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRICS THE CANONIZATION For God's sake Iiold your tongue, and lot me love ; Or chide my palsy, or my gout ; My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune limit ; With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve; Take you a course, get you a place, 5 Observe his Honor, or his Grace; Or the king's real, or his stamped face Contemplate ; what you will, approve, So you will let me love. Alas! alas! who's injured by my love? '" What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned ? Who says my tears have overflowed his ground ? When did my colds a forward spring re- move ? When did the heats which my veins fill Add one more to the plaguy bill? '5 Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still Litigious men, which quarrels move. Though she and I do love. Call 's what you will, we are made such by love ; Call her one, me another fly, ^o We 're tapers too, and at our own cost die, And we in us find th' eagle and the dove. The phoenix riddle hath more wit By us ; we two being one, are it ; So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit. 25 We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love. We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tomb or hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse ; 3© And if no piece of chronicle we prove, We '11 build in sonnets pretty rooms ; As well a well-wrought urn becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs, And by these hymns all shall approve 35 Us canonized for love ; And thus invoke us, ' You, whom reverend love Made one another's hermitage; You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage; Who did the whole world's suul contract, and drove 40 Into the glasses of your eyes; So made such mirrors, and such spies, That they did all to you epitomize — Countries, towns, courts beg from above A pattern of your love.' 45 THE DREAM Dear love, for nothing less than thee Would I have broke this happy dream ; It was a theme h^or reason, much too strong for fantasy. Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet 5 My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it. Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suf- fice To make dreams truths and fables his- tories ; Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best Not to dream all my dream, let 's act the rest. "• As lightning, or a taper's light. Thine eyes, and not thine noise, waked me ; Yet I thought thee — For thou lov'st truth — an angel, at first sight ; But when I saw thou saw'st my heart, '5 And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art. When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then, I must confess it could not choose but be Profane to think thee anything but thee. 2° Coming and staying showed thee thee. But rising makes me doubt that now Thou art not thou. That love is weak where fear 's as strong as he ; 'T is not all spirit pure and brave 25 If mixture it of fear, shame, honor have. Perchance as torches, which must ready be. Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me. Thou cam'st to kindle, go'st to come : then I Will dream that hope again, but else would die. 30 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, 5 And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be, I must love her that loves not me. Sure they which made him god, meant not so much, Nor he in his young godhead practised it. But when an even flame two hearts did touch, 'o 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. But every modern god will now extend "5 His vast prerogative as far as Jove. To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend. All is the purlieu of the god of love. O ! were we wakened by this tyranny To ungod this child again, it could not be I should love her who loves not me. ^'■ 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 ; 25 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. 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 't is my outward soul, 5 Viceroy to that which, unto heav'n being gone, Will leave this to control And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part 'o 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, '5 As prisoners then are manacled, when they 're condemned to die. Whate'er she meant by 't, bury it with me, For since I am Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry If into other hands these reliques came. 20 As 't was humility T' afford to it all that a soul can do. So 't is some bravery That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you. THE COMPUTATION For my first twenty years, since yesterday, I scarce believed thou couldst be gone away; For forty more I fed on favors past. And forty on hopes, that thou wouldst they might last ; Tears drowned one hundred, and sighs blew out two ; S A thousand I did neither think nor do. Or not divide, all being one thought of you ; Or in a thousand more, forgot that too. Yet call not this long life; but think that I Am, by being dead, immortal ; can ghosts die? ic FORGET If poisonous minerals, and if that tree Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damned, alas ! why should I be ? Why should intent or reason, born in me, S ]\Iake 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. 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 overthrow Die not. poor Death ; nor yet canst thou kill me. 16« SEVEN 1 1'.liJN IH L-ll-INlUKY LYKH^:5 From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, 5 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! 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! A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run, And do run still, though still I do de- plore? When thou hast done, thou hast not done ; For I have more. 6 Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin, and made my sins their door? Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallowed in a score? When thou hast done, thou hast not done; For I have more. 12 I have a sin of fear, that when I 've spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore ; But swear by thyself that at my death thy Son > s Shall shine as he shines now and hereto- fore ; And having done that, thou hast done ; I fear no more. JOHN FLETCHER (1579-1625) LOVE'S EMBLEMS Now the lusty spring is seen : Golden yellow, gaudy blv Daintily invite the view, Everywhere on every green, Roses blushing as they blow, 5 And enticing men to pull Lilies whiter than the snow, Woodbines of sweet honey full : All love's emblems, and all cry, ' Ladies, if not plucked, we die.' >o Yet the lusty spring hath stayed ; Blushing red and purest white Daintily to love invite Every woman, every maid. Cherries kissing as they grow, 'S And inviting men to taste. Apples even ripe below, Winding gently to the waist: All love's emblems, and all cry, 'Ladies, if not plucked, we die.' 20 MELANCHOLY Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly! There 's naught in this life sweet, H man were wise to see't, S 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 ! Fountain heads and pathless groves. Places which pale passion loves! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls! 'S 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. SONG TO BACCHUS God Lyaeus, ever young. Ever honored, ever sung; Stained with blood of lusty grapes. In a thousand lusty shapes. Dance upon the mazer's brim, S 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! 10 BEAUTY CLEAR AND FAIR Beauty clear and fair, Where the air Rather like a perfume dwells; Where the violet and the rose Their blue veins and blush disclose, And come to honor nothing else. Where to live near, And planted there. Is to live, and still live new; Where to gain a favor is More 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. ASPATIA'S SONG 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 ! FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1584-1616) ON THE LIFE OF MAN Like to the falling of a star. Or as the flights of eagles are. Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue. Or silver drops of morning dew. Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood : Even such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in and paid to night: The wind blows out, the bubble dies. The spring intombed in autumn lies ; The dew 's dried up, the star is shot. The flight is past, and man forgot. LINES ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER Mortality, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones; Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir hands; Where from their pulpits sealed dust They preach, ' In greatness is no trust.' Here 's an acre sown indeed With the richest royal'st seed That the earth did e'er suck in. Since the first man died for sin ; Here the bones of birth have cried, ' Though gods they were, as men died.' Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings. Here 's a world of pomp and state. Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 5 their with the} GEORGE WITHER (1588-1667) THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION 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 May! If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be? 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? l/U isilVHiN 1 H-rLiN 1 n v^niN 1 urti L.irtiv^o Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her well deserving known, Make me quite forget mine own? ^o 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? 'Cause her fortune socnis too high, 25 Shall I play the fool, and die? Those that bear a noble mind. Where they want of riches find. Think ' What, with them, they would do That, without them, dare to woo ! ' 30 And unless that mind I see, What care I though great she be? Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair ! If she love me (this believe!) 35 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 WHEN WE ARE UPON THE SEAS From HALLELUJAH On those great waters now I am. Of which I have been told, That whosoever thither came Should wonders there behold. In this unsteady place of fear, S Be present. Lord, with me ; For in these depths of water here, I depths of danger see. A stirring courser now I sit, A headstrong steed I ride, 10 That champs and foams upon the bit Which curbs his lofty pride. The softest whistling of the winds Doth make him gallop fast ; And as their breath increased he finds is The more he maketh haste. Take thou. Oh Lord ! the reins in hand, Assume our Master's room ; Vouchsafe thou at our helm to stand, And pilot to become. Trim thou the sails, and let good speed Accompany our haste ; Sound thou the channels at our need And anchor for us cast. A fit and favorable wind 25 To further us, provide ; And let it wait on us behind. Or lackey by our side. From sudden gusts, from storms, from sands. And from the raging wave ; 30 From shallows, rocks, and pirates' hands. Men, goods, and vessel save. Preserve us from the wants, the fear, .And sickness of the seas; Hut chiefly from our sins, which are 35 A danger worse than these. Lord ! let us, also, safe arrive Where we desire to be; And for thy mercies let us give Due thanks and praise to thee. 40 THE PRAYER OF OLD AGE From HALLELUJAH As this my carnal robe grows old. Soiled, rent, and worn by length of j'ears, Let me on that by faith lay hold Which man in life immortal wears: So sanctify my days behind, 5 Do let my manners be refined, That when my soul and flesh must part, There lurk no terrors in my heart. So shall my rest be safe and sweet When I am lodged in my grave; 10 And when my soul and body meet, A joyful meeting they shall have ; Their essence, then, shall be divine. This muddy flesh shall starlike shine, And God shall that fresh youth restore i5 Which will abide for evermore. WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS From BOOK II, SONG I Glide soft, ye silver floods, And every spring : Within the shady woods Let no bird sing! Nor from the grove a turtle-dove 5 Be seen to couple with her love. But silence on each dale and mountain dwell. Whilst Willy bids his friend and joy fare- well. WILLIAM tJKUWJNlS 171 But, of great Thetis' train, Ye mermaids fair 10 That on the shores do plain Your sea-green hair, As ye in trammels knit your locks, Weep ye; and so enforce the rocks In heavy murmurs through the broad shores tell. 15 How Willy bade his friend and joy fare- well. Cease, cease ye murd'ring winds. To move a wave ; But if with troubled minds You seek his grave, -o Know 't is as various as yourselves Now in the deep, then on the shelves. His coffin tossed by fish and surges fell. Whilst Willy weeps, and bids all joy fare- well. Had he, Arion-like 25 Been judged to drown. He on his lute could strike So rare a sown, A thousand dolphins would have come And jointly strive to bring him home. 3° But he on shipboard died, by sickness fell. Since when his Willy paid all joy farewell. Great Neptune, hear a swain ! His coffin take. And with a golden chain 35 For pity make It fast unto a rock near land ! Where ev'ry calmy morn I 'II stand. And ere one sheep out of my fold I tell, Sad Willy's pipe shall bid his friend fare- well. 40 From BOOK II, SONG V Now was the Lord and Lady of the May Meeting the May-pole at the break of day. And Cselia, as the fairest on the green, Not without some maids' envy chosen queen. Now was the time com'n, when our gentle swain 5 Must in his harvest, or lose all again. 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, 10 In night, that doth on lovers' actions smile, Arrived safe on Mona's fruitful isle. Between two rocks (immortal, without mother), That stands as if out-facing one another. There ran a creek up, intricate and blind, '5 As if the waters hid them from the wind; Which never washed but at a higher tide The frizzled coats which do the mountains hide ; Where never gale was longer known to stay Than from the smooth wave it had swept away 20 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 fiood Made up of trees, not less kenned by each skiff 25 Than that sky-scaling peak of Teneriffe, 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 ; 30 And if dry eld by wrinkled skin appears. None could allot them less than Nestor's years. As under their command the thronged creek Ran lessened up. Here did the shepherd seek Where he his little boat might safely hide, Till it was fraught with what the world be- side 36 Could not outvalue ; nor give equal weight Though in the time when Greece was at her height. The ruddy horses of the rosy Morn Out of the eastern gates had newly borne 40 Their blushing mistress in her golden chair, Spreading new light throughout our hemi- sphere, When fairest Caelia with a lovelier crew Of damsels than brave Latmus ever knew Came forth to meet the youngsters, who had here 45 Cut down an oak that long withouten peer Bore his round head imperiously above • His other mates there, consecrate to Jove. The wished time drew on : and Caelia now. That had the fame for her white arched brow, so While all her lovely fellows busied were In picking off the gems from Tellus' hair, 172 SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRICS Made tow'rds the creek, where Philocel, uii- spied Of maid or shepherd that their May-games plied, Received his wishcd-for Ccxlia, and begun To steer his boat contrary to the sun, 5^ Who could have wished another in his place To guide the car of light, or that his race Were to have end (so he might bless his hap) In C.-elia's bosom, not in Thetis' lap. 60 The boat oft danced for joy of what it held: The hoist-up sail not quick but gently swelled, And often shook, as fearing what might fall. Ere she delivered what she went withal. Winged Argestes, fair Aurora's son, 65 Licensed that day to leave his dungeon, Meekly attended and did never err, Till Caelia graced our land, and our land her. As through the waves their love-fraught wherry ran, A many Cupids, each set on his swan, 7o Guided with reins of gold and silver twist The spotless birds about them as they list: Which would have sung a song 'ere they were gone Had unkind Nature given them more than one; Or in bestowing that had not done wrong, And made their sweet lives forfeit one sad song. 76 ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse: Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother : Death, ere thou hast slain another Fair and learned and good as she, 5 Time shall throw a dart at thee. Marble piles let no man raise To her name: for after days Some kind woman, born as she, Reading this, like Niobe "o Shall turn marble, and become Both her mourner and her tomb. ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674) 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 colors through the air: Get up, sweet slug-a-bcd, and see s The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east Above an hour since : yet you not dressed ; Nay! not so much as out of bed? When all the birds have matins said '» And sung their thankful hymns, 't is sin. Nay, profanation, to keep in, Whenas 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 un- wept ; Come and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: And Titan on the eastern hill ^s 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-May- ing. Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming mark How each field turns a street, each street a park 30 Made green and trimmed 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 37 And open fields and we not see't? Come, we '11 abroad ; and let 's obey The proclamation made for May: 40 And sin no more, as we have done, by stay- ing ; 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 45 Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cakes and cream Before that we have left to dream: And some have wept, and wooed, 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 55 This night, and locks picked, yet we 're not a-Maying. Come, let us go while we arc in our prime ; And take the harmless folly of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. 6o Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun ; And, as a vapor or a drop of rain, Once lost, can ne 'er be found again. So when or you or I are made 65 A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but de- caying, 69 Come, my Corinna, come let 's go a-Maying. UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see That brave vibration, each way free, J O, how that glittering taketh me ! TO THE VIRGINS TO MAKE 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. 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. 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. 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. TO DAFFODILS Fair Dafifodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon ; As yet the early rising sun Has not attained 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 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. TO MUSIC Charm me asleep, and melt me so With thy delicious numbers, That being ravished, hence I go Away in easy slumbers. Ease my sick head, And make my bed. Thou power that canst sever From me this ill ; And quickly still. Though thou not kill My fever. Thou sweetly canst convert the same From a consuming fire. Into a gentle-licking flame, And make it thus expire. Then make me weep \ 174 bb-VliJN 1 tiiiiN Itt V^jtlNlUKY i^YKlL.:^ My pains asleep, Low is my porch, as is my fate. And give me such reposes Both void of state; That I, poor I, And yet the threshold of my door May think, thereby, 20 Is worn by th' poor. I live and die Who thither come and freely get 15 'Mongst roses. Good words, or meat. Like as my parlor, so my hall Fall on mo like a silent dew. And kitchen 's small ; Or like those maiden showers, A little buttery, and therein Which, by the peep of day, do strew 25 A little bin. 20 A baptism o'er the flowers. Which keeps my little loaf of bread Melt, melt my pains Unchipped, unflead ; With thy soft strains; Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar That having ease me given, Make me a fire. With full delight, 30 Close by whose living coal I sit, 25 I leave this light. And glow like it. And take my flight Lord, I confess, too, when I dine, For heaven. The pulse is thine. And all those other bits that be There placed by thee; 30 AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON The worts, the purslain, and the mess Ah, Ben! Say how or when Of water-cress, Which of thy kindness thou hast sent ; Shall we, thy guests. Meet at those lyric feasts, And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, 35 Made at the Sun, 5 To be more sweet. The Dog, the Triple Tun; 'T is thou that crown'st my glittering hearth Where we such clusters had. With guiltless mirth. As made us nobly wild, not mad? And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, And yet each verse of thine . Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine. Spiced to the brink. 40 10 Lord, 't is thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land. My Ben! And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Or come again, Or send to us Twice ten for one ; Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay 45 Thy wit's great overplus; Her egg each day ; But teach us yet IS Besides my healthful ewes to bear Wisely to husband it, Me twins each year ; Lest we that talent spend ; The while the conduits of my kine And having once brought to an end Run cream, for wine. 50 That precious stock, the store All these, and better thou dost send Of such a wit the world should have no Me, to this end. more. 20 That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart, Which, fired with incense. I resign. 55 A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS As wholly thine; HOUSE But the acceptance, that must be. My Christ, by thee. Lord, thou hast given mc a cell Wherein to dwell. A little house, whose humble roof GRACE FOR A CHILD Is weather-proof, Under the spars of which I lie 5 Here, a little child, I stand. Both soft and dry ; Heaving up my either hand : •Where thou, my chamber for to ward. Cold as paddocks though they be, Hast set a guard Here I lift them up to thee. Of harmless thoughts to watch and keep For a benison to fall Me. while I sleep. 10 On our meat, and on us all. Amen. KJ i^\y ly^Kj 1^ 11 jj^iv jji^iv ± HIS PRAYER FOR ABSOLUTION For those my unbaptized rimes, Writ in my wild unhallowed times, For every sentence, clause, and word. That 's not inlaid with thee, my Lord Forgive me, God, and blot each line Out of my book that is not thine. But if, 'mongst all, thou find'st here one Worthy thy benediction. That one of all the rest shall be The glory of my work and me. GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1633) 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. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 5 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, Aly music shows ye have your closes. And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives ; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives '6 LOVE Love bade me welcome ; yet my soul drew back. Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, 5 If I lacked anything. ' A guest,' I answered, ' worthy to be here : ' Love said, ' You sliall be he.' 'I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, I cannot look on thee!' •« Love took my hand and smiling did reply, ' Who made the eyes but I ? ' ' 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?' 15 ' My dear, then I will serve.' ' You must sit down,' says Love, ' and taste my meat.' So I did sit and eat. 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. 5 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 wine "o 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 crown it. No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted, '5 All 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, ^i Thy rope of sands Which petty thoughts have made ; and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw. And be thy law, 25 While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. Away! take heed; I will abroad. Call in thy death's head there, tie up thy fears : He that forbears 3» 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 replied, ' My Lord.' 36 THE QUIP The merry World did on a day With his train-bands and mates agree To meet together where I lay, .And all in sport to jeer at me. lyb SEVENTEENTH LENIUKY LYKILS First Beauty crept into a rose, 5 Which when I pluckt not, ' Sir,' said she, 'Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those?' But Thou shah answer, Lord, for me. Then Money came, and chinking still, 'What tunc is this, poor man?' said he: ' I heard in Music you had skill ; ' > ' But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Then came brave Glory puffing by In silks that whistled, who but he! He scarce allowed me half an eye; '5 But Thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. Then came quick Wit and Conversation, And he would needs a comfort be, And, to be short, make an oration : But Thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. 20 Yet when the hour of Thy design To answer these fine things shall come, Speak not at large ; say, ' I am Thine,' And then they have their answer home. THE WORLD Love built a stately house, where Fortune came ; And spinning fancies, she was heard to say That her fine cobwebs did support the frame, Whereas they were supported by the same; But Wisdom quickly swept them all away. Then Pleasure came, who, liking not the fashion, 6 Began to make balconies, terraces. Till she had weakened all by alteration ; But reverend laws, and many a proclama- tion, Reformed all at length with menaces. 10 Then entered Sin, and with that sycamore Whose leaves first sheltered man from drought and dew, Working and winding slily evermore, The inward walls and summers cleft and tore; But Grace shored these, and cut that as it grew. 15 Then Sin combined with Death in a firm band To raze the building to the very floor : Which they effected, none could them with- stand ; But Love and Grace took Glory by the hand, And built a braver palace than before. 20 THE PULLEY When God at first made man, Having a glass of blessing standing by ; ' Let us,' said he, ' pour on him all we can: Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span.' s So Strength first made a way ; Then Beauty flowed ; then Wisdom, Honor, Pleasure. When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure. Rest in the bottom lay. 10 ' For if I should,' said he, ' Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Na- ture ; So both should losers be. 'S ' Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness; Let him be rich and weary, that at least, n goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast.' 20 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. Ask me no more whither do stray 5 The golden atoms of the day. For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. 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. Ask me no more where those stars light That downwards fall in dead of night. For in your eyes they sit, and there is Fixed become as in their sphere. Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest, For unto you at last she flies, 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; 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 ; Or on food were your thoughts placed. Bring you nectar for a taste; i Would you have all these in one, Name my mistress, and 't is done • THE PROTESTATION No more shall meads be decked with flow- ers, Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers. Nor greenest buds on branches spring. Nor warbling birds delight to sing, Nor April violets paint the grove, 5 If I forsake my Celia's love. The fish shall in the ocean burn, And fountains sweet shall bitter turn. The humble oak no flood shall know When floods shall highest hills o'erflow, lo Black Lethe shall oblivion leave, If e'er my Celia I deceive. Love shall his bow and shaft lay by. And Venus' doves want wings to fly. The Sun refuse to show his light, is And day shall then be turned to night. And in that night no star appear, If once I leave my Celia dear. Love shall no more inhabit earth. Nor lovers more shall love for worth, 20 Nor joy above in heaven dwell, Nor pain torment poor souls in hell. Grim death no more shall horrid prove, If e'er I leave bright Celia's love. PERSUASIONS TO JOY: A SONG If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish and anon must die; If every sweet and every grace Must fly from that forsaken face; Then, Celia, let us reap our joys s Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys. Or if that golden fleece must grow For ever free from aged snow ; If those bright suns must know no shade, Nor your fresh beauties ever fade; 10 Then fear not, Celia, to bestow What, still being gathered, still must grow. Thus either Time his sickle brings In vain, or else in vain his wings. INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREAT- ENED Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 'T was I that gave thee thy renown. Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties lived unknown. Had not my verse extolled thy name, s And with it imped the wings of Fame. That killing power is none of thine: I gave it to thy voice and eyes ; Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine ; Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies; 10 Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fixed thee there. Tempt me with such affrights no more. Lest what I made I uncreate ; Let fools thy mystic form adore, 'S I know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales. Knew her themselves through all her veils. AN EPITAPH This little vault, this narrow room, Of love and beauty is the tomb; The dawning beam, that 'gan to clear Our clouded sky, lies darkened here. For ever set to us : by death s Sent to enflame the world beneath. 'T was but a bud, yet did contain More sweetness than shall spring again ; A budding star, that might have grown Into a sun when it had blown. it> This hopeful beauty did create New life in love's declining state ; But now his empire ends, and we From fire and wounding darts are free ; His brand, his bow, let no man fear: 5 The flames, the arrows, all lie here. 178 SEVENTliKNlH L-t.iMUKY i.lKlL.:3 SIR WILLIAM DA\ ENANT (1606-1668) SONG The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest, And clinihinn. shakes his dewy wings. He takes this window for the East, And to implore your light he sings — Awake, awake ! the morn will never rise s Till she can dress her heauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes ; But still the lover wonders what they are Who look for day he fore his mistress wakes. '° Awake, awake ! Iireak thro' your veils of lawn ! And draw your curtains, and begin the dawn! PRAISE AND PRAYER Praise is devotion fit for mighty minds, The diff'ring world's agreeing sacrifice ; Where Heaven divided faiths united finds : But prayer in various discord upward flies. For Prayer the ocean is where diversely 5 Men steer their course, each to a sev'ral coast : Where all our interests so discordant be That half beg winds by which the rest are lost. By penitence when we ourselves forsake, 'T is but in wise design on piteous Heaven; '" In praise we nobly give what God may take, And are, without a beggar's blush, for- given. EDMUND WALLER (160^1687) 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 pur- sues, 5 With numbers such as Phuebus' self might use ! Such is tile chase when Love and Fancy leads O'er craggy mountains, and through flow- ery meads ; Invoked to testify the lover's care. Or form some image of his cruel fair. >" Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer. O'er these he tied ; and now apprcjaching near. Had reached the nymph with his harmoni- ous lay, Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. Yet, what he sung in his immortal strain, Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain ; All, but the nymph that should redress his wrong, 17 Attend his passion, and approve his song. Like Phcebus thus, acquiring unsought praise. He catched at love, and filled his arms with bays. 20 TO PHYLLIS Phyllis ! why should we delay Pleasures shorter than the day? Could we (which we never can) Stretch our lives beyond their span. Beauty like a shadow flies, 5 And our youth before us dies. Or would youth and beauty stay. Love hath wings, and will away. Love hath swifter wings than Time; Change in love to heaven does climb. 10 Gods that never change their state. Vary oft their love and hate. Phyllis ! to this truth we owe All the love betwixt us two. Let not you and I inquire '5 What has been our past desire ; On what shepherds you have smiled, Or what nymphs I have beguiled ; Leave it to the planets too. What we shall hereafter do; 20 For the joys we now may prove. Take advice of present love. 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. OJ.1V |W±H> o»j(^rs.i-,iiNVj I /y It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 5 What posture can we think him in IS The pale which held that lovely deer. That, here unloved, a.gain My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. Departs, and 's thither gone Did all within this circle move ! Where each sits by his own? Or how can that Elysium be A narrow compass ! and yet there Where I my mi.stress still must see 20 Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; Circled in other's arms? Give me but what this ribband bound, n Take all the rest the sun goes round. For there the judges all are just. And Sophonisba must Be his whom she held dear. GO LOVELY ROSE! Not his who loved her here. The sweet Philoclea, since she died. 25 Go, lovely Rose ! Lies by her Piroclcs his side, Tell her that wastes her time and me. Not by Amphialus. That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee. Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough How sweet and fair she seems to be. 5 For difference crowns the brow Of those kind souls that were 30 Tell her that 's young. The noble martyrs here : And shuns to have her graces spied. And if that be the only odds That hadst thou sprung (As who can tell?), ye kinder gods. In deserts, where no men abide. Give me the woman here ! 35 Thou must have uncommended died. 1° Small is the worth THE CONSTANT LOVER Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Out upon it, I have loved Suffer herself to be desired. Three whole days together! And not blush so to be admired. '5 And am like to love three more. If it prove fair weather. Then die ! that she The common fate of all things rare Time shall moult away his wings 5 May read in thee ; Ere he shall discover How small a part of time they share In the whole wide world again That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! 20 Such a constant lover. But the spite on 't is. no praise Is due at all to me: 10 SIR JOHN SUCKLING (1609-1642) Love with me had made no stays. Had it any been but she. A DOUBT OF MARTYRDOM Had it any been but she. for some honest lover's ghost. And that very face. Some kind unbodied post There had been at least ere this 15 Sent from the shades below ! A dozen dozen in her place. I strangely long to know Whether the noble chaplets wear, s Those that their mistress' scorn did bear WHY SO PALE AND WAN? Or those that were used kindly. Why so pale and wan, fond lover? For whatsoe'er they tell us here Prithee, why so pale? To make those sufferings dear, Will, when looking well can't move her 'Twill there, I fear, be found 10 Looking ill prevail? That to the being crowned Prithee, why so pale? 5 T' have loved alone will not suffice, Unless we also have been wise Why so dull and mute, young sinner? And have our loves enjoyed. Prithee, why so mute? i«o SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRICS Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do 't ? Prithee, why so mute? '° 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! is 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 5 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. lo 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 is 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 I and did rise Not from the east, but from thine eyes. Chorus. It was thy day, sweet, etc. Thyrsis. Winter chid aloud; and sent The angry North to wage his wars. The North forgot his fierce in- tent ; 26 And left perfumes instead of scars. By those sweet eyes' persuasive powers. Where he meant frost he scattered flowers. Cho. By those sweet eyes', etc. 30 Both. 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, 35 We saw thee by thine own sweet light. Tit. 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 ! Cho. Contend the powers, etc. Thyr. Proud World, said I; cease your contest And let the mighty babe alone ; 45 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. Cho. The babe whose, etc. 50 Tit. I saw the curled 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 't is too cold. s6 Cho. Forbear, said I, etc. Thyr. I saw the obsequious seraphim Their rosy fleece of fire bestow, For well they now can spare their wing, 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 Tit said I, etc. No, no, your king 's not yet to seek 65 Where to repose his royal head; See, see how soon his new-bloomed cheek OIK. j^^niN iJiii\n/vivi 'Twixt 's 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, etc. 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. 75 We saw thee, and we blest the sight, We saw thee by thine own sweet light. Cho. We saw thee, etc. 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-embracing birth Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth ! Welcome, though nor to gold nor silk, 85 To more than Caesar's birthright is ; Two sister-seas of virgin-milk With many a rarely-tempered kiss That breathes at once both maid and mother. Warms in the one, cools in the other. 90 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 9S Well read in their simplicity. Yet when young April's husband showers Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed. We '11 bring the first-born of her flowers To kiss thy feet and crown thy head. '0° To thee, dread Lamb! Whose love must keep 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, 105 Each his pair of silver doves! Till burnt at last in fire of thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice! SIR JOHN DENHAM (161 5-1669) From COOPER'S HILL My eye, descending from the hill, surveys Where Thames amongst the wanton val- leys strays ; Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons. By his old sire, to his embraces runs. Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, 5 Like mortal life to meet eternity; Though with those streams he no resem- blance hold, Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold. His genuine and less guilty wealth t' ex- plore, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, 11 And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring; Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, Like mothers which their infants overlay. Nor, with a sudden and impetuous wave, '5 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 ; 20 Nor are his blessings to his banks con- fined. But free and common as the sea or wind ; When he to boast or to disperse his stores, Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, Visits the world, and in his flying towers, Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours, 26 Finds wealth where 't is, 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 ex- change. 30 O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme ! 1 82 SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRICS Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull, Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full. ON MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY'S DEATH AND BURIAL AMONGST THE AN- CIENT POETS Old Chaucer, like the morning star, To us discovers day from far. His light those mists and clouds dissolved, Which our dark nation long involved ; But he descending to the shades, 5 Darkness again the age invades. Next, like Aurora, Spenser rose. Whose purple blush the day foreshows ; The other three, with his own fires Phoebus, the poets' god inspires; lo By Shakspere's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines, Our stage's luster Rome's outshines : These poets near our princes sleep. And in one grave their mansion keep ; They lived to see so many days, is Till time had blasted all their bays; But cursed be the fatal hour That plucked the fairest, sweetest flower That in the muses' garden grew, And amongst withered laurels threw. 20 Time, which made them their fame out- live. To Cowley scarce did ripeness give. Old mother wit, and Nature, gave Shakspere and Fletcher all they have ; In Spenser, and in Jonson, Art 25 Of slower Nature got the start ; But both in him so equal are, None knows which bears the happiest share ; To him no author was unknown, Yet what he wrote was all his own; 30 He melted not the ancient gold. Nor, with Ben Jonson, did make bold To plunder all the Roman stores Of poets, and of orators: Horace's wit, and Virgil's state, 35 He did not steal, but emulate: And when he would like them appear. Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear : He not from Rome alone, but Greece, Like Jason brought the golden fleece ; 40 To him that language, though to none Of th' others, as his own was known. On a stiff gale, as Flaccus sings. The Theban swan extends his wings. When through th' ethereal clouds he flics. To the same pitch our swan doth rise. 4(> Old Pindar's flights by him are reached. When on that gale his wings are stretched. His fancy and his judgment such. Each to the other seemed too much, so His severe judgment, giving law, His modest fancy, kept in awe, As rigid husbands jealous are When they believe their wives too fair. RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658) 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. True, a new mistress now I chase, s The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore ; 'o I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honor more. TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates. And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair S And fettered to her eye. The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, >" Our careless heads with roses bound. Our hearts with loyal flames ; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free. Fishes that tipple in the deep 'S Know no such liberty. When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat will sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my king; -o When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, 25 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, 30 Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. THE ROSE Sweet, serene, sky-like flower. Haste to adorn her bower, From thy long cloudy bed Shoot forth thy damask head. New-startled blush of Flora, s The grief of pale Aurora (Who will contest no more). Haste, haste to strew her floor ! Vermilion ball that 's given From lip to lip in heaven, 1° Love's couch's coverled. Haste, haste to make her bed. Dear offspring of pleased Venus And jolly plump Silenus, Haste, haste to deck the hair 'S Of th' only sweetly fair! See ! rosy is her bower. Her floor is all this flower, Her bed a rosy nest By a bed of roses pressed ! 20 But early as she dresses, Why fly you her bright tresses? Ah ! I have found, I fear, — Because her cheeks are near. TO LUCASTA Lucasta, frown, and let me die ! But smile, and, see, I live ! The sad indifference of your eye Both kills and doth reprieve ; You hide our fate within its screen ; 5 We feel our judgment, e'er we hear ; So in one picture I have seen An angel here, the devil there ! ABRAHAM COWLEY (1618-1667) THE SWALLOW Foolish Prater, what do'st thou So early at my window do With thy tuneless serenade? Well 't had been had Tereus made Thee as dumb as Philomel: S There his knife had done but well. In thy undiscovered nest Thou dost all the winter rest, And dreamest o'er thy summer joys, Free from the stormy season's noise : 'o Free from th' ill thou 'st done to me ; Who disturbs, or seeks out thee? Had'st thou all the charming notes Of the wood's poetic throats. All thy art could never pay is What thou 'st ta'en from me away ; Cruel bird, thou 'st ta'en away A dream out of my arms to-day, A dream that ne'er must equaled be By all that waking eyes may see. 20 Thou this damage to repair, Nothing half so sweet or fair. Nothing half so good can'st bring. Though men say, ' Thou bring'st the spring? ' 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 S Who for it can endure the stings. The crowd and buzz and murmurings. Of this great hive, the city. Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave May I a small house and large garden have ; .•\nd a few friends, and many books, both true, II Both wise, and both delightful too ! And since love ne'er will from me flee, .\ mistress moderately fair. And good as guardian angels are, »s Only beloved and loving me. O fountains ! when in you shall I Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy? O fields ! O woods 1 when, when shall I be made 1 84 SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRICS The happy tenant of your shade? ^° Here 's the spring-head of pleasure's flood : Here's wealthy Nature's treasury, Where all the riches lie that she Has coined and stamped for good. Pride and ambition here *'5 Only in far-fetched metaphors appear; Here naught but winds can hurtful mur- murs scatter, And naught but Echo flatter. The gods, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way : And therefore we may boldly say 3' That 't is the way too thither. How happy here should I And one dear She live, and embracing die! She who is all the world, and can exclude In deserts solitude. 36 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 MARVEL (1621^1678) THE GARDEN How vainly men themselves amaze. To win the palm, the oak, or bays. And their incessant labors see Crowned from some single herb or tree Whose short and narrow-verged shade 5 Does prudently their toils upbraid. While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of repose! Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear? 10 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 all but rude 15 To this delicious solitude. 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. 20 Little, alas ! they know or heed. How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees ! wheres'e'r your barks I wound No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, 2s 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; 30 And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine 35 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, 45 Far other worlds, and other seas, Annihilating all that 's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 5o 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, 55 Waves in its plumes the various light. 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 ! 60 But 't was beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 't were in one, To live in paradise alone. How well the skilful gardener drew 65 Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new ; Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run, And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we ! 70 How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers? 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 5 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. 'o 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, 'S 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, 25 Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honor 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 35 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 Than 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 45 Stand still, yet we will make him run. HENRY VAUGHAN (1622-1695) THE RETREAT Happy those early days, when I Shined in my angel-infancy! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race. Or taught my soul to fancy aught S 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 wound >s 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 25 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; 3o And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return. 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, Driv'n by the spheres 5 Like a vast shadow moved ; in which the world And all her train were hurled. The doting lover in his quaintest strain Did there complain ; Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights, 10 Wit's four delights. With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure. Yet his dear treasure, All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour Upon a flower. '5 The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe. Like a thick midnight-fog, moved there so slow. He did not stay, nor go ; i86 Condeninii SEVEN I l<.h:N 1 M LEN 1 UKY LYKILS like sad eclipses, ; tliuughts, scowl Upon his soul, ^° And clouds of crying witnesses without Pursued him with one shout. Yet digged the mole, and lest his ways be found. Worked under ground, Where he did clutch his prey; Init one did see 25 That policy ; Churches and altars fed him ; perjuries Were gnats and flies ; It rained about him blood and tears, but he Drank them as free. 3° The fearful miser on a heap of rust Sat pining all his life there, did scarce trust His own hands with the dust. Yet would not place one piece above, I)ut lives In fear of thieves. 35 Thousands there were as frantic as him- self, And hugged each one his pelf; The downright epicure placed heaven in sense, And scorned pretence ; While others, slipt into a wide excess, 4° Said little less; The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares en- slave, Who think them brave; And poor, despised Truth sat counting by Their victory. 45 Yet some, who all this while did v;eep and sing, And sing and weep, soared up into the ring ; But most would use no wing. O fools, said I, thus to prefer dark night Before true light ! 50 To live in grots and caves, and hate the day Because it shows the way. The way, which from this dead and dark abode Leads up to God ; A way there you might tread the sun, and be 55 More bright than he! But, as I did their madness so discuss, One whispered thus ' This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide. But for his bride.' ^" DEPARTED FRIENDS They are all gone into the world of light ! And I alone sit lingering here ; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear. It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, s Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drcst. After the sun's remove. I see them walking in an air of glory. Whose light doth trample on my days: 'o My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays. O holy Hope ! and high Humility, High as the heavens above ! These are your walks, and you have showed them me, 15 To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous Death ! the jewel of the just. Shining nowhere, but in the dark. What mysteries do He beyond thy dust. Could man outlook that mark ! -^o He that hath found some, fledged bird's nest, may know At first sight if the bird be flown; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul, when man doth sleep, -^ So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep. If a star were confined into a tomb. The captive flames must needs burn there ; 3'J But when the hand that locked her up, gives room. She '11 shine through all the sphere. O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee, Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty. 36 Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass; Or else remove mc hence unto that hill. Where I shall need no glass. 4° FRANCIS BACON (1561-1626) Bacon was connected through both his parents with the governing classes. His father was lord keeper of tlie great seal, and the queen used to call the boy her ' young lord keeper.' At twelve he went to Trinity College, Cambridge, and as a youth he studied law at Gray's Inn. He was in the diplomatic service at Paris when his father died, leaving him but ill provided for. In 1584 he was elected to the House of Commons, but in spite of conspicuous ability and powerful connections, his political preferment was slow. He became solicitor-general in l(i07, attorney-general 1013, privy councillor 1(J1U, lord keeper 1G17, lord chancellor and baron Verulam 1G18, viscount St. Albans 1021. But hostile political influences in this last year brought about his fall. He was accused of bribery, and admitted receiving gifts, but denied that they had influenced him in the administration of justice. He was deprived of all his offices, fined £200,000, imprisoned, and excluded from court and parliament. All the penalties except the last were immediately remitted by (he king, but he was not allowed to return to public life. He retired to the estate he had inherited from his elder brother, and gave himself to literature and philosophy, which had always occupied his leisure. While still a young man. he said, ' I have as vast contemplative ends as I have moderate civil ends : for I have taken all knowledge to be my province.' The Advancement of Learning, published in English in 1005, Is mainly an attempt to review what was then known; the Novum Organum (in Latin. 1620) is an exposition of the means by which the bounds of knowledge may be extended. His philosophical work was of great influence on account of the stress he laid on observation of facts and the testing of hypothesis by experiment. He met his death through a chill con- tracted by leaving his coach on a winter's day to gather snow to stuff a fowl in order to try the effect of cold on the preservation of meat. His History of Henry VII (1022i is an important work, but his most notable contribution to literature was the Essays — a title probably sug- gested by the French Essais of Montaigne (1580). Bacon's first edition of 10 essays appeared in 1597, an enlarged edition, containing 38, in 1012, and the final issue (58 essays) in 1025. Though they reveal only at times the philosophical bent of Bacon's genius, they illustrate fully the extraordinary keenness of his mind, his practical worldly wisdom, and the terse incisive- uess of his style. ESSAYS Grecians examineth the matter, and is at a stand to think what should be in it, I. — OF TRUTH that men should love lies: where neither they make for pleasure, as with poets; 'What is truth?' said jesting Pilate; 5 nor for advantage, as with the merchant; and would not stay for an answer. Cer- but for the lie's sake. But I cannot tainly there be that delight in giddiness, tell : this same truth is a naked and open and count it a bondage to fix a belief, daylight, that doth not show the ma^:ques, affecting free-will in thinking, as well as and mummeries, and triumphs of the in acting. And though the sects of lo world half so stately and daintily as philosophers of that kind be gone, yet candle-lights. Truth may perhaps come there remain certain discoursing wits to the price of a pearl, that showeth which are of the same veins, though there best by day ; but it will not rise to the Ije not so much blood in them as was in price of a diamond or carbuncle, that those of the ancients. But it is not only 15 showeth best in varied lights. A mix- the difficulty and labor which men take ture of a He doth ever add pleasure, in finding out of truth; nor again, that Doth any man doubt that if there were when it is found, it imposeth upon men's taken out of men's minds vain opinions, thoughts, that doth bring lies in favor: flattering hopes, false valuations, im- but a natural though corrupt love of the 20 aginations as one would, and the like, lie itself. One of the later school of the but it would leave the minds of a number 187 rK/\i\H:5 BAL^UIN of men pour shrunken tliint^s, full of the belly, and nut upon the feet. There melancholy and indisposition, and nn- is no vice that doth so cover a man with pleasing to tiieinscKcs ? ( )nc (jf the shame as to he found false and per- fathers, in great severity, called poesy fidious; and therefore Montaigne saith vinum dacmoniim | devils" \vine|, because 5 prettily, when he inquired the reason it filleth the imagination, and yet it is but why the word of the lie should be such with the shadow of a lie. But it is not a disgrace, and such an odious charge, the lie that passeth through the mind. ' If it be well weighed, to say that a man but the lie that sinkcth in and settleth licth, is as much as to say that he is in it tliat dotli the hurt, such as we s])ake lo brave towards God, and a coward of before. But howsoever these things towards man.' For a lie faces God, and are thus in men's depraved judgments shrinks from man. Surely the wicked- and affections, yet truth, which only ness of falsehood and breach of faith doth judge itself, teacheth that the in- cannot possibly be so highly expressed as quiry of truth, which is the love-making. 15 in that it shall be the last peal to call the or wooing of it; the knowledge of truth, judgments of God upon the generations which is the presence of it ; and the be- of men : it being foretold, that when lief of truth, which is the enjoying of Christ cometh, ' he shall not find faith it, is the sovereign good of human upon the earth.' nature. The first creature of God, in the 20 works of the days, was the light of the sense; the last was the light of reason; V.— OF ADVERSITY and his Sabbath work, ever since, is the illumination of his spirit. First he It was a high speech of Seneca, after breathed light upon the face of the 25 the manner of the Stoics, that ' the good matter, or chaos ; then he breathed light things which belong to prosperity are to into the face of man ; and still he be wished, but the good things that be- breatheth and inspireth light into the long to adversity are to be admired.' face of his chosen. The poet, that Bona reruni sccimdarum optahilia, ad- beautified the sect, that was otherwise 32 vcrsarum mirabilia. Certainly if mira- inferior to the rest, saith yet excellently cles be the command over Nature, they well, ' It is a pleasure to stand upon the appear most in adversity. It is yet a shore, and to see ships tost upon the sea ; higher speech of his than the other, a pleasure to stand in the window of a much too high for a heathen, ' It is true castle, and to see a battle, and the ad- 35 greatness to have in one the frailty of ventures thereof below; but no pleasure a man and the security of a God' (Vere is comparable to the standing upon the niagniim, habere fragilitateni hominis, vantage ground of truth (a hill not to be sccuritatem Dei). This would have done commanded, and where the air is always better in poesy, where transcendencies clear and serene), and to see the errors, 40 are more allowed. And the poets, in- and wanderings, and mists, and tempests, deed, have been busy with it ; for it is in in the vale below'; so always that this effect the thing which is figured in that prospect be with pity,_ and not with strange fiction of the ancient poets which swelling or pride. Certainly it is heaven seemeth not to be without mystery; nay, upon earth to have a man's mind move 45 and to have some approach to the state in charity, rest in providence, and turn of a christian : that Hercules, when he upon the poles of truth. went to unbind Prometheus, by whom To pass from theological and philo- human nature is represented, sailed the sophical truth to the truth of civil busi- length of the great ocean in an earthen ness, it will be acknowledged, even by 50 pot or pitcher ; lively describing chris- those that practice it not, that clear and tian resolution that saileth in the frail round dealing is the honor of man's bark of the flesh through the waves of nature, and that mixture of falsehood is the world. But to speak in a mean, the like alloy in coin of gold and silver, virtue of prosperity is temperance, the which may make the metal work the 55 virtue of adversity is fortitude, which in better, but it embaseth it ; for these wind- morals is the more heroical virtue, ing and crooked courses are the goings Prosperity is the blessing of the Old of the serpent, which goeth basely upon Testament, adversity is the blessing of the New, which carrieth the greater made wantons; but in the midst, some benediction and the clearer revelation of that are as it were forgotten, who, many God's favor. Yet, even in the Old Testa- times, nevertheless, prove the best. The ment, if you listen to David's harp you illiberality of parents, in allowance to- shall hear as many hearse-like airs as 5 wards their children, is a harmful error, carols. And the pencil of the Holy and makes them base, acquaints them Ghost hath labored more in describing the with shifts, makes them sort with mean afflictions of Job than the felicities of company, and makes them surfeit more Solomon. Prosperity is not without many when they come to plenty ; and there- fears and distastes, and adversity is not 10 fore the proof is best when men keep without comforts and hopes. We see in their authority towards their children, needleworks and embroideries it is more but not their purse. Men have a foolish pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad manner (both parents, and schoolmasters, and solemn ground than to have a dark and servants), in creating and breeding and melancholy work upon a lightsome 15 an emulation between brothers during ground. Judge, therefore, of the pleas- childhood, which many times sorteth to ure of the heart by the pleasure of the discord when they are men, and disturb- eye. Certainly virtue is like precious eth families. The Italians make little odors, most fragrant when they are in- difTerence between children and nephews, censed or crushed ; for prosperity doth 20 or near kinsfolk ; but so they be of the best discover vice, but adversity doth best lump they care not, though they pass not discover virtue. through their own body. And, to say truth, in nature it is much a like mat- ter; insomuch that we see a nephew VII.— OF PARENTS AND CHIL- 25 sometimes resembleth an uncle, or a kins- DREN man, more than his own parent, as the blood happens. Let parents choose be- The joys of parents are secret, and so times the vocations and courses they are their griefs and fears ; they cannot mean their children should take, for then utter the one, nor they will not utter the 30 they are most flexible ; and let them not other. Children sweeten labors, but they too much apply themselves to the dispo- make misfortunes more bitter ; they in- sition of their children, as thinking they crease the cares of life, but they mitigate will take best to that which they have the remembrance of death. The per- most mind to. It is true, that if the af- petuity by generation is common to 35 fection, or aptness, of the children be beasts ; but memory, and merit, and noble extraordinary, then it is good not to cross works are proper to men; and surely a it; but generally the precept is good, man shall see the noblest works and Optimum eligc, suave et facile illiid faciei foundations have proceeded from child- consuctudo [Choose the best; custom will less men, which have sought to express 40 make it pleasant and easy]. Younger the images of their minds where those of brothers are commonly fortunate, but their bodies have failed; so the care of seldom or never where the elder are dis- posterity is most in them that have no inherited, posterity. They that are the first raisers of their houses are most indulgent 45 towards their children, beholding them VIII.— OF MARRIAGE AND SINGLE as the continuance, not only of their LIFE kind, but of their work, and so both chil- dren and creatures. He that hath wife and children hath The difference in affection of parents 50 given hostages to fortune ; for they are towards their several children is many impediments to great enterprises, either times unequal, and sometimes unworthy, of virtue or mischief. Certainly the best especially in the mother; as Solomon works, and of greatest merit for the saith, ' A wise son rejoiceth the father, public, have proceeded from the unmar- but an ungracious son shames the 55 ried or childless men. which, both in mother.' A man shall see, where there affection and means, have married and is a house full of children, one or two endowed the public. Yet it were great of the eldest respected, and the youngest reason that those that have children I90 FRANCIS BACON should have greatest care of future times, jealous. Wives arc young men's mis- unto which they know they must trans- tresses, companions for middle age, and niit their dearest pledges. old men's nurses; so as a man may have Some there are, who, though they lead a quarrel to marry when he will. But a single life, yet their thoughts do end 5 yet he was reputed one of the wise men with themselves, and account future that made answer to the question when times impertinences ; nay, there are some a man should marry, ' A young man not other that account wife and children hut yet, an elder man not at all.' It is often as bills of charges. Nay, more, there seen that bad husl)ands have very good are some foolish rich covetous men that lo wives; whether it be that it raiseth the take a pride in having no children, be- price of their husband's kindness when cause they may be thought so much the it comes, or that the wives take a pride richer ; for, perhaps, they have heard in their patience ; but this never fails, some talk. ' Such a one is a great rich if the bad husbands were of their own man,' and another except to it, * Yea. 15 choosing, against their friends' consent; but he hath a great charge of children,' for then they will be sure to make good as if it were an abatement to his riches. their own folly. But the most ordinary cause of a single life is liberty, especially in certain self- pleasing and humorous minds, which are 20 X. — OF LOVE so sensible of every restraint, as they will go near to think their girdles and gar- The stage is more beholden to love ters to be bonds and shackles. Unmar- than the life of man. For as to the ried men are best friends, best masters, stage love is ever a matter of comedies best servants, but not always best sub- 25 and now and then of tragedies, but in jects; for they are light to run away, life it doth much mischief, sometimes and almost all fugitives are of that con- like a siren, sometimes like a fury. You dition. A single life doth well with may observe that amongst all the great churchmen, for charity will hardly wa- and worthy persons whereof the memory ter the ground where it must first fill 30 remaineth, either ancient or recent, there a pool. It is indifferent for judges and is not one that hath been transported to magistrates, for if they be facile and the mad degree of love, which shows corrupt you shall have a servant five that great spirits and great business do times worse than a wife. For soldiers, keep out this weak passion. You must I find the generals commonly, in their 35 except, nevertheless, Marcus Antonius, hortatives, put men in mind of their the half-partner of the empire of Rome, wives and children. And I think the and Appius Claudius, the decemvir and despising of marriage amongst the Turks lawgiver; whereof the former was in- maketh the vulgar soldier more base, deed a voluptuous man and inordinate, Certainly, wife and children are a kind 40 but the latter was an austere and wise of discipline of humanity ; and single man ; and therefore it seems, though men, though they be many times more rarely, that love can find entrance, not charitable, because their means are less only into an open heart, but also into exhaust, yet, on the other side, they are a heart well fortified, if watch be not more cruel and hard-hearted, good to 45 well kept. It is a poor saying of Epi- make severe inquisitors, because their curus: Satis magnum alter altcri thea- tenderness is not so oft called upon. trum sumus [We are to each other a Grave natures, led by custom, and there- theater large enough], as if man. made fore constant, are commonly loving hus- for the contemplation of heaven and all bands; as was said of Ulysses, ' F^^m- 50 noble objects, should do nothing" but lam siiam practidit immortalitati' [He kneel before a little idol and make him- preferred his old wife to immortality]. self subject, though not of the mouth. Chaste women are often proud and fro- as beasts are, yet of the eve. which was ward, as presuming upon the merit of given him for higher purposes. It is a their chastity. It is one of the best 55 strange thing to note the excess of this bonds, both of chastity and obedience, passion, and how it braves the nature in the wife if she think her husband wise, and value of things by this, that the which she will never do if she find him speaking in a perpetual hyperbole is comely in nothing but in love. Neither tion : question was asked of Demosthenes, is it merely in the phrase; for whereas it what was the chief part of an orator? hath been well said that the arch-flat- He answered. Action: what next? Ac- terer, with whom all the petty flatterers tion: what next again? Action. He said have intelligence, is a man's self, cer- 5 it that knew it best, and had by nature tainly the lover is more. For there was himself no advantage in that he com- never proud man thought so absurdly mended. A strange thing, that that part well of himself as the lover doth of the of an orator which is but superficial, person loved, and, therefore, it was well and rather the virtue of a player, should said that it is impossible to love and to ^° be placed so high above those other no- be wise. Neither doth this weakness ble parts, of invention, elocution, and appear to others only, and not to the the rest — nay, almost alone, as if it were party loved, but to the loved most of all in all. But the reason is plain, all, except the love be reciprocal. For There is in human nature generally more it is a true rule that love is ever re- '5 of the fool than of the wise; and, there- warded either with the reciproque or fore, those faculties by which the fool- with an inward and secret contempt ; by ish part of men's minds is taken are most how much the more men ought to beware potent. Wonderful like is the case of of this passion, which loseth not only boldness in civil business. What first? other things but itself. As for the other 2° — Boldness. What second and third? losses, the poet's relation doth well fig- — Boldness. And yet boldness is a ure them, that he that preferred Helena child of ignorance and baseness, far in- quitted the gifts of Juno and Pallas; for ferior to other parts. But, nevertheless, whosoever esteemeth too much of am- it doth fascinate and bind hand and foot orous affection quitteth both riches and ^^ those that are either shallow in judg- wisdom. This passion hath its floods in ment or weak in courage, which are the the very times of weakness, which are greatest part — yea, and prevaileth with great prosperity and great adversity wise men at weak times. Therefore, we (though this latter hath been less ob- see it hath done wonders in popular served), both which times kindle love 3o states, but with senates and princes less; and make it more fervent, and, there- and more ever upon the first entrance fore, show it to be the child of folly. of bold persons into action than soon They do best who, if they cannot but after; for boldness is an ill keeper of admit love, yet make it keep quarter, and promise. Surely, as there are mounte- sever it wholly from their serious af- 35 banks for the natural body, so there are fairs and actions of life; for if it check mountebanks for the politic body; men once with business, it troubleth men's that undertake great cures, and perhaps fortunes and maketh men that they can have been lucky in two or three experi- nowise be true to their own ends. I ments, but want the grounds of science, know not how, but martial men are given 40 and therefore cannot hold out — nay, you to love; I think it is but as they are shall see a bold fellow many times do given to wine, for perils commonly ask Mahomet's miracle. Mahomet made the to be paid in pleasures. There is in people believe that he would call a hill man's nature a secret inclination and to him, and from the top of it offer up motion towards love of others, which, if 45 his prayers for the observers of his law. it be not spent upon some one or a few, The people assembled; Mahomet called doth naturally spread itself towards the hill to come to him again and again; many, and maketh men become humane and when the hill stood still he was never and charitable, as it is seen sometimes in a whit abashed, but said, ' If the hill will friars. Nuptial love maketh mankind, 50 not come to IMahomet, Mahomet will go friendly love perfecteth it, but wanton to the hill.' So these men, when they love corrupteth and embaseth it. have promised great matters, and failed most shamefully, yet, if they have the perfection of boldness, they will but slight Xn. — OF BOLDNESS 55 it over, and make a turn, and no more ado. Certainly to men of great judg- It is a trivial grammar-school text, ment bold persons are a sport to behold but yet worthy a wise man's considera- — nay, and to the vulgar also boldness 192 l:*KAl\L.i:b tJAUUi\ hath somewhat of the ridiculous; for if tion is the people; and in all superstition absurdity be the subject of laughter, wise men follow fools ; and arguments doubt you not but great ijoldness is sel- are fitted to practice in a reversed order, dom without some absurdity. Especially It was gravely said, by some of the prel- it is a sport to see when a bold fellow 5 ates in the Council of Trent, where the is out of countenance, for that puts his doctrine of the schoolmen bare great face into a most shrunken and wooden sway, that the schoolmen were like as- posture, as needs it must, for in bash- trononiers, which did feign eccentrics and fulness the spirits do a little go and epicycles, and such engines of orbs, to come; but with bold men, upon hke oc- 10 save the phenomena, though they knew casion, they stand at a stay, like a stale there were no such things ; and, in like at chess, where it is no mate, but yet the manner, that the schoolmen had framed game cannot stir; but this last were fit- a number of subtle and intricate axioms ter for a satire than for a serious oh- and theorems to save the practice of the servation. This is well to be weighed, 15 church. The causes of superstition are that boldness is ever blind : for it seeth pleasing and sensual rites and ceremo- not dangers and inconveniences. There- nies, excess of outward and pharisaical fore it is ill in counsel, good in execu- holiness, over-great reverence of tradi- tion ; so that the right use of bold per- tions, which cannot but load the church ; sons is that they never command in 20 the stratagems of prelates for their own chief, but be seconds, and under the ambition and lucre; the favoring too direction of others. For in counsel it is much of good intentions, which openeth good to see dangers ; and in execution not the gate to conceits and novelties ; the to see them, except they be very great. taking an aim at divine matters by hu- 25 man, which cannot but breed mixture of imaginations ; and, lastly, barbarous XVII.— OF SUPERSTITION times, especially joined with calamities and disasters. Superstition without a It were better to have no opinion of veil is a deformed thing, for as it add- God at all, than such an opinion as is 30 eth deformity to an ape to be so like a unworthy of him; for the one is unbelief, man, so the similitude of superstition to the other is contumely : and certainly religion makes it the more deformed, superstition is the reproach of the Deity. And as wholesome meat corrupteth to Plutarch saith well to that purpose : little worms, so good forms and orders ' Surely,' saith he, ' I had rather a great 35 corrupt into a number of petty observ- deal, men should say there was no such ances. There is a superstition in avoid- a man at all as Plutarch, than that they ing superstition, when men think to do should say that there was one Plutarch, best if they go farthest from the super- that would eat his children as soon as stition formerly received. Therefore they were born'; as the poets speak of 40 care would be had that, as it fareth in Saturn. And as the contumely is greater ill purgings, the good be not taken away towards God, so the danger is greater with the bad, which commonly is done towards men. Atheism leaves a man to when the people is the reformer, sense, to philosophy, to natural piety, to laws, to reputation — all which may be 45 guides to an outward moral virtue, XXIII.— OF WISDOM FOR A MAN'S though religion were not; but supersti- SELF tion dismounts all these, and erecteth an absolute monarchy in the minds of men. An ant is a wise creature for itself, Therefore atheism did never perturb 50 but it is a shrewd thing in an orchard states ; for it makes men wary of them- or garden ; and certainly men that are selves, as looking no further; and we see great lovers of themselves waste the pub- the times inclined to atheism, as the time lie. Divide with reason between self- of Augustus C?esar, were civil times ; but love and society ; and be so true to thy- superstition hath been the confusion of 55 self as thou be not false to others, many states, and bringcth in a new pri- especially to thy king and country. It mum mobile, that ravisheth all the spheres is a poor center of a man's actions, him- of government. The master of supersti- self. It is right earth; for that only stands fast upon its own center; whereas their time sacrificed to themselves, they all. things that have affinity with the become in the end themselves sacrifices heavens move upon the center of another, to the inconstancy of fortune, whose which they benefit. The referring of all wings they thought by their self-wisdom to a man's self is more tolerable in a 5 to have pinioned, sovereign prince, because themselves are not only themselves, but their good and evil is at the peril of the public fortune: XXV.— OF DISPATCH but it is a desperate evil in a servant to a prince, or a citizen in a republic ; lo Afifected dispatch is one of the most for whatsoever affairs pass such a man's dangerous things to business that can be. hands, he crooketh them to his own ends. It is like that which the physicians call which must needs be often eccentric to prcdigcstion, or hasty digestion, which is the ends of his master or state. There- sure to fill the body full of crudities and fore, let princes or states choose such 15 secret seeds of diseases. Therefore servants as have not this mark, except measure not dispatch by the times of they mean their service should be made sitting, but by the advancement of the but the accessory. That which maketh business. And as in races, it is not the the effect more pernicious is that all pro- large stride, or high lift, that makes the portion is lost. It were disproportion 20 speed, so in business, the keeping close enough for the servant's good to be pre- to the matter, and not taking of it too ferred before the master's ; but yet it is much at once, procureth dispatch. It is a greater extreme, when a little good the care of some, only to come off speed- of the servant shall carry things against ily for the time, or to contrive some false a great good of the master's. And 25 periods of business, because they may yet that is the case of bad officers, seem men of dispatch ; but it is one thing treasurers, ambassadors, generals, and to abbreviate by contracting, another by other false and corrupt servants, which cutting off; and business so handled at set a bias upon their bowl, of their own several sittings or meetings goeth com- petty ends and envies, to the overthrow 30 monly backward and forward in an un- of their master's great and important steady manner. I knew a wise man that affairs. And for the most part, the good had it for a byword, when he saw men such servants receive is after the model hasten to a conclusion, ' Stay a little, that of their own fortune, but the hurt they we may make an end the sooner.' sell for that good is after the model of 35 On the other side, true dispatch is a their master's fortune. And certainly rich thing; for time is the measure of it is the nature of extreme self-lovers, business, as money is of wares; and busi- as they will set a house on fire and it ness is bought at a dear hand where were but to roast their eggs; and yet there is small dispatch. The Spartans these men many times hold credit with 40 and Spaniards have been to be noted to their masters, because their study is but be of small dispatch: Mi venga la to please them, and profit themselves; muerte de Spagna, 'Let my death come and for either respect they will abandon from Spain,' for then it will be sure to the good of their affairs. be long in coming. Wisdom for a man's self is, in many 45 Give good hearing to those that give branches thereof, a depraved thing; it the first information in business; and is the wisdom of rats, that will be sure rather direct them in the beginning than to leave a house somewhat before it interrupt them in the continuance of fall; it is the wisdom of the fox, that their speeches; for he that is put out of thrusts out the badger, who digged and 50 his own order will go forward and back- made room for him ; it is the wisdom of ward, and be more tedious while he crocodiles, that shed tears when they waits upon his memory, than he could would devour. But that which is spe- have been if he nad gone on in his own cially to be noted is that those which course. But sometimes it is seen that (as Cicero says of Pompey) are .y!4S). Ten years later appeared Uydriotaphia Urn Burial, or a Discourse of the Sepulchral Urns lately found in Norfolk and The Garden of Cyrus, or the Quinciincial Lozenge, net-work plantations of the Ancients, artificially, naturally, mystically considered. Of the latter Coleridge says that Browne finds ' quincunxes in heaven above, quincunxes in earth below, quincunxes in the mind of man, quin-cunxes in tones, in optic nerves, in roots of trees, in leaves, in everything.' Browne has, however, much rarer virtues than curious learning and quaintness of phrase: he expresses the deep thoughts of an unusually well-balanced mind in a style not merely clear and dignified, but rich with a sustained and subtle harmony as of solemn music. RELIGIO MEDICI tenting myself to enjoy that happy style, than maligning those who refuse so For my reHgion though there be glorious a title, several circumstances that might per- But because the name of a christian suade the world I have none at all, as 5 is l^ecome too general to express our the general scandal of my profession, the faith, there being a geography of reli- natural course of my studies, the in- gion as well as lands, and every clime differency of my behavior and discourse distinguished not only by their laws and in matters of religion, neither violently limits, but circumscribed by their doc- defending one, nor with that common lo trines and rules of faith ; to be par- ardor and contention opposing another; ticular, I am of that reformed new-cast yet in despite hereof, I dare, without religion, wherein I dislike nothing but usurpation, assume the honorable style the name ; of the same belief our Savior of a christian. Not that I merely owe taught, the apostles disseminated, the this title to the font, my education, or i5 fathers authorized, and the martyrs con- clime wherein I was born, as being bred firmed, but by the sinister ends of up either to confirm those principles my princes, the ambition and avarice of prel- parents instilled into my understanding, ates, and the fatal corruption of times, or by a general consent proceed in the so decayed, impaired, and fallen froin rehgion of my cotintry : btit having in 20 its native beauty, that it required the my riper years and confirmed judgment, careful and charitable hands of these seen and examined all, I find myself times to restore it to its primitive in- obliged by the principles of grace, and tegrity. Now the accidental occasion the law of mine own reason, to embrace whereupon, the slender means whereby, no other natne but this: neither doth the low and abject condition of the per- herein my zeal so far make me forget the 25 son by whom so good a work was set on general charity I owe unto humanity, as foot, which in our adversaries l:)egct con- rather to hate than pity Turks, Infidels. tempt and scorn, fills me with wonder, and (what is worse) Jews; rather con- and is the very same objection the in- 200 Solent pagans first cast at Christ and circumstances, there is something in it his disciples. of devotion. I could never hear the Yet have I not so shaken hands with Ave-Mary bell ^ without an elevation, or those desperate resolutions, who had think it a sufficient warrant, because they rather venture at large their decayed 5 erred in one circumstance, for me to err bottom, than bring her in to be new in all, that is, in silence and dumb con- trimmed in the dock ; who had rather tempt. Whilst therefore they direct promiscuously retain all, than abridge their devotions to her, I offer mine to any, and obstinately be what they are, God, and rectify the errors of their than what they have been, as to stand lo prayers, by rightly ordering mine own. in diameter and swords point with them. At a solemn procession I have wept We . have reformed from them, not abundantly, while my consorts, blind agaiiist them; for omitting those im- with opposition and prejudice, have fallen properations, and terms of scurrility into an excess of scorn and laughter, betwixt us, which only difference our 15 There are questionless, both in Greek, affections, and not our cause, there is be- Roman, and African churches, solemni- tween us one common name and appella- ties and ceremonies, whereof the wiser tion, one faith and necessary body of zeals do make a christian use, and stand principles common to us both. And condemned by us, not as evil in them- therefore I am not scrupulous to con- 20 selves, but as allurements and baits of verse and live with them, to enter their superstition to those vulgar heads that churches in defect of ours, and either look asquint on the face of truth, and pray with them, or for them. I could those unstable judgments that cannot never perceive any rational consequence resist in the narrow point and center of from those many texts which prohibit 25 virtue without a reel or stagger to the the Children of Israel to pollute them- circumference. selves with the temples of the heathens ; As there were many reformers, so we being all christians, and not divided likewise many reformations; every coun- by such detested impieties as might pro- try proceeding in a particular way and fane our prayers, or the place wherein 3o method, according as their national in- we make them; or that a resolved con- terest, together with their constitution science may not adore her Creator any- and clime inclined them ; some angrily, where, especially in places devoted to his and with extremity; others calmly, and service; where if their devotions offend with mediocrity, not rending but easily him, mine may please him; if theirs 35 dividing the community, and leaving an profane it, mine may hallow it ; holy- honest possibility of a reconciliation ; water and crucifix (dangerous to the which though peaceable spirits do de- common people) deceive not my judg- sire, and may conceive that revolu- ment, nor abuse my devotion at all. I tion of time and the mercies of God am, I confess, naturally inclined to that 40 may effect, yet that judgment that shall which misguided zeal terms superstition : consider the present antipathies between my common conversation I do acknow- the two extremes, their contrarieties in ledge austere, my behavior full of rigor, condition, affection and opinion, may sometimes not without morosity ; yet at with the same hopes expect a union in my devotion I love to use the civility of 45 the poles of heaven, my knee, my hat, and hand, with all But to difference myself nearer, and those outward and sensible motions draw into a lesser circle : there is no which may express or promote my in- church, whose every part so squares unto visible devotion. I should violate my my conscience; whose articles, consti- own arm rather than a church, nor 50 tutions, and customs, seem so consonant willingly deface the name of saint or unto reason, and as it were framed to martyr. At the sight of a cross or cruci- mv particular devotion, as this whereof fix I can dispense with my hat, but I hold my belief, the Church of England, scarce with the thought or memory of my Savior : I cannot laugh at, but 55 ^ A church bell that tolls every day at six and rather pitv the fruitless journevs of ^''"'"'^ ""^ \^l '=^"''^' ^^ ^^^ '^^^f'"^ whereof, every • 1 • ^ - ^ ^, .-' ,,- "lie in what place soever, either of house or pilgrims, or contemn the miserable con- street, betakes himself to his prayer, which is dition of friars ; for though misplaced in commonly directed to the Virgin. 202 SIR THOMAS BROWNE to whose faith 1 am a sworn subject; disadvantage, or when the cause of truth and therefore in a double obligation might sutYer in the weakness of my subscribe unto her articles, and en- patronage. Where we desire to be in- deavor to observe her constitutions. formed, 't is good to contest with men Whatsoever is beyond, as points indiffer- 5 al)0vc ourselves; but to confirm and ent, I observe according to the rules of establish our opinions, 't is best to argue my' private reason, or the humor and with judgments below our own, that the fashion of my devotion; neither believ- frequent spoils and victories over their ing this, because Luther affirmed it, or reasons, may settle in ourselves an es- disproving that, because Calvin hath dis- 10 teem and confirmed opinion of our own. avouched it. I condemn not all things Every man is not a proper champion in the Council of Trent, nor approve for truth, nor fit to take up the gaunt- all in the Synod of Dort. In brief, let in the cause of verity. Many from where the Scripture is silent, the church the ignorance of these maxims, and an is my text; where that speaks, 'tis but 15 inconsiderate zeal unto truth, have too my comment: where there is a joint rashly charged the troops of error, and silence of both, I borrow not the rules remain as trophies unto the enemies of my religion from Rome or Geneva, of truth. A man may be in as just but tile dictates of my own reason. It possession of truth as of a city, and yet is an unjust scandal of our adversaries, 20 be forced to surrender; 'tis therefore and a gross error in ourselves, to com- far better to enjoy her with peace, than pute tlie nativity of our religion from to hazard her on a battle. If therefore Henry the Eighth, who though he re- there rise any doubts in my way, I do jected the Pope, refused not the faith forget them, or at least defer them, till of Rome, and effected no more than what 25 my better settled judgment and more his own predecessors desired and as- manly reason be able to resolve them, sayed in ages past, and was conceived for I perceive every man's own reason the state of Venice would have attempted is his best CEdipus, and will upon a in our days. It is as uncharitable a reasonable truce find a way to loose point in us to fall upon those popular 30 those bonds wherewith the subtleties of scurrilities and opprobrious scoffs of error have enchained our more flexible the Bishop of Rome, to whom as tem- and tender judgments. In philosophy, poral prince, we owe the duty of good where truth seems double faced, there language. I confess there is a cause of is no man more paradoxical than myself; passion between us; by his sentence I 35 but in divinity I love to keep the road; stand excommunicated, heretic is the and though not in an implicit, yet an best language he affords me ; yet can humble faith, follow the great wheel of no ear witness, I ever returned him the the church, by which I move, not re- name of Antichrist, Man of sin, or serving any proper poles or motion from Whore of Babylon. It is the method 40 the epicycle of my own brain. By this of charity to suffer without reaction : means I have no gap for heresy, schisms, those usual satires and invectives of the or errors, of which at present I hope I pulpit may perchance produce a good shall not injure truth to say I have no effect on the vulgar, whose ears are taint or tincture. I must confess my opener to rhetoric than logic ; yet do 45 greener studies have been polluted with they in no wise confirm the faith of two or three, not any begotten in the wiser believers, who know that a good latter centuries, but old and obsolete, cause needs not to be pardoned by pas- such as could never have been revived sion, but can sustain itself upon a tem- but by such extravagant and irregular perate dispute. 50 heads as mine. For indeed heresies I could never divide myself from any perish not with their authors, but like man upon the difference of an opinion, the river Arethusa, though they lose or be angry with his judgment for not their currents in one place, they rise up agreeing with me in that, from which again in another. One general council within a few days I should dissent my- 55 is not able to extirpate one single self. I have no genius to disputes in heresy ; it may be canceled for the •■eligion, and have often thought it wis- present, but revolution of time, and the dom to decline them, especially upon a like aspects from heaven, will restore l\J 1M111,LJ1.\^X ^ it, when it will flourish till it be con- our eye and sense hath examined: I be- demned again. For as though there lieve he was dead and buried, and rose were metempsychosis, and the soul of again ; and desire to see him in his glory, one man passed into another; opinions rather than to contemplate him in his do find after certain revolutions men 5 cenotaph or sepulcher. Nor is this and minds like those that first begat much to believe; as we have reason, we them. To see ourselves again, we need owe this faith unto history: they only not look for Plato's year ^ : every man had the advantage of a bold and noble is not only himself; there hath been faith, who lived before his coming, who many Diogenes, and as many Timons, 10 upon obscure prophecies and mystical though but few of that name; men are types could raise a belief, and expect lived over again, the world is now as it apparent impossibilities, was in ages past; there was none then, * * * but there hath been some one since that Thus there are two books from whence parallels him, and as it were his revived 15 I collect my divinity ; besides that writ- self, ten one of God, another of his servant * * * nature, that universal and public manu- As for those wingy mysteries in script, that lies expansed unto the eyes divinity, and airy subtleties in religion, of all; those that never saw him in the which have unhinged the brains of 20 one, have discovered him in the other: better heads, they never stretched the this was the scripture and theology of pia mater of mine ; methinks there be the heathens ; the natural motion of the not impossibilities enough in religion, for sun made them more admire him, than an active faith; the deepest mysteries its supernatural station did the Children ours contains, have not only been illus- 25 of Israel ; the ordinary eiTects of nature trated, but maintained by syllogism, and wrought more admiration in them, than the rule of reason: I love to lose myself in the other all his miracles; surely the in a mystery, to pursue my reason to an heathens knew better how to join and altitudo ! 'T is my solitary recreation read these mystical letters, than we to pose my apprehension with those in- 30 christians, who cast a more careless eye volved enigmas and riddles of the trinity, on these common hieroglyphics, and dis- with incarnation and resurrection. I can dain to suck divinity from the flowers of answer all the objections of Satan and nature. Nor do I so forget God as to my rebellious reason, with that odd reso- adore the name of nature; which I define lution I learned of Tertullian, Certum est 35 not with the schools, to be the principle quia impossibile est [It is certain be- of motion and rest, but that straight and cause it is impossible]. I desire to ex- regular line, that settled and constant ercise my faith in the diificultest point; course the wisdom of God hath ordained for to credit ordinary and visible objects, the actions of his creatures, according is not faith, but persuasion. Some be- 40 to their several kinds. To make a revo- lieve the better for seeing Christ's sep- lution every day, is the nature of the ulcher; and when they have seen the sun, because of that necessary course Red Sea, doubt not of the miracle. Now which God hath ordained it, from which contrarily, I bless myself, and am thank- it cannot swerve but by a faculty from ful that I lived not in the days of mir- 45 that voice which first did give it motion, acles, that I never saw Christ nor his Now this course of nature God seldom disciples. I would not have been one alters or perverts, but like an excellent of those Israelites that passed the Red artist hath so contrived his work, that Sea, nor one of Christ's patients on whom with the selfsame instrument, without a he wrought his wonders ; then had my 50 new creation, he may effect his obscur- faith been thrust upon me; nor should est designs. Thus he sweeteneth the 1 enjoy that greater blessing pronounced water with a word, preserveth the crea- to all that believe and saw not. 'T is an tures in the ark, which the blast of his easy and necessary belief, to credit what mouth might have as easily created. 55 For God is like a skilful geometrician, 1 A revolution of certain thousand years, when who when more easilv, and with one all things should return unto their former estate, „. i „ ^r «• , i • Ui j -u and he be teaching again in his school as when stroke of hlS COmpaSS he might describe he delivered this opinion. Or divide a right line, had yet rather do 204 SIR THO MAS BROWNE this in a circle or lonj^cr way; according our nearest friends, wife and children to the constituted and fore-laid principles stand afraid and start at us. The birds of his art. Yet this rule of his he doth and beasts of the field, that before in sometimes pervert, to acquaint the world a natural fear obeyed us, forgetting all with his prerogative, lest the arrogancy 5 allegiance begin to prey upon us. This of our reason should question his power, very conceit hath in a tempest disposed and conclude he could not. And thus and left me willing to be s\vallowee. ix. 27- 230 JOHN BUNYAN of the house, said, ' Come in, thou was telling of it ; but yet I am glad I blessed of the Lord;' this house was heard it. built by the Lord of the hill, on purpose Piety. Was that all that you saw at to entertain such pilgrims in. Then he the house of the Interpreter? bowed his head, and followed them into 5 CiiR. No; he took me and had me the house. So when he was come in and where he showed me a stately palace, sat down, they gave him something to and how the people were clad in gold drink, and consented together, that until that were in it; and how there came a supper was ready, some of them should venturous man and cut his way through have some particular discourse with lo the armed men that stood in the door to Christian, for the best improvement of keep him out; and how he was bid to time; and they appointed Piety, and come in, and win eternal glory. Me- Prudence, and Charity to discourse with thought those things did ravish my him ; and thus they began : heart ! I would have staid at that good Piety. Come, good Christian, since '5 man's house a twelvemonth, but that I we have been so loving to you, to re- knew I had further to go. ceive you into our house this night, let Piety. And what saw you else in the us, if perhaps we may better ourselves way? thereby, talk with you of all things that Chr. Saw ! why, I went but a little have happened to you in your pilgrim- 20 further, and I saw one, as I thought in age. my mind, hang bleeding upon the tree ; Chr. With a very good will, and I and the very sight of him made my burden am glad that you are so well disposed. fall off my back (for I groaned under a Piety. What moved you at first to be- very heavy burden), but then it fell lake yourself to a pilgrim's life? 25 Jown from off me. It was a strange Chr. I was driven out of my native thing to me, for I never saw such a country, by a dreadful sound that was in thing before; yea, and while I stood mine ears ; to wit, that unavoidable de- looking up, for then I could not forbear struction did attend me, if I abode in looking, three Shining Ones came to me. that place where I was. 30 One of them testified that my sins were Piety. But how did it happen that you forgiven me; another stripped me of my came out of your country this way? rags, and gave me this broidered coat Chr. It was as God would have it; which you see; and the third set the for when I was under the fears of de- mark which you see in my forehead, and struction, I did not know whither to go; 35 gave me this sealed roll. (And with but by chance there came a man, even to that he plucked it out of his bosom.) me, as I was trembling and weeping. Piety. But you saw more than this, whose name is Evangelist, and he di- did you not? rected me to the wicket-gate, which else Chr. The things that I have told you I should never have found, and so set me 40 were the best, yet some other matters into the way that hath led me directly I saw, as, namely, I saw three men, to this house. Simple, Sloth, and Presumption, lie Piety. But did you not come by the asleep a little out of the way, as I came, house of the Interpreter? with irons upon their heels; but do you Chr. Yes, and did see such things 45 think I could awake them? I also saw there, the remembrance of which will Formality and Hypocrisy come tumbling stick by me as long as I live; especially over the wall, to go, as they pretended, three things, to wit, how Christ, in to Zion, but they were quickly lost, even despite of Satan, maintains his work of as I myself did tell them; but they would grace in the heart ; how the man had 50 not believe. But above all, I found it sinned himself quite out of hopes of hard work to get up this hill, and as hard God's mercy ; and also the dream of him to come by the lions' mouths ; and truly that thought in his sleep the day of if it had not been for the good man, the judgment was come. porter that stands at the gate, I do not Piety. Why, did you hear him tell his 55 know but that after all I might have dream? gone back again; but now, I thank God Chr. Yes, and a dreadful one it was. I am here, and I thank you for receiving I thought it made my heart ache as he of me. Ihen Prudence thought good to ask Then said Charity to Christian, Have him a few questions, and desired his an- you a family? Are you a married man? swer to them. Chr. I have a wife and four small Prud. Do you not think sometimes of children, the country from whence you came? 5 Char. And why did you not bring Chr. Yes, but with much shame and them along with you? detestation: 'truly if I had been mindful Chr. Then Christian wept, and said, of that country from whence I came out, Oh how willingly would I have done it! I might have had opportunity to have but they were all of them utterly averse returned ; but now I desire a better lo to my going on pilgrimage, country, that is, an heavenly.' ^ Char. But you should have talked to Prud. Do you not yet bear away with them, and have endeavored to have shown you some of the things that then you them the danger of being behind. were conversant withal? Chr. So I did; and told Ihem also Chr. Yes, but greatly against my will ; i5 what God had shown to me of the de- especially my inward and carnal cogita- struction of our city; 'but I seemed to tions, with which all my countrymen, as them as one that mocked,' and they be- well as myself, were delighted; but now lieved me not.* all those things are my grief; and might Char. And did you pray to God that I but choose mine own things, I would 20 he would bless your counsel to them ? choose never to think of those things Chr. Yes, and that with much affec- more; but when I would be doing of that tion; for you must think that my wife which is best, that which is worst is with and poor children were very dear unto me.' me. Prud. Do you not find sometimes, as 25 Char. But did you tell them of your if those things were vanquished, which own sorrow, and fear of destruction? for at other times are your perplexity? I suppose that destruction was visible Chr. Yes, but that is but seldom; but enough to you. they are to me golden hours, in which Chr. Yes, over, and over, and over. such things happen to me. 30 They might also see my fears in my Prud. Can you remember by what countenance, in my tears, and also in my means you find your annoyances at times, trembling under the apprehension of the as if they were vanquished? judgment that did hang over our heads; Chr. Yes; when I think what I saw but all was not sufficient to prevail with at the cross, that will do it; and when I 35 them to come with me. look upon my broidered coat, that will Char. But what could they say for do it; also when I look into the roll that themselves, why they came not? I carry in my bosom, that will do it; Chr. Why, my wife was afraid of and when my thoughts wax warm about losing this world, and my children were whither I am going, that will do it. 40 given to the foolish delights of youth; Prud. And what is it that makes you so what by one thing, and what by an- 80 desirous to go to Mount Zion ? other, they left me to wander in this Chr. Why, there I hope to see him manner alone, alive that did hang dead on the cross; Char. But did you not, with your vain and there I hope to be rid of all those 45 life, damp all that you by words used things that to this day are in me an by way of persuasion to bring them away annoyance to me; there, they say, there with you? is no death; and there I shall dwell with Chr. Indeed, I cannot commend my such company as I like best.^ For, to life; for I am conscious to myself of tell you truth, I love him, because I was 5o many failings therein ; I know also, that by him eased of my burden; and I am a man by his conversation may soon weary of my inward sickness. I would overthrow, what by argument or persua- fain be where I shall die no more, and sion he doth labor to fasten upon others with the company that shall continually for their good. Yet this I can say, I was cry, ' Holy, holy, holy.' 5 very wary of giving them occasion, by ijje 3jj jj_ j6, any unseemly action, to make them ' Ro. vii. ' Is. XXV. 8. Re. xxi. 4. < Ge. xix. 14. 232 JUniN 13Ui\YAi\ averse to going on pilgrimage. Yea, for they were beggars born, and their orig- this very thing, they would tell me I was inal had been the dunghill.* too precise, and that I denied myself of Thus they discoursed together till late things, for their sakes, in which they at night; and after they had committed saw no evil. Nay, I think I may say, 5 themselves to their Lord for protection, that if what they saw in me did hinder they betook themselves to rest: the Pil- them, it was my great tenderness in grim they laid in a large upper chamber, sinning against God, or of doing any whose window opened toward the sun- wrong to my neighbor. rising; the name of the chamber, was Char. Indeed tain hated his brother, 10 Peace; where he slept till break of day, 'because his own works were evil, and and then he awoke and sang — his brother's righteous ;' ^ and if thy wife and children have been offended Where am I now? Is this the love and care with thee 'for this, they thereby show Of Jesus for the men that pilgrims are? themselves to be implacable to good, and 15 Thus to provide ! that I should be forgiven ! 'thou hast delivered thy soul from their And dwell already the tiext door to heaven! blood.' - Now I saw in my dream, that thus So, ni the morning, they all got up ; and they sat talking together until supper after some more discourse, they told him was ready. So when they had made 20 that he should not depart till they had ready, they sat down to meat. Now the shown him the rarities of that place, table was furnished ' with fat things. And first, they had him into the study, and with wine that was well refined:' where they showed him records of the and all their talk at the table was about greatest antiquity; in which, as I re- the Lord of the hill ; as, namely, about 25 member my dream, they showed him what he had done, and wherefore he did first the pedigree of the Lord of the hill, what he did, and why he had builded that he was the son of the Ancient of that house. And by what they said, I Days, and came by that eternal genera- perceived that he had been a great war- tion. Here also was more fully recorded rior, and had fought with and slain 30 the acts that he had done, and the names ' him that had the power of death,' but of many hundreds that he had taken not without great danger to himself, into his service; and how he had placed which made me love him the more.^ them in such habitations, that could For, as they said, and as I believe neither by length of days, nor decays of (said Christian), he did it with the loss 35 nature, be dissolved. of much blood; but that which put glory Then they read to him some of the of grace into all he did, was, that he worthy acts that some of his servants did it out of pure love to his country, had done : as, how they had ' subdued And besides, there were some of them of kingdoms, wrought righteousness, ob- the household that said they had seen 40 tained promises, stopped the mouths of and spoke with him since he did die on lions, quenched the violence of fire, the cross; and they have attested that escaped the edge of the sword, out of they had it from his own lips, that he is weakness were made strong, waxed val- such a lover of poor pilgrims, that the iant in fight, and turned to flight the like is not to be found from the east to 45 armies of the aliens.''^ the west. They then read again in another part They, moreover, gave an instance of of the records of the house, where it what they affirmed, and that was, he had was showed how willing their Lord was stripped himself of his glory, that he to receive into his favor any, even any. might do this for the poor; and that they 50 though they in time past had offered heard him_ say and affirm, ' that_ he would great affronts to his person and pro- not dwell in the mountain of Zion alone.' ceedings. Here also were several other They said, moreover, that he had made histories of many other famous things, many pilgrims princes, though by nature of all which Christian had a view; as 55 of things both ancient and modern ; to- ' I Jn. iii. 12. 2 Kze. iii. lO. j ^^ • „ n 3 He. ii. 14; 15. ;,S^-."- ^- ^^- *=''"'• 7- ■ He. XI. 33. 34. gether with prophecies and predictions They said it was Imnianuel's Land ; and of things that have their certain ac- it is as common, said they, as this hill coniplishment, both to the dread and is, to and for all the pilgrims. And amazement of enemies, and the com- when thou comest there, from thence, fort and solace of pilgrims. s said they, thou mayest see to the gate The next day they took him and of the Celestial City, as the shepherds had him into the armory, where they that live there will make appear, showed him all manner of furniture. Now, he bethought himself of setting which their Lord had provided for forward, and they were willing he pilgrims, as sword, shield, helmet, lo should. But first, said they, let us go breastplate, all-prayer, and shoes that again into the armory. So they did ; would not wear out. And there was and when he came there, they harnessed here enough of this to harness out as him from head to foot with what was many men, for the service of their Lord, of proof, lest, perhaps, he should meet as there be stars in the heaven for mul- 15 with assaults in the way. He being, titude. therefore, thus accoutred, walketh out They also showed him some of the with his friends to the gate, and there engines with which some of his serv- he asked the porter if he saw any pil- ants had done wonderful things. They grims pass by. Then the porter an- showed him Moses' rod ; the hammer 20 swered. Yes. and nail with which Jael slew Sisera ; Chr. Pray, did you know him? said the pitchers, trumpets, and lamps, too, he. with which Gideon put to flight the Por. I asked his name, and he told me armies of Midian. Then they showed it was Faithful. him the ox's goad wherewith Shamgar 25 Chr. Oh, said Christian, I know slew six hundred men. They showed him ; he is my townsman, my near him, also, the jaw-bone with which neighbor; he comes from the place Samson did such mighty feats. They where I was born. How far do you showed him, moreover, the sling and think he may be before? stone with which David slew Goliah 3o Por. He is got by this time below the of Gath ; and the sword, also, with hill. which their Lord will kill the Man of Chr. Well, said Christian, good Por- Sin, in the day that he shall rise up to ter, the Lord be with thee, and add the prey. They showed him, besides, to all thy blessings much increase, for many excellent things, with which 3S the kindness that thou hast showed to Christian was much delighted. This me. done, they went to their rest again. Then he began to go forward; but Then I saw in my dream, that, on Discretion, Piety, Charity and Prudence, the morrow, he got up to go forward; would accompany him down to the foot but they desired li' n to stay till the next 4° of the hill. So they went on together, day also; and then, said they, we will, reiterating their former discourses, till if the day be clear, show you the De- they came to go down the hill. Then, lectable Mountains, which, they said, said Christian, as it was difficult com- would yet further add to his comfort, ing up, so, so far as I can see, it is because they were nearer the desired ■*'> dangerous going down. Yes, said Pru- Iiaven than the place where at present dence, so it is, for it is a hard matter he was; so he consented and stayed. for a man to go down into the Valley When the morning was up, they had of Humiliation, as thou art now, and him to the top of the house, and bid to catch no slip by the way; therefore, him look south; so he did; and, behold, 5o said they, are we come out to accom- at a great distance, he saw a most pany thee down the hill. So he began pleasant mountainous country, beau- to go down, but very warily; yet he tified with woods, vinevards, fruits of all caught a slip or two. ;orts, flowers also, with springs and Then I saw in my dream that these fountains, verv delectable to behold.^ ^^ .?ood companions, when Christian was Then he asked' the name of the country. Rone to the bottom of the hill, gave him ijg_ xxxiii. 16 17. ^ '°^^ °^ bread, a bottle of wine, and 234 j\^'r:ii> DUi>i/A.i>i a cluster of raisins; and then he went will afford, 1 do here promise to give on his way. thee. But now, in this Valley of Humilia- Ciir. But I have let myself to an- tion, poor Christian was hard put to it; other, even to the King of princes; and for he had gone but a little way, before 5 how can I, with fairness, go back with he espied a foul tiend coming over the thee? field to meet him ; his name is Apollyon. Apol. Thou hast done in this ac- Then did Christian begin to be afraid, cording to the proverb, ' Changed a bad and to cast in his mind whether to go for a worse ; ' but it is ordinary for those back or to stand his ground. But he 'o that have professed themselves his serv- considcrcd again that he had no armor ants, after a while to give him the slip, for his back; and, therefore, thought and return again to me. Do thou so that to turn the back to him might give too, and all shall be well, him the greater advantage, with ease to Chr. I have given him my faith, and pierce him with his darts. Therefore '5 sworn my allegiance to him; how, then, he resolved to venture and stand his can I go back from this, and not be ground; for, thought he, had I no more hanged as a traitor? in mine eye than the saving of my life, Apol. Thou didst the same to me, and it would be the best way to stand. yet I am willing to pass by all, if now So he went on, and Apollyon met 20 thou wilt yet turn again and go back, him. Now the monster was hideous to Chr. What I promised thee was in behold; he was clothed with scales, my nonage; and, besides, I count the like a fish (and they are his pride), he Prince under whose banner now I had wings like a dragon, feet like a stand is able to absolve me ; yea, and bear, and out of his belly came fire and 25 to pardon also what I did as to my smoke, and his mouth was as the mouth compliance with thee; and besides, O of a lion. When he was come up to thou destroying Apollyon ! to speak Christian, he beheld him with a dis- truth, I like his service, his wages, his dainful countenance, and thus began to servants, his government, his company, question with him. 30 and country, better than thine; and, Apol. Whence come you? and whither therefore, leave off to persuade me fur- are you bound? ther; I am his servant, and I will fol- Chr. I am come from the City of low him. Destruction, which is the place of all Apol. Consider again, when thou art evil, and am going to the City of Zion. 35 in cool blood, what thou art like to meet Apol. By this I perceive thou art one with in the way that thou goest. Thou of my subjects, for all that country is knowest that, for the most part, his serv- mine, and I am the prince and god of ants come to an ill end, because they it. How is it, then, that thou hast run are transgressors against me and my away from thy king? Were it not that 40 ways. How many of them have been I hope thou mayest do me more service, put to shameful deaths ! and, besides, I would strike thee now, at one blow, to thou countest his service better than the ground. mine, whereas he never came yet from Chr. I was born, indeed, in your the place where he is to deliver any that dominions, but your service was hard, 45 served him out of their hands; but as and your wages such as a man could for me, how many times, as all the not live on, ' for the wages of sin is world very well knows, have I delivered, death ; ' ^ therefore, when I was come to either by power of fraud, those that years, I did as other considerate per- have faithfully served me, from him and sons do, look out, if, perhaps, I might 50 his, though taken by them; and so I mend myself. will deliver thee. Apol. There is no prince that will Chr. His forbearing at present to thus lightly lose his subjects, neither deliver them is on purpose to try their will I as yet lose thee; but since thou love, whether they will cleave to him complainest of thy service and wages, 55 to the end ; and as for the ill end thou be content to go back ; what our country sayest they come to, that is most glo- rious in their account; for, for present iRo. vi. 23. deliverance, they do not much expect it. for they stay for their glory, and then therefore, followed his work amain, and they shall have it, when their Prince Christian again took courage and re- comes in his and the glory of the angels. sisted as manfully as he could. This Apol. Thou hast already been un- sore combat lasted for above half a day, faithful in thy service to him ; and how 5 even till Christian was almost quite dost thou think to receive wages of him ? spent ; for you must know, that Chris- Chr. Wherein, O ApoUyon! have I tian, by reason of his wounds, must been unfaithful to him? needs grow weaker and weaker. Apol. Thou didst faint at first setting Then ApoUyon, espying his opportu- out, when thou wast almost choked in lo nity, began to gather up close to Chris- the Gulf of Despond ; thou didst at- tian, and wrestling with him, gave him a tempt wrong ways to be rid of thy bur- dreadful fall ; and with that. Christian's den, whereas thou shouldst have stayed sword flew out of his hand. Then said till thy Prince had taken it off; thou Apollyon, I am sure of thee now. And didst sinfully sleep, and lose thy choice 15 with that he had almost pressed him to thing; thou wast, also, almost persuaded death; so that Christian began to to go back, at the sight of the lions; despair of life: but as God would have and when thou talkest of thy journey, it, while Apollyon was fetching of his and of what thou hast heard and seen, last blow, thereby to make a full end thou art inwardly desirous of vain- 20 of this good man, Christian nimbly glory in all that thou sayest or doest. reached out his hand for his sword, and CiiR. All this is true, and much more caught it, saying, ' Rejoice not against which thou hast left out ; but the Prince, me, O mine enemy : when I fall, I shall whom I serve and honor, is merciful, arise ;' ^ and with that gave him a and ready to forgive ; but, besides, these 25 deadly thrust, which made him give infirmities possessed me in thy country, back, as one that had received his mor- for there I sucked them in ; and I have tal wound. Christian perceiving that, groaned under them, been sorry for made at him again, saying, ' Nay, in all them, and have obtained pardon of my these things we are more than conquer- Prince. 3° ors, through him that loved us.' - And Apol. Then Apollyon broke out into with that Apollyon spread forth his a grievous rage, saying, I am an enemy dragon's wings, and sped him away, that to this Prince ; I hate his person, his Christian for a season saw him no laws, and people; I am come out on more.^ purpose to withstand thee. 3S In this combat no man can imagine, Chr. Apollyon, beware what you unless he had seen and heard as I did, do; for I am in the king's highway, the what yelling and hideous roaring ApoU- way of holiness; therefore take heed to yon made all the time of the fight — yourself. he spake like a dragon; and, on the Apol. Then Apollyon straddled quite 40 other side, what sighs and groans burst over the whole breadth of the way, and from Christian's heart. I never saw said, I am void of fear in this matter: him all the while give so much as one prepare thyself to die ; for I swear by pleasant look, till he perceived he had my infernal den, that thou shalt go no wounded Apollyon with his two-edged further; here will I spill thy soul. 45 sword; then, indeed, he did smile and And with that he threw a flaming look upward; but it was the dreadfulest dart at his breast ; but Christian had a sight that ever I saw. shield in his hand, with which he caught So when the battle was over, Chris- it, and so prevented the danger of that. tian said, ' I will here give thanks to Then did Christian draw; for he saw 5o him that delivered me out of the mouth it was time to bestir him: and Apollyon of the lion, to him that did help me as fast made at him, throwing darts as against Apollyon.' And so he did. thick as hail ; by the which, notwith- standing all that Christian could do to * * * avoid it, Apollyon wounded him in his 55 , j^j ^,jj g head, his hand, and foot. This made 2 ro. viii. 37. Christian give a little back; Apollyon, ^Ja. iv. 7. JOHN MILTON (1608-1674) Milton belonsed to a London Puritan family, and when \n; wont up to Cambridge at the end of James I's reign, it was with the intention of becoming a clergyman of the Church of Eng- land, in which the Puritans were then a party, hoping to substitute in it government by presbyters, elected by church councils, for government by bishops, appointed by the king. Changes in the administration of the national church under Charles I as well as the develop- ment of Milton's own opinions led him to abandon this puri)ose, towards which all his early training was directed. He has described his serious and studious boyhood in lines 201-7 cl I'aiudlse Rcyuiind, P.uok I. lie was deeply versed not only in Creek and Latin, but also in Hebrew, and in French and Italian, but his early poems show no sign of the mingling oT Christianity and paganism which is characteristic of lionaissance thought. On the other hand, he did not share the later Puritan intolerance of innocent amusements. Two of his earlier poems, Arcades (c. 1(530-3) and Comus (1G;3-J:) and one of his latest, Somson Agonvifes (pub. 1(]71), were in dramatic form; in 10.30 he wrote a poem in praise of Shakspere for the folio edition of the plays (see below), and in L' Allegro he speaks appreciatively of both Shakspere's and Jonson's comedies (see p. 238). After seven years at Christ's College, where on account of his almost girlish beauty he was known as ' our fair lady of Christ's,' he retired for further study to Horton in Buckinghamshire, where his principal early poems were written (1632-7). He then traveled on the Continent to complete his education (ia38-9), and was recalled by the political crisis preceding the outbreak of the Civil War. ' I thought it base,' he wrote later, ' to be traveling for amusement abroad while my fellow citizens were fighting for liberty at home.' Milton fought, not with the sword, but with the pen. He per- ceived that ' there were three species of liberty which are essential to the happiness of social life — religious, domestic and civil.' In 1641-2 he took an active part in the controversy that was raging as to the government of the Church by bishops, which appeared to him contrary to religious liberty. His marriage in 1643 to Mary Powell, daughter of a Cavalier and half his own age, turned out unhappily ; she found life with the poet and pamphleteer ' very soli- tary ' and too ' philosophical,' and after a month's experience of it returned to her father's house. This led Milton to publish a series of pamphlets in favor of divorce, and he was said to be contemplating a marriage with Miss Davis, the 'virtuous young lady' of Sonnet IX (see p. 242) but, when this came to his wife's ears, she sought and obtained a reconciliation. In 1644 he wrote two important tracts — one on education, and another on the freedom of the press {Arcopagitica) . In 1649 he took up the defence of the Commonwealth for the execution of Charles I, and as Latin Secretary to the Council of State continued his task with a devo- tion which involved the sacrifice of his eye-sight (see Sonnets, pp. 243^). His pen was still active on behalf of religious toleration and republican government when the Restoration drove him into hiding : he was arrested, but suffered no harm beyond a short imprisonment and the burning of his books by the hangman. He lost, of course, his Latin secretaryship, and the destruction of some of his property by the fire of London brought him into straitened circum- stances; but his tastes were simple, and' bating 'not a jot of heart or hope' he returned to his studies. He wrote a history, a logic, a Latin grammar, a compendium of theology; but the great works of his later years were Paradise Lost (published 1667), and Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistcs (1671). He chose the subject of Paradise Lost out of some hundred which he jotted down about 1640, and wrote a small part of it. but the great design was interrupted by the Civil War, resumed in 1658, and completed in 1663 or 1665. ON SHAKSPERE What needs my Shakspere for his honored bones The labor of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame 236 What need 'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavor- ing art, Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, 12 Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving. Dost make us marble with too much conceiv- ing, And so sepulchercd in such pomp dost lie '5 That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 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 jealous wings And the night raven sings ; There, under ebon shades and low-browcd rocks As ragged as thy locks. In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. lo But come, thou goddess fair and free. In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, And by men heart-easing ]\Iirth, Whom lovely Venus, at a birth With two sister Graces more, i3 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 Jest, and youthful jollity, 26 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 honor 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 flight. 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, 5 Through the high wood echoing shrill ; Some time walking, not unseen. By hedgerow 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 Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, Whilst the landscape round it measures : 70 Russet lawns, and fallows gray. Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; Mountains on whose barren breast The laboring clouds do often rest; Aleadows 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 neighboring eyes. 80 Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, Are at their savory dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, 85 Which the neat-handed Phyllis 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 checkered shade, And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holyday, Till the livelong daylight fail ; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 With stories told of many a feat: 238 JOHN MILTON How fairy Mab the junkets cat; She was pinched, and pulled she said ; And he, by friar's lantern led. Tells how the drudging gol)lin sweat '05 To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail liath threshed the corn That ten day-laborers 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, ns By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, i-o 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 all commend. There let Hymen oft appear i-S In saffron robe, with taper clear. And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask and antique pageantry; Such sighs 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 Shakspere, Fancy's child. Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever, against eating cares, i3S 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, '45 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, s And fancies fond with gaudy shapes pos- sess As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sun- beams. Or likest hovering dreams. The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 1° But, hail ! thou goddess sage and holy. Hail, divincst Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And, therefore, to our weaker view, '5 O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above ^° 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. 3o 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 wonted state. With even step, and musing gait, ft And looks commercing with the skies. Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 4° 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, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 46 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, 5i '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 XJ-. JT X:.iN OIZ-IVWOW Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy ! Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song; And, missing thee, I walk unseen 6s 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, 7o 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 will not permit, Some still, removed place will fit. Where glowing 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 outwa.tch 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 sceptered pall, come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line. Or the tale of Troy divine, 1°° Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskined stage. But, O, sad virgin ! that thy power Might raise Musseus 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. On which the Tartar king did ride; I'S And if aught else great bards beside Tn sage and solemn tunes have sung. Of tourneys, and of trophies hung. ^ Of forests, and enchantments drear. Where more is meant than meets the ear. 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 Was never heard the nymphs to daunt Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. Inhere in close covert by some brook. Where no profaner eye may look, 14° Hide me from day's garish eye. While the bee, with honied thigh. That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring. With such concert as they keep, 145 Entice the dewy-feathered sleep ; And let some strange mysterious 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 '55 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 choir 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. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where 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, i75 .'\.nd I with thee will choose to live. 240 JOHN MILTON LYCIDAS Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come, to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5 Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 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 1° Himself to sing, and build the lofty rime. 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 i? 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 muse With lucky words favor my destined urn. And as he passes, turn, ^'J 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 Under the opening eyelids of the morn, =6 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. Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. 3i 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: 35 And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. But, oh ! 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, 40 And all their echoes, mourn : 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 tainl-worm to the weanling herds that graze. Or frost to flowers that their gay ward- robe wear. When first the white-thorn blows ; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the re- morseless deep so Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, He, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high. Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: 55 Ah me! I fondly dream, '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, 6o When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? Alas ! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade, 65 And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use. To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. Or with the tangles of Nesera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 70 (The last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights and live laborious days : But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to. burst out into sudden blaze. Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears 75 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 glistening foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies, 8" 1^ 1 V^IJ^/^O 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 honored flood, 8s 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 ; 9o 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 promon- tory: They know not of his story : 9S 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, loo Built 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 i°s Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. ' Ah ! who hath reft,' quoth he, ' my dearest pledge? ' Last came, and last did go, The pilot of the Galilean lake. Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain. The golden opes, the iron shuts amain, m He shook his mitered locks, and stern be- spake : ' How well could I have spared for thee, young swain. Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! Of other care they little reckoning make ii6 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 learned ought else the least '^o ^4^ That to the faithful herdsman's art be- longs ! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped, 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, 125 But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw. 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 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.' 131 Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 13s Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks. On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks. Throw hither all your quaint enameled eyes That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, 140 And purple all the ground with vernal flow- ers. 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 wood- bine. With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears ; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed. And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. 151 For so, to interpose a little ease. Let our frail thoughts dally with false sur- mise : .^h me ! whilst thee the shores and sound- ing seas 242 JOHN MILTON Wash far away, whore 'er thy hones arc hurled; '55 Whether hcyond the stormy Hehridcs, Where thou, pcrliaps uiukr llie whehning tide. Visit's! the hottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou, to our moist vows de- nied, Sleep'st hy the fable of Bellcrus old, 'So Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold : Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth; And, O ye dolphins, waft ih'^ hapless youth. Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, '"^S For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, 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 span- gled ore, '7° Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high. 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. And hears the unexpressive nuptial song 176 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. Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, 186 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. 190 And now was dropt into the western bay; At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue ; To-morrow to fresh woods and jiastures new. SONNETS WHEN TllK ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CTTV Captain or colonel, or knight in arms. Whose chance on these defenseless doors may seize, If deed of honor did thee ever please. Guard them, and him within prt)tect from harms, lie can requite thee; for he knows the charms 5 That call fame on such gentle acts as these, And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas. Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. Lift not thy spear against the Muses' jjower : The great Emathian conqueror bid spare 10 The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground ; and the repeated air Of sad Electra's poet had the power To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. [to a virtuous young LADY ] Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green, And with those few art eminently seen That labor up the hill of heavenly truth, 4 The better part with Mary and with Ruth Chosen thou hast ; and they that overween, And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen. No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth. Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends To fill thy odorous lamp w'ith deeds of light, 10 And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feast- ful friends Passes to bliss at the mid-hour of night. Hast gained thy entrance, virgin wise and pure. on the detraction which FOLLOWED UPON MV WRITING certain TREATISES A book was writ of late called Tcfrachor- don. And woven close, both matter, form, and style : The subject new: it walked the town a while, Numbering good intellects ; now seldom pored on. OWiMNJll :5 ^4^ Cries the stall-reader, ' Bless us ! what a word on 5 A title page is this ! ' and some in file Stand spelling false, while one might walk to Mile- End Green. Why, is it harder, sirs, than Gordon, Colkitto, or Macdoniicl, or Galaspf Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek "^ That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp. Thy age, like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheke, Hated not learning worse than toad or asp. When thou taught'st Cambridge and King Edward Greek. ON THE SAME I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs By the known rules of ancient liberty. When straight a barbarous noise environs me Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs ; As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs 5 Railed at Latona's twin-born progeny. Which after held the sun and moon in foe. But this is got by casting pearl to hogs, That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood, And still revolt when truth would set them free. 'o License they mean when they cry Liberty ; For who loves that must first be wise and good: But from 'that mark how far they rove we see, For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood. 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 matchless fortiturjc. To peace and truth thy glorious way Iiast ploughed, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued, ^ While Darwcn 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 'o No less renowned than War : new foes arise. 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 mountains 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 Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 6 Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, 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 The triple Tyrant that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. [on HIS BLINDNESS ] When 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 My true account, lest he returning chide, 6 'Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?' I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murnnir, soon replies, ' God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best '° Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, .And post o'er land and ocean without rest : They also serve who only stand and wait.' 244 lUniN iVlil^HJiN [to cyriack skinner ] Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Rereft of light, their seeing have forgot; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, ^ 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 '° In liberty's defense, my noble task, Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask Content, though blind, had I no better guide. [on his deceased wife] Methought I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave. Rescued from Death by force, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom washed from spot of child- bed taint 5 Purification in the old law did save, And such as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in heaven without re- straint. Came vested all in white, pure as her mind. Her face was veiled ; yet to my fancied sight 10 Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined So clear as in no face with more delight. But, oh ! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. PARADISE LOST BOOK I THE ARGUMENT This First Book proposes, first in brief, the whole subject, — Man's disobedience, and the loss thereupon of Paradise, wherein he was placed: then touches the prime cause of his fall, — the serpent, or rather Satan in the serpent; who, revolting from God, and drawing to his side many legions of angels, was, by the command of God, driven out of heaven, with all his crew, into the great deep. Which action passed over, the poem hastens into the midst of things, presenting Satan, with his angels, now fallen into hell, described here, not in the center (for heaven and earth may be sup- I)osed as yet not made, certainly not yet ac- cursed), but in a place of utter darkness, fit- liest called Chaos: here Satan with his angels, lying on the burning lake, thunderstruck and astonished, after a certain space recovers, as from confusion, calls up him who next in order and dignity lay by him. They confer of their miserable fall; Satan awakens all his legions, who lay till then in the same manner con- founded. They rise; their numbers; array of battle; their chief leaders named, according to the idols known afterwards in Canaan and the countries adjoining. To these Satan directs his speech, comforts them with hope yet of regain- ing heaven, but tells them lastly of a new world and new kind of creature to be created, ac- cording to an ancient prophecy, or report, in heaven — for, that the angels were long before this visible creation, was the opinion of many ancient fathers. To find out the truth of this prophecy, and what to determine thereon, he refers to a full council. What his associates thence attempt. Pandemonium, the palace of Satan, rises, suddenly built out of the deep: the infernal peers there sit in council. 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, S Sing, heavenly Muse, that on the secret top Of Oreb, or of Sinai, did'st 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 'o Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flowed Fast by the oracle of God, I thence Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song. That with no middle flight intends to soar Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues Things unattempted yet in prose or rime. 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 wings out- spread, 20 Dove-like, sat'st brooding on the vast abyss, .\nd mad'st it pregnant : what in me is dark. Illumine: what is low, raise and support; That to the height of this great argument I may assert eternal Providence, 25 l^AKAUlbh; LOST 245 And justify the ways of God to men. Say first — for heaven hides nothing from thy view, Nor the deep tract of hell — say first, what cause Moved our grand Parents, in that happy state, Favored 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, Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived The mother of mankind; what time his pride 35 Had cast him out from heaven, with all his host Of rebel angels; by whose aid, aspiring To set himself in glory above his peers, lie trusted lo have equaled 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 arins. Nine times the space that measures day and night 5° 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 5S Torments him ; round he throws his baleful eyes. That witnessed 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 rebelliof.s ; here their prison or- dained In utter darkness, and their portion set As far removed from God and light of heaven. As from the center thrice to the utmost pole. O, how unlike the place from whence they fell! 75 There the companions of his fall, o'er- whelmed With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire. He soon discerns ; and weltering by his side One next himself in power, and next in crime. Long after known in Palestine, and named Beelzebub. To whom the arch-enemy, 81 And thence in heaven called Satan, with bold words Breaking the horrid silence, thus began : — ' If thou beest he — but O, how fall'n ! how changed From him who, in the happy realms of light, Clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshine 86 Myriads, though bright! If he, whom mutual league. United thoughts and counsels, equal hope And hazard in the glorious enterprise. Joined with me once, now misery hath joined 90 In equal ruin; into what pit thou seest From what height fall'n, 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 luster, that fixed mind. And high disdain from sense of injured merit. That with the Mightiest raised me to contend. And to the fierce contention brought along Innumerable force of spirits armed, loi That durst dislike his reign, and, me pre- ferring 246 JOHN MILTON His utmost power with adverse power op- posed In dubious battle on the plains of heaven, And shook his throne. What though the field be lost? '°5 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; 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, "^ And this empyreal substance, cannot fail ; Since, through experience of this great event. In arms not worse, in foresight much ad- vanced. 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, '^5 Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep de- spair And him thus answered soon his bold com- peer : — *0 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, '31 And put to proof his high supremacy. Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or fate; Too well I see, and rue the dire event. That with sad overthrow, and foul defeat. Hath lost us heaven, and all this mighty host 136 In horrible destruction laid thus low, As far as gods and heavenly essences Can perish : for the mind and spirit remain Invincible, and vigor soon returns, M" 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 Jhan such could have o'erpowered such f(jrce as ours) M5 Have loft us this our spirit and strength entire, Strongly to sufifer 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, Here in the heart of hell 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?' '55 Whereto with speedy words the arch-fiend replied : — ' Fallen cherub, to be weak is miserable, Doing or sufi^ering; 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 labor must be to pervert that end, '64 And out of good still to find means of evil. Which ofttinies 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 sulphur- ous 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, '75 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, '80 The seat of desolation, void of light. 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 harbor there; '85 And, re-assembling our afflicted powers. Consult how we may henceforth most of- fend Our enemy; our own loss how repair; How overcome this dire calamity; What reinforcement we may gain from hope ; 190 If not, what resolution from despair.' Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate, With head uplift above the wave, and eyes That sparkling blazed; his other parts be- sides Prone on the flood, extended long and large, Lay floating many a rood ; in bulk as huge As whom the fables name of monstrous size, 197 Titanian, or Earth-born, that warred on Jove ; Briareos or Typhon, whom the den By ancient Tarsus held ; or that sea-beast Leviathan, which God of all his works 201 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. With fixed anchor in his scaly rind 206 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 Chained on the burning lake : nor ever thence 210 Had risen, or heaved his head ; but that the will 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 21 s Evil to others : and, enraged, might see How all his malice served but to bring forth Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy, shown 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 rolled In billows, leave i' the midst a horrid vale. Then with expanded wings he steers his flight 2J3 Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air. That felt unusual weight : till 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 230 Of subterranean wind transports a hill Torn from Pelorus, or the shattered side Of thundering Etna, whose combustible And fuelled entrails thence conceiving fire, Sublimed with mineral fury, aid the winds, And leave a singed bottom, all involved 236 With stench and smoke : such resting found the sole Of unblest feet. Him followed his next mate : Both glorying to have 'scaped the stygian flood, As gods, and by their own recovered strength, 240 Not by the sufferance of supernal power. ' Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,' Said then the lost archangel, ' this the scat That we must change for heaven ; this mournful gloom For that celestial light? Be it so, since he, Who now is Sovereign, can dispose and bid What shall be right: farthest from him is best, 247 Whom reason hath equaled, force hath made supreme Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields. Where joy for ever dwells ! Hail, horrors ! hail 250 Infernal world! and thou profoundest hell, Receive thy new possessor — one who brings A mind not to be changed by place or time : The mind is its own place, and in itself 254 Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. What matter where, if I be still the same. 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, 261 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, Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool. And call them not to share with us their part 267 In this unhappy mansion ; or once more W^ith rallied arms to try what may be yet Regained in heaven, or what more lost in hell?' 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 raj^cd, in all assaults 277 Their surest signal, they will soon resume New courage and revive ; though now they lie Groveling and prostrate on yon lake of fire, ^8° As we erewhile, astounded and amazed ; No wonder, fall 'n such a pernicious height.' He scarce had ceased, when the superior fiend Was moving toward the shore : his ponder- ous shield Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round. 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, -^90 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 admiral, were but a wand, He walked with, to support uneasy steps 295 Over the burning marl, not like those steps 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 His legions, angel forms, who lay entranced, Thick as autumnal leaves, that strew the brooks 302 In Vallombrosa, 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 carcasses And broken chariot-wheels; so thick be- strewn, 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, 315 Warriors, the flower of heaven, once yours, now lost. If such astonishment as this can seize Eternal spirits ; or have ye chosen this place After the toil of battle to repose 319 Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven? Or in this abject posture have ye sworn To adore the Conqueror? who now beholds Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon His swift pursuers from heaven-gates dis- cern 326 The advantage, and descending, tread us down Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf? Awake, arise, or he for ever fall'n ! ' 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 pjight In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel ; 336 Yet to their general's voice they soon obeyed. Innumerable. As when the potent rod Of Amrani's son, in Egypt's evil day, Waved round the coast, up called a pitchy cloud 340 Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind, That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung Like night, and darkened all the land of Nile : So numberless were those bad angels seen Hovering on wing under the cope of hell, 'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires; 346 Till, at a signal given, the uplifted spear Of their great sultan waving to direct Their course, in even balance down they light 349 On the firm brimstone, and fill all the plain ; A multitude like which the populous north Poured never from her frozen loins, to pass Rhine or the Danube, when her barbarous sons 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 ; And powers that erst in heaven sat on thrones, 360 Though of their names in heavenly records now Be no memorial ; blotted out and rased By 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 greater 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 With gay religions, full 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. 375 Say, Muse, their names then known, who first, who last. 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. 380 The chief were those who from the pit of hell. 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 384 Among the nations round, and durst abide Jehovah thundering out of Sion, throned Between the cherubim ; yea, often placed Within his sanctuary itself their shrines. Abominations ; and with cursed things 389 His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned. And with their darkness durst afifront his light. 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 neighborhood, the wisest heart Of Solomon he led by fraud to build 401 His temple right against the temple of God, On that opprobrious hill ; and made his grove The pleasant valley of Hinnom, Tophet thence And black Gehenna called, the type of hell. Next, Chemos, the obscene dread of Moab's sons, 406 From Aroer 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; 411 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 border- ing flood Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts Egypt from Syrian ground, had general names 421 Of Baalim and Ashtaroth ; those male. These feminine; for spirits, when they please. Can either sex assume, or both ; so soft And uncompounded is their essence pure; Not tied or manacled with joint or limb, 426 Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones, 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 To bestial gods ; for which their heads as low 435 Bowed down in battle, sunk before the spear Of despicable foes. With these in troop Came Astoreth, whom the Phenicians 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. Thanunuz came next behind, Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured ■{"he Syrian damsels to lament his fate In amorous ditties all a summer's day; While smooth Adonis from his native rock Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood Of Thamnnu 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 lopped off In his own temple, on the grunsel edge, 460 Where he fell flat, and shamed his worship- pers ; Dagon his name, 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, 46s And Accaron and Gazar's frontier bounds. Him followed Rimnion, whose delightful seat Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams. He also 'gainst the house of God was bold: A leper once he lost, and gained a king;47i 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 Whom he had vanquished. After these ap- peared .\ 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 'I'heir wandering gods disguised in brutish forms Rather than human. Nor did Israel 'scape The infection, when their borrowed gold composed Tiic 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, equaled with one stroke Both her first-born and all her lilcating gods. Belial came last, than whom a spirit more lewd 400 Fell not from heaven, or more gross to love Vice for itself; to him no temple stood, 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? In courts and palaces he also reigns, 497 And in luxurious cities, where the noise Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers. And injury and outrage: and when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons SOI 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 514 And Ida known, thence on the snowy top Of cold Olympus ruled the middle air. Their highest heaven ; or on the Delphian cliff. 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 lo.st 525 In loss itself; which on his countenance cast Like doubtful hue; lint 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. 53° Then straight commands that at the war- like sound Of trumpets loud and clarions be upreared His mighty standard ; that proud honor claimed Azazel as his right, a cherub tall ; Who forthwith froin the glittering staff un- furled 535 The imperial ensign ; which, full high ad- vanced, Shone like a meteor, streaming to the wind, With gems and golden luster rich emblazed, Seraphic arms and trophies, all the while Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds : At which the universal host up-sent 54' A shout, that tore hell's concave, and be- yond Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. All in a moment through the gloom were seen Ten thousand banners rise into the air. 545 With orient colors 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 55o Of flutes and soft recorders ; such as raised To height of noblest temper heroes old Arming to battle, and instead of rage. Deliberate valor breathed, firm and un- moved 554 With dread of death to flight or foul re- treat ; Nor wanting power to mitigate and 'suage With solemn touches troubled thoughts, and chase Anguish, and doubt, and fear, and sorrow, and pain From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they, 559 Breathing united force, with fixed thought. 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, 56s 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. " — --- ^j^ 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 Warred on by cranes : though all the giant brood ' 576 Of Phlcgra with the heroic race were joined That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each side Mixed with auxiliar gods; and what re- sounds 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, Damascus, or Morocco, or Trebizond, Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore, When Charlemagne with all his peerage fell 586 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, 59° Stood like a tower; his form had yet not lost All its 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 600 Deep scars of thunder had entrenched; and care 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 For ever now to have their lot in pain ; Millions of spirits for his fault amerced Of heaven, and from eternal splendors flung 610 For his revolt; yet faithful how they stood, Their glory withered; as when heaven's fire 252 TORN MILTON Hath scathed the forest oaks, or mountain ir stalely grovvtli, thougli pines, With singed top the bare, Stands on the 1)Iasted heatli lie now pre- pared 6i5 To speak; whereat tlieir doubled ranks they bend From wing to wing, and half enclose him round With all his peers : attention held them mute. Thrice he essayed, and thrice, in spite of scorn, Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth; at last <^-^° 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, 624 As this place testifies, and this dire change. 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 re- pulse? 630 For who can yet believe, though after loss, That all these puissant legions, whose exile Hath emptied heaven, shall fail to reascend Self-raised, and repossess their native seat? For me, be witness all the host of heaven, H counsels different, or dangers shunned 636 By me, have lost our hopes. But he who reigns ]\Ionarch in heaven, till then as one secure Sat on this throne upheld by old repute, Consent or custom; and his regal state 640 Put forth at full, but still his strength con- cealed. Which 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 re- mains, 645 To work in close design, by fraud or guile. What force effected not; that he no less At length from us may find, who over- comes 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 ere long Intended to create, and therein plant A generation, whom his choice regard Should favor 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 counsel must mature; peace is de^ spaired ; 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 en- tire 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, with spade and pickaxe armed, Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field, Or cast a rampart. Mammon led them on : ]\Iammon, the least erected spirit that fell From heaven ; for even in heaven his looks and thoughts 680 Were always downward bent, admiring more 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 center, 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 wonder- ing tell Of Babel, and the works oj Memphian kings, Learn how their greatest monuments of fame, ^95 And strength and art, are easily outdone By spirits reprobate, and in an hour What in an age they with incessant toil And hands innumerable scarce perform. Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared, That underneath had veins of liquid fire 7oi Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude With wondrous art founded the massy ore. Severing each kind, and scummed the bul- lion dross ; A third as soon had formed within the ground 705 A various mold, and from the boiling cells. 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 Equaled in all their glories, to enshrine Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat 7^o Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria strove In wealth and luxury. The ascending pile Stood fixed her stately height : and straight the doors, Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide Within, her ample spaces, o'er the smooth And level pavement ; from the arched roof, 7^6 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 73o Admiring entered ; and the work some praise, And some the architect : his hand was known In heaven by many a towered structure high Where sceptered angels held their residence. And sat as princes; whom the supreme King 735 Exalted to such power, and gave to rule. Each in his hierarchy, 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 Dropped from the zenith like a falling star. On Lemnos, th' .Egean isle : thus they re- late, 746 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 749 By all his engines, but was headlong sent With his industrious crew to build in hell. Meanwhile, the winged heralds, by com- mand Of sovereign 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, troop- ing came, 760 Attended ; all access was thronged : the gates And porches wide, but chief the spacious hall (Though like a covered field, where cham- pions bold Wont ride in armed, and at the soldan's chair Defied the best of paynim chivalry 765 To mortal combat, or career with lance). Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in the air. Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings. As bees In spring-time, when the sun with Taurus rides, Pour forth their populous youth about the hive 770 In clusters; they among fresh dews and flowers Fly to and fro, or on the smoothed plaiik. 254 TOHN MILTON The suburb of their straw built citndcl, New rubbed with l)alni, expatiate, awcl eon- fcr 774 Their state affairs: so tliick the aery crowd Swarmed and were straitened ; till, the sig- nal given. 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 780 Beyond the Indian mount, or faery elves, Whose midnight revels, Ijy a forest side Or fountain, some belated peasant sees. Or dreams he sees, while over head the moon Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth 7S5 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 re- bounds. 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 them- selves, The great seraphic lords and cherubim In close recess and secret conclave sat; 79S A thousand demi-gods on golden seats Frequent and full. After short silence then, And summons read, the great consult be- gan. Book II High on a throne of royal state, which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous East, with richest hand, Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold, Satan exalted sat, by merit raised 5 To that bad eminence ; and, from despair Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue Vain war with Heaven; and, by success un- taught, His proud imaginations thus displayed: — 10 ' Powers and dominions, deities of heaven ; For since no deep within her gulf can hold Immortal vigor, though oppressed and fallen, I give not heaven for lost. From this de- scent Celestial virtues rising, will appear 'S More glorious and more dread than from no fall. And trust themselves to fear no second fate. ]\Ic, though just right, and the fixed laws of heaven. Did first create your leader; next, free choice. With what besides, in council or in fight, 2° Ilath been achieved of merit; yet this loss. Thus far at least recovered, hath much more Established in a safe unenvied throne, Yielded with full consent. The happier state In heaven, which follows dignity, might draw ~5 Envy from each inferior; but who here Will envy whom the highest place exposes Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's aim. Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share Of endless pain? Where there is then no good 30 For which to strive, no strife can grow up there From faction ; for none sure will claim in hell Precedence ; none whose portion is so small Of present pain, that with ambitious mind Will covet more. With this advantage, then. To union, and firm faith, and firm accord, 36 More than can be in heaven, we now re- turn To claim our just inheritance of old. Surer to prosper than prosperity Could have assured us ; and, by what best way, 40 Whethef of open war or covert guile. We now debate : who can advise, may speak.' He ceased ; and next him Moloch, scep- tered king. Stood up, the strongest and the fiercest spirit That fought in heaven, now fiercer by de- spair. 45 His trust was with the Eternal to be deemed Equal in strength : and rather than be less, Cared not to be at all ; with that care lost Went all his fear: of God, or hell, or worse, He recked not; and these words thereafter spake : — 50 ' My sentence is for open war : of wiles. r/\K/\.jjij)ii i^u:3i ^55 More unexpert, I boast not ; them let those Contrive who need, or when they need, not now. For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest, Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait 55 The signal to ascend, sit lingering here Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling- place Accept this dark, opprobrious den of shame. The prison of his tyranny who reigns By our delay? No, let ns rather choose, 60 Armed with hell-flames and fury, all at once. O'er heaven's high towers to force resist- less way. Turning our tortures into horrid arms Against the torturer; when, to meet the noise Of his almighty engine, he shall hear 65 Infernal thunder; and, for lightning, see Black fire and horror shot with equal rage Among his angels; and his throne itself Mixed with Tartarean sulphur, and strange fire, ' 69 His own invented torments. But perhaps The way seems difficult and steep to scale With upright wing against a higher foe. Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench Of that forgetful lake benumb not still. That in our proper motion we ascend 7S Up to our native seat ; descent and fall To us i's adverse. Who but felt of late. When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, With what compulsion and laborious flight We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy then; 81 The event is feared; should we again pro- voke Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find To our destruction ; if there be in hell Fear to be worse destroyed ; what can 1)e worse 85 Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned In this abhorred deep to utter woe ; Where pain of unextinguishable fire Must exercise us without hope of end. The vassals of his anger, when the scourge Inexorable, and the torturing hour, 91 Calls us to penance? More destroyed than thus. We should be quite abolished, and expire. What fear we, then? what doubt we to in- cense His utmost ire? which, to the height en- raged, 95 Will either quite consume us, and reduce To nothing this essential (happier far Than miserable to have eternal being), Or, if our substance be indeed divine, And cannot cease to be, we are at worst 100 On this side nothing; and by proof we feel Our power sufficient to disturb his heaven, And with perpetual inroads to alarm. Though inaccessible, his fatal throne; Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.' 10s He ended frowning, and his look de- nounced Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous To less than gods. On the other side up- rose Belial, in act more graceful and humane; A fairer person lost not heaven ; he seemed For dignity composed, and high exploit: m But all was false and hollow, though his tongue Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear The better reason, to perplex and dash Maturest counsels : for his thoughts were low: IIS To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds Timorous and slothful ; yet he pleased the ear. And with persuasive accent thus began : — ' I should be much for open war, O peers. As not behind in hate; if what was urged i-o Main reason to persuade immediate war. Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast Ominous conjecture on the whole success When he who most excels in fact of arms. In what he counsels and in what excels 125 Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair And utter dissolution as the scope Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. First, what revenge? The towers of heaven are filled With armed watch, that render all access 130 Impregnalile ; oft on the bordering deep Encamp their legions ; or, with obscure wing, Scout far and wide into the realm of night. Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way By force, and at our heels all hell should rise 135 With blackest insurrection, to confound Heaven's purest light ; yet our great enemy. All incorruptible, would on his throne 256 TORN MILTON Sit unpolluted, and tlu- ethereal mold, Incapable of stain, would soon expel '4° Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire. Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope Is flat despair : we must exasperate The Almighty Victor to spend all his rage, And that nnist end us; that nnist be our cure, '45 To be no more. Sad cure ! for who would lose. Though full of pain, this intellectual being. Those thoughts that wander through eter- nity. To perish rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night, 'So Devoid of sense and motion? And who knows. Let this be good, whether our angry foe Can give it, or will ever? how he can, Is doubtful ; that he never will, is sure. Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire '55 Belike through impotence, or unaware. To give his enemies their wish, and end Them in his anger whom his anger saves To punish endless? "Wherefore cease we then? " Say they who counsel war. " We are de- creed, "6o Reserved, and destined to eternal woe ; Whatever doing, what can we suffer more, What can we suffer worse ? " In this then worst. Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms? What, when we fled amain, pursued, and struck 165 With heaven's afflicting thunder, and be- sought The deep to shelter us? this hell then seemed A refuge from those wounds; or when we lay Chained on the burning lake ? that sure was worse. What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, 170 Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage. And plunge us in the flames? or, from above. Should intermitted vengeance arm again His red right hand to plague us? What if all 174 Her stores were opened, and this firmament Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire, Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall One day upon our heads ; while we, perhaps. Designing or exhorting glorious war, Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled '8" Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey Of racking whirlwinds ; or for ever sunk LInder yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains ; There to converse with everlasting groans, Unrespited. unpitied, unrepricved, '^5 Ages of hopeless end? This would be worse. War, therefore, open or concealed, alike My voice dissuades ; for what can force or guile With him, or who deceive his mind, whose eye Views all things at one view? He from heaven's height '^o All these our motions vain sees and de- rides: Not more almighty to resist our might. Than wise to frustrate all our plots and wiles. Shall we then live thus vile, the race of heaven Thus trampled, thus expelled, to suffer here Chains and these torments? Better these than worse, 196 By my advice ; since fate inevitable Subdues us, and omnipotent decree. The victor's will. To suffer, as to do. Our strength is equal, nor the law unjust 200 That so ordains; this was at first resolved. If we were wise, against so great a foe Contending, and so doubtful what might fall. I laugh, when those who at the spear are bold And venturous, if that fail them, shrink and fear 20s What yet they know must follow, to en- dure Exile, or ignominy, or bonds, or pain. The sentence of their conqueror; this is now Our doom; which if we can sustain and bear, Our supreme foe in time may much re- mit 211 His anger ; and perhaps, thus far removed. Not mind us not offending, satisfied With what is punished ; whence these raging fires Will slacken, if his breath stir not their flames. Our purer essence then will overcome 215 Their noxious vapor ; or, inured, not feel ; Or, changed at length, and to the place con- formed In temper and in nature, will receive Familiar the fierce heat, and void of pain; This horror will grow mild, this darkness light ; 220 Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting ; since our present lot ap- pears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe.' Thus Belial, with words clothed in rea- son's garb, 226 Counseled ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth, Not peace; and after him thus Mammon spake : — * Either to disenthrone the King of heaven We war, if war be best, or to regain 230 Our own right lost : him to unthrone we then May hope, when everlasting fate shall yield To fickle chance, and Chaos judge the strife: The former, vain to hope, argues as vain The latter; for what place can be for us 23s Within heaven's bound, unless heaven's Lord supreme We overpower? Suppose he should relent. And publish grace to all, on promise made Of new subjection ; with what eyes could we Stand in his presence humble, and receive Strict laws imposed, to celebrate his throne, 241 With warbled hymns, and to his Godhead sing Forced hallelujahs, while he lordly sits Our envied sovereign, and his altar breathes Ambrosial odors and ambrosial flowers, 245 Our servile off"erings ? This must be our task In heaven, this our delight ; how wearisome Eternity so spent, in worship paid To whom we hate ! Let us not then pursue By force impossible, by leave obtained 250 Unacceptable, though in heaven, our state Of splendid vassalage; but rather seek Our own good from ourselves, and from our own Live to ourselves, though in this vast re- cess. Free, and to none accountable, preferring Hard liberty before the easy yoke 256 Of servile pomp. Our greatness will appear Then most conspicuous, when great things of small. Useful of hurtful, prosperous of adverse, We can create ; and in what place soc'er 260 Thrive under evil, and work ease out of pain, 17 Through labor and endurance. This deep world Of darkness do we dread? How oft amidst Thick clouds and dark doth heaven's all- ruling Sire Choose to reside, his glory unobscured, 265 And with the majesty of darkness round Covers his throne; from whence deep thun- ders roar, Mustering their rage, and heaven resembles hell! As he our darkness, cannot we his light 269 Imitate when we please? This desert soil Wants not her hidden luster, gems and gold; Nor want we skill or art, from whence to raise Magnificence; and what can heaven show more ? Our torments also may in length of time Become our elements ; these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper; which must needs re- move 277 The sensible of pain. All things invite To peaceful counsels, and the settled state Of order, how in safety best we may 280 Compose our present evils, with regard Of what we are, and where; dismissing quite All thoughts of war. Ye have what I ad- vise.' He scarce had finished, when such mur- mur filled The assembly, as when hollow rocks re- tain 285 The sound of blustering winds which all night long Had roused the sea, now with hoarse ca- dence lull Seafaring men o'er-watched, whose bark by chance Or pinnace anchors in a craggy bay 289 After the tempest: such applause was heard As Mammon ended, and his sentence pleased, Advising peace; for such another field They dreaded worse than hell ; so much the fear Of thunder and the sword of Michael Wrought still within them, and no less de- sire 295 To found this nether empire, which might rise By policy, and long process of time, In emulation opposite to heaven. 258 JOHN MILTON Which when Beelzebub perceived, than whom, =99 Satan except, none bi.^lur sat. with grave Aspect he rt).se, and in liis rising seemed A pillar of state; deep on his front en- graven Deliberation sat, and public care; And princely counsel in his face yet shone, Majestic, though in ruin ; sage he stood. 3os With Atlantean shoulders fit to bear The weight of mightfest monarchies; his look Drew audience and attention still as night Or summer's noontide air, while thus he spake : — ' Thrones and imperial powers, ofTspring of heaven, 3io Ethereal virtues! or these titles now Must we renounce, and, changing style, be called Princes of hell, for so the popular vote Inclines, here to continue and build up here A growing empire; doubtless, while we dream, 3i5 And know not that the King of heaven hath doomed This place our dungeon ; not our safe re- treat Beyond his potent arm; to live exempt From heaven's high jurisdiction, in new league 319 Banded against his throne, but to remain In strictest bondage, though thus far re- moved. Under the inevitable curb, reserved His captive multitude ; for he, be sure. In height or depth, still first and last will reign 3-4 Sole king, and of his kingdom lose no part By our revolt, but over hell extend His empire, and with iron scepter rule Us here, as with his golden those in heaven. What sit we then projecting peace and war? War hath determined us, and foiled with loss 330 Irreparable ; terms of peace yet none Vouchsafed or sought; for what peace will be given To us enslaved bvit custody severe. And stripes, and arbitrary punishment Inflicted? and what peace can we return, 335 But to our power hostility and hate. Untamed reluctance, and revenge, though slow. Yet ever plotting how the Conqueror least May reap his conquest, and may least re- joice 339 In doing what we most in suffering feel? Nor will occasion want, nor shall we need With dangerous expedition to invade I leaven, wh(jse high walls fear no assault or siege, Or ambush from the deep. What if we find Some easier enterprise? There is a place (If ancient and prophetic fame in heaven 346 Err not), another world, the ha])py seat Of some new race, called Man, about this time To be created like to us, though less In power and excellence, but favored more Of him who rules above; so was his will 351 Pronounced among the gods ; and by an oath That shook heaven's whole circumference confirmed. Thither let us bend all our thoughts, to learn What creatures there inhabit, of what mold Or substance, how endued, and what their power, 3S6 And where their weakness, how attempted best. By force or subtlety. Though heaven be shut. And heaven's high Arbitrator sit secure In his own strength, this place may lie ex- posed, 360 The utmost border of his kingdom, left To their defense who hold it; here per- haps Some advantageous act may be achieved By sudden onset ; either with hell-fire To waste his whole creation, or possess 365 All as our own, and drive, as we were driven, The puny habitants; or, if not drive. Seduce them to our party, that their God I\Iay prove their foe, and with repenting hand Abolish his own works. This would sur- pass 370 Common revenge, and interrupt his joy In our confusion, and our joy upraise In his disturbance, when his darling sons, Hurled headlong to partake with us, shall curse Their frail original and faded bliss, 375 Faded so soon. Advise, if this be worth Attempting, or to sit in darkness here Hatching vain empires.' Thus Beelzebub Pleaded his devilish counsel, first devised By Satan, and in part proposed: for whence But from the author of all ill could spring So deep a malice, to confound the race 382 Of mankind in one root, and earth with hell To mingle and involve, done all to spite The great Creator? But their spite still serves 385 His glory to augment. The bold design Pleased highly those infernal states, and joy Sparkled in all their eyes: with full assent They vote: whereat his speech he thus re- news : — ' Well have ye judged, well ended long debate, 39o Synod of gods, and, like to what ye are, Great things resolved, which from the lowest deep Will once more lift us up, in spite of fate, Nearer our ancient seat : perhaps in view Of those bright confines, whence, with neighboring arms, 395 And opportune excursion, we may chance Re-enter heaven ; or else in some mild zone Dwell, not unvisited of heaven's fair light. Secure ; and at the brightening orient beam Purge off this gloom ; the soft delicious air. To heal the scar of these corrosive fires, 401 Shall breathe her balm. But first, whom shall we send In search of this new world? whom shall we find Sufficient? who shall tempt with wandering feet The dark, unbottomed, infinite abyss, 405 And through the palpable obscure find out His uncouth way, or spread his aery flight, Upborne with indefatigable wings, Over the vast abrupt, ere he arrive The happy isle? What strength, what art, can then 4io Suffice, or what evasion bear him safe Through the strict senteries and stations thick Of angels watching round? Here he had need All circumspection, and we now no less Choice in our suffrage ; for, on whom we send, 415 The weight of all, and our last hope relies.' This said, he sat ; and expectation held His look suspense, awaiting who appeared To second, or oppose, or undertake The perilous attempt : but all sat mute, 420 Pondering the danger with deep thoughts ; and each In other's countenance read his own dismay. Astonished : none among the choice and prime Of those- heaven-warring champions could be found So hardy as to prnffer or accept, 4^5 Alone, the dreadful voyage; till at last Satan, whom now transcendent glory raised Above his fellows, with monarchal pride, Conscious of highest worth, unmoved thus spake : — ■ 'O progeny of heaven! empyreal thrones! With reason hath deep silence and demur Seized us, though imdismayed. Long is the way 432 And hard, that out of hell leads up to light ; Our prison strong; this huge convex of fire, Outrageous to devour, immures us round Ninefold; and gates of burning adamant. Barred over us, prohibit all egress. 437 These passed, if any pass, the void profound Of unessential night receives him next. Wide-gaping, and with utter loss of being Threatens him plunged in that abortive gulf. 441 If thence he 'scape into whatever world Or unknown region, what remains him less Than unknown dangers and as hard escape? But I should ill become this throne, O peers, And this imperial sovereignty, adorned 446 With splendor, armed with power, if aught proposed And judged of public moment, in the shape Of difficulty or danger, could deter Mc from attempting. Wherefore do I assume 45° These royalties, and not refuse to reign, Refusing to accept as great a share Of hazard as of honor, due alike To him who reigns, and so much to him due Of hazard more, as he above the rest 455 High honored sits? Go, therefore, mighty powers. Terror of heaven, though fallen; intend at home (While here shall be our home) what best may ease The present misery, and render hell More tolerable; if there be cure or charm To respite, or deceive, or slack the pain 461 Of this ill mansion ; intermit no watch Against a wakeful foe, while I abroad Through all the coasts of dark destruction seek Deliverance for us all : this enterprise 465 None shall partake with me.' Thus saying, rose The monarch, and prevented all reply; Prudent, lest from his resolution raised Others among the chief might offer now 200 TORN MILTON (Certain to be refused) what erst they feared ; '>7o And, so refused, might in opinion stand His rivals; winning cheap the high repute Which he through hazard huge must earn. But they Dreaded not more the adventure tlian his voice Forbidding: and at once with him they rose. Their rising all at once was as the sound Of thunder heard remote. Towards him they bend -t^; With awful reverence prone; and as a god Extol him equal to the Highest in heaven. Nor failed they to express how much they praised 480 That for the general safety he despised His own : for neither do the spirits damned Lose all their virtue; lest bad men should boast Their specious deeds on earth, which glory excites 484 Or close ambition varnished o'er with zeal. Thus they their doubtful consultations dark Ended, rejoicing in their matchless chief. As when from mountain-tops the dusky clouds Ascending, while the north wind sleeps, o'erspread Heaven's cheerful face, the louring element Scowls o'er the darkened landscape snow or shower ; 49i H chance the radiant sun, with farewell sweet. Extend his evening beam, the fields revive, The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds 494 Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings. O shame to men ! devil with devil damned Firm concord holds, men only disagree Of creatures rational, though under hope Of heavenly grace ; and, God proclaiming peace. Yet live in hatred, enmity, and strife 500 Among themselves, and levy cruel wars. Wasting the earth, each other to destroy : As if (which might induce us to accord) Man had not hellish foes enough besides, That day and night for his destruction wait. * * * (1667) From AREOPAGITICA a speech for the liberty of unli- censed printing to the parliament of england Lords and Commons of England, con- sider what nation it is whereof ye are, and 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 Pythag- oras and the Persian wisdom took be- ginning from the old philosophy of this island. And that wise and civil Ro- man, Julius Agricola, who governed once here for Caesar, preferred the nat- ural wits of Britain, before the labored studies of the French. Nor is it for nothing that the grave and frugal Tran- sylvanian 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 favor and the love of Heaven we have great argument to think in a pecul- iar 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 trum- pet of Reformation to all Europe? And had it not been the obstinate perverse- ness of our prelates against the divine and admirable spirit of Wyclif, to sup- press 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 neighbors had been completely ours. But now, as our obdurate clergy have with violence 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 reforming of Reformation itself: what does he then but reveal himself to his servants, and as his manner is, first to his Englishmen; I say 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 not despair the greatest design that city of refuge, the mansion house of lib- could be attempted to make a church or erty, encompassed and surrounded with kingdom happy. Yet these are the men his protection. The shop of war hath cried out against for schismatics and not there more anvils and hammers wak- 5 sectaries; as if, while the temple of the ing, to fashion out the plates and in- Lord was building, some cutting, some struments of armed justice in defense squaring the marble, others hewing the of beleaguered truth, than there be pens cedars, there should be a sort of irra- and heads there, sitting by their stu- tional men who would not consider there dious lamps, musing, searching, revolving 10 must be many schisms and many dis- new notions and ideas wherewith to sections made in the quarry and in the present, as with their homage and their timber, ere the house of God can be fealty, the approaching Reformation; built. And when every stone is laid others as fast reading, trying all things, artfully together, it cannot be united into assenting to the force of reason and con- 15 a continuity, it can but be contiguous vincement. What could a man require in this world ; neither can every piece more from a nation so pliant and so of the building be of one form; nay, prone to seek after knowledge? What rather the perfection consists in this, wants there to such a towardly and that out of many moderate varieties and pregnant soil, but wise and faithful la- 20 brotherly dissimilitudes that are not borers, to make a knowing people, a vastly disproportional, arises the goodly nation of prophets, of sages, and of and the graceful symmetry that corn- worthies? We reckon more than five mends the whole pile and structure. Let months yet to harvest; there need not us therefore be more considerate build- be five weeks; had we but eyes to lift 25 ers, more wise in spiritual architecture, up, the fields are white already. Where when great reformation is expected, there is much desire to learn, there of For now the time seems come, wherein necessity will be much arguing, much Moses the great prophet may sit in writing, many opinions ; for opinion in heaven rejoicing to see that memorable good men is but knowledge in the mak- 3° and glorious wish of his fulfilled, when ing. Under these fantastic terrors of not only our seventy elders, but all the sect and schism, we wrong the earnest Lord's people, are become prophets, and zealous thirst after knowledge and No marvel then though some men, and understanding which God hath stirred some good men too, perhaps, but young up in this city. What some lament of, 35 in goodness, as Joshua then was, envy we rather should rejoice at, should them. They fret, and out of their own rather praise this pious forwardness weakness are in agony, lest those divi- among men, to reassume the ill-deputed sions and subdivisions will undo us. care of their religion into their own The adversary again applauds, and waits hands again. A little generous pru- 40 the hour, when they have branched dence, a little forbearance of one an- themselves out (saith he) small enough other, and some grain of charity might into parties and partitions, then will be win all these diligences to join, and our time. Fool ! he sees not the firm unite in one general and brotherly root, out of which we all grow, though search after truth, could we but forego 45 into branches; nor will beware until he this prelatical tradition of crowding free see our small divided maniples cutting consciences and christian liberties into through at every angle of his ill-united canons and precepts of men. I doubt and unwieldy brigade. And that we are not, if some great and worthy stranger to hope better of all these supposed should come among us, wise to discern 50 sects and schisms, and that we shall not the mold and temper of a people, and need that solicitude (honest perhaps how to govern it, observing the high though over-timorous) of them that vex hopes and aims, the diligent alacrity of in this behalf, but shall laugh in the our extended thoughts and reasonings in end, at those malicious applauders of the pursuance of truth and freedom, but 55 our differences, I have these reasons to that he would cry out as Pyrrhus did, persuade me. admiring the Roman docility and cour- First, when a city shall be as it were age. If such were my Epirots, I would besieged and blocked about, her navig- 262 JOHN MILTON able river infested, iiiroails and incur- envious j^abhlc would prognosticate a year sions round, defiance and battle oft ru- of sects and schisms. mored to be marching up even to her What should ye do then, should ye sup- walls and suburb trenches, that then the press all this flowery crop of knowledge people, or the greater part, more than s and new light sprung up and yet spring- at other times, wholly taken up with the ing daily in this city, should ye set an study of higliest and most important oligarchy of twenty engrossers over it, matters to be reformed, should be dir,- to bring a famine upon our minds again, puting, reasoning, reading, inventing, when we shall know nothing but what is discoursing, even to a rarity and admir- lo measured to us l)y their bushel? Believe ation, things not before discoursed or it, Lords and Commons, they who counsel written of, argues first a singular good- ye to such a suppressing, do as good as will, contentedness and confidence in bid ye suppress yourselves ; and I will your prudent foresight, and safe govern- soon show how. If it be desired to know ment, Lords and Commons ; and from i5 the immediate cause of all this free writ- thence derives itself to a gallant bravery ing and free speaking, there cannot be and well grounded contempt of their assigned a truer than your own mild, and enemies, as if there were no small free, and humane government; it is the number of as great spirits among us, as liberty. Lords and Commons, which your his was, who when Rome was nigh be- •zo own valorous and happy counsels have sieged by Hannibal, being in the city, purchased us, liberty which is the nurse bought that piece of ground at no cheap of all great wits. This is that which hath rate, whereon Hannibal himself en- rarefied and enlightened our spirits like camped his own regiment. Next, it is the influence of heaven ; this is that which a lively and cheerful presage of our ^5 hath enfranchised, enlarged, and lifted happy success and victory. For as in up our apprehensions degrees above them- a body, when the blood is fresh, the selves. Ye cannot make us now less ca- spirits pure and vigorous, not only to pable, less knowing, less eagerly pursuing vital, but to rational faculties, and those of the truth, unless ye first make your- in the acutest and the pertest operations 3° selves, that made us so, less the lovers, of wit and subtlety, it argues in what less the founders of our true liberty. We rood plight and constitution the body can grow ignorant again, brutish, for- is, so when the cheerfulness of the peo- mal, and slavish, as ye found us ; but you pie is so sprightly up, as that it has, not then must first become that which ye can- only wherewith to guard well its own 35 not be, oppressive, arbitrary, and tyran- freedom and safety, but to spare, and to nous, as they were from whom ye have bestow upon the solidest and sublimest freed us. That our hearts are now more points of controversy and new invention, capacious, our thoughts more erected to it betokens us not degenerated, nor droop- the search and expectation of greatest ing to a fatal decay, but casting off the 4° and exactest things, is the issue of your old and wrinkled skin of corruption to own virtue propagated in us ; ye cannot outlive these pangs and wax young again, suppress that unless ye reinforce an abro- entering the glorious ways of truth and gated and merciless law, that fathers may prosperous virtue destined to become despatch at will their own children. And great and honorable in these latter ages. 45 who shall then stick closest to ye, and Methinks I see in my mind a noble and excite others? not he who takes up arms puissant nation, rousing herself like a for coat and conduct, and his four nobles strong man after sleep, and shaking her of danegelt. Although I dispraise not invincible locks. Methinks I see her as the defense of just immunities, yet love an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and 5° my peace better, if that were all. Give kindling her undazzled eyes at the full me the liberty to know, to utter, and to midday beam ; purging and unsealing her argue freely according to conscience, long-abused sight at the fountain itself of above all liberties. heavenly radiance; while the whole noise What would be best advised, then, if of timorous and flocking birds, with those ^^ it be found so hurtful and so unequal to also that love the twilight, flutter about, suppress opinions for the newness, or the amazed at what she means, and in their unsuitableness to a customary acceptance, will not be my task to say. I only shall dom as for hidden treasures early and repeat what I have learned from one of late, that another order shall enjoin us to your own honorable numl)er, a right no- know nothing but by statute? When a ble and pious lord, who, had he not sacri- man hath been laboring the hardest labor ficed his life and fortunes to the church 5 in the deep mines of knowledge, hath'fur- and commonwealth, we had not now nished out his findings in all their equi- missed and bewailed a worthy and un- page, drawn forth his reasons as it were doubted patron of this argument. Ye a battle ranged, scattered and defeated all know him I am sure; yet I for honor's objections in his way, calls out his advcr- sake, and may it be eternal to him, shall lo sary into the plain, offers him the ad- name him the Lord Brook. He writing vantage of wind and sun, if he please, of episcopacy and by the way treating of only that he may try the matter by dint sects and schisms, left ye his vote, or of argument — for his opponents then rather now the last words of his dying to skulk, to lay ambushments, to keep a charge, which I know will ever be of 15 narrow bridge of licensing where the dear and honored regard with ye, so full challenger should pass, though it be valor of meekness and breathing charity, that enough in soldiership, is but weakness and next to his last testament, who bequeathed cowardice in the wars of Truth. For love and peace to his disciples, I cannot who knows not that Truth is strong, next call to mind where I have read or heard 20 to the Almighty ; she needs no policies, no words more mild and peaceful. He there stratagems, no licensings to make her vic- exhorts us to hear with patience and hu- torious ; those are the shifts and the de- mility those, however they be miscalled, fenses that error uses against her power: that desire to live purely, in such a use of give her but room, and do not bind her God's ordinances, as the best guidance of 25 when she sleeps, for then she speaks not their conscience gives them, and to toler- true, as the old Proteus did, who spake ate them, though in some disconformity oracles only when he was caught and to ourselves. The book itself will tell us bound, but then rather she turns herself more at large, being published to the into all shapes, except her own, and per- world, and dedicated to the Parliament 30 haps tunes her voice according to the by him who both for his life and for his time, as Micaiah did before Ahab, until death deserves that what advice he left she be adjured into her own likeness, be not laid by without perusal. Yet it is not impossible that she may have And now the time in special is, by priv- more shapes than one. What else is all ilege to write and speak what may help 35 that rank of things indifferent, wherein to the further discussing of matters in Truth may be on this side, or on the agitation. The temple of Janus with his other, without being unlike herself? two controversal faces might now not un- What but a vain shadow else is the aboli- significantly be set open. And though all tion of those ordinances, that hand-writ- the winds of doctrine were let loose to 40 hig nailed to the cross, what great pur- play upon the earth, so Truth be in the chase is this christian liberty which Paul field, we do injuriously by licensing and so often boasts of? His doctrine is, that prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let he who eats or eats not, regards a day or her and Falsehood grapple; who ever regards it not, may do either to the Lord, knew Truth put to the worse, in a free 45 How many other things might be toler- and open encounter? Her confuting is ated in peace, and left to conscience, had the best and surest suppressing. He who we but charity, and were it not the chief hears what praying there is for light and stronghold of our hypocrisy to be ever clearer knowledge to be sent down among judging one another. I fear yet this iron us, would think of other matters to be 50 yoke of outward conformity hath left a constituted beyond the discipline of Ge- slavish print upon our necks; the ghost neva, framed and fabricked already to our of a linen decency yet haunts us. We hands. Yet when the new light which stumble and are impatient at the least we beg for shines in upon us, there be dividing of one visible congregation from who envy and oppose, if it come not first 55 another, though it be not in fundamentals; in at their casements. What a collusion and through our forwardness to suppress, is this, whenas we are exhorted by the and our backwardness to recover any cn- wise man to use diligence, to seek for wis- thralled piece of truth out of the grip iJD4 JUniN MILIUJN of custom, we care not to keep truth but whom they Hke, is the worst and separated from truth, which is the fiercest newest opinion of all others ; and is the rent and disunion of all. We do not see chief cause why sects and schisms do so that while we still affect by all means much abound, and true knowledge is a rigid external formality, we may as 5 kept at distance from us; besides yet a soon fall again into a gross conforming greater danger which is in it. For when stupidity, a stark .and dead congealment God shakes a kingdom with strong and of wood, and hay, and stubble forced and healthful commotions to a general re- frozen together, which is more to the forming, 't is not untrue that many sudden degenerating of a church than '° sectaries and false teachers are then many subdichotomies of petty schisms. busiest in seducing; but yet more true Not that I can think well of every light it is, that God then raises to his own separation, or that all in a church is to work men of rare abilities, and more be expected gold and silver and precious than common industry, not only to look stones. It is not possible for man to ^5 back and revise what hath been taught sever the wheat from the tares, the good heretofore, but to gain further and go on, fish from the other fry; that must be the some new enlightened steps in the dis- angels' ministry at the end of mortal covery of truth. For such is the order things. Yet if all cannot be of one mind, of God's enlightening his church, to dis- (as who looks they should be?) this 2° pense and deal out by degrees his beam, doubtless is more wholesome, more pru- so as our earthly eyes may best sustain dent, and more christian that many be it. Neither is God appointed and con- tolerated, rather than all compelled. I fined, where and out of what place these mean not tolerated popery, and open his chosen shall be first heard to speak; superstition, which, as it extirpates all ^5 for he sees not as man sees, chooses not religions and civil supremacies, so itself as man chooses, lest we should devote should be extirpate, provided first that all ourselves again to set places, and assem- charitable and compassionate means be blies, and outward callings of men ; plant- used to win and regain the weak and the ing our faith one while in the old misled : that also which is impious or evil 3o Convocation House, and another while in absolutely either against faith or man- the Chapel at Westminster; when all the ners, no law can possibly permit that in- faith and religion that shall be there tends not to unlaw itself. But those canonized, is not sufficient without plain neighboring differences, or rather in- convincement, and the charity of patient differences, are what I speak of, whether 35 instruction to supple the least bruise of in some point of doctrine or of dis- conscience, to edify the meanest chris- cipline, which though they may be many, tian, who desires to walk in the Spirit, yet need not interrupt the unity of Spirit, and not in the letter of human trust, for if we could but find among us the bond all the number of voices that can be there of peace. In the meanwhile if any one 4° made — no, though Harry VII himself would write, and bring his helpful hand there, with all his liege tombs about him, to the slow-moving reformation which we should lend them voices from the dead, labor under, if Truth have spoken to him to swell their number. And if the men before others, or but seemed at least to be erroneous who appear to be the lead- speak, who hath so bejesuited us that we 45 ing schismatics, what withholds us but should trouble that man with asking our sloth, our self-will, and distrust in license to do so worthy a deed ? and not the right cause, that we do not give them consider this, that if it come to prohibit- gentle meetings and gentle dismissions. ing. there is not aught more likely to be that we debate not and examine the prohibited than truth itself; whose first 5o matter thoroughly with liberal and f re- appearance to our eyes bleared and quent audience; if not for their sakes, dimmed with prejudice and custom, is yet for our own? Seeing no man who more unsightly and unplausible than hath tasted learning, l)ut will confess the many errors, even as the person is of many ways of profiting by those who, not many a great man slight and contemptible 55 contented with stale receipts, are able to to see to. And what do they tell us manage and set forth new positions to the vainly of new opinions, when this very world. And were they but as the dust opinion of theirs, that none must be heard and cinders of our feet, so long as in that notion they may yet serve to polish and and the executioner will be the timeliest brighten the armory of Truth, even for and the most effectual remedy, that man's that respect they were not utterly to be prevention can use. For this authentic cast away. But if they be of those whom Spanish policy of licensing books, if I God hath fitted for the special use of 5 have said aught, will prove the most un- these times with eminent and ample licensed book itself within a short while; gifts, and those perhaps neither among and was the immediate image of a Star the Priests, nor among the Pharisees, Chamber decree to that purpose made in and we in the haste of a precipitant zeal those very times when that court did the shall make no distinction, but resolve toio rest of those her pious works, for which stop their mouths, because we fear they she is now fallen from the stars with come with new and dangerous opinions, Lucifer. Whereby ye may guess what as we commonly forejudge them ere we kind of state prudence, what love of the understand them, no less than woe to us, people, what care of religion or good while thinking thus to defend the Gospel, 15 manners there was at the contriving, al- we are found the persecutors. though with singular hypocrisy it pre- There have been not a few since the tended to bind books to their good beginning of this Parliament, both of the behavior. And how it got the upper Presbytery and others, who by their un- hand of your precedent order, so well licensed books to the contempt of an Im- 20 constituted before, if we may believe primatur first broke that triple ice clung those men whose profession gives them about our hearts, and taught the people cause to inquire most, it may be doubted to see day. I hope that none of those there was in it the fraud of some old were the persuaders to renew upon us patentees and monopolizers in the trade this bondage which they themselves have 25 of bookselling; who under pretense of the wrought so much good by contemning. poor in their Company not to be de- But if neither the check that Moses gave frauded, and the just retaining of each to young Joshua, nor the countermand man his several copy (which God forbid which our Savior gave to young John, should be gainsaid), brought divers gloss- who was so ready to prohibit those whom 3° ing colors to the House ; which were in- he thought unlicensed, be not enough to deed but colors, and serving to no end admonish our Elders, how unacceptable except it be to exercise a superiority to God their testy mood of prohibiting over their neighbors, men who do not is; if neither their own remembrance therefore labor in an honest profession what evil hath abounded in the Church 35 to which learning is indebted, that they by this let of licensing, and what good should be made other men's vassals. they themselves have begun by trans- Another end is thought was aimed at by gressing it, be not enough, but that they some of them in procuring by petition will persuade, and execute the most this order, that having power in their Dominican part of the Inquisition over 40 hands, malignant books might the easier us, and are already with one foot in the 'scape abroad, as the event shows. But stirrup so active at suppressing, it would of these sophisms and elenchs of mer- be no unequal distribution in the first chandise I skill not. This I know, that place to suppress the suppressors them- errors in a good government and in a selves : whom the change of their con- 45 bad are equally almost incident ; for what dition hath puffed up, more than their magistrate may not be misinformed, and late experience of harder times hath much the sooner, if liberty of printing made wise. be reduced into the power of a few; but And as for regulating the Press, let no to redress willingly and speedily what man think to have the honor of advising 5o hath been erred, and in highest authority ye better than yourselves have done in to esteem a plain advertisement more that order published next before this, than others have done a sumptuous bribe, 'that no book be printed, unless the is a virtue (honored Lords and Commons)' printer's and the author's name, or at answerable to your highest actions, and least the printer's be registered.' Those 55 whereof none can participate but greatest which otherwise come forth, if they be and wisest men. found mischievous and libelous, the fire (1644) JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700) Dryden came of a good Northamptonshire family, and was educated at Westminster School and Trinity College, Cambridge. He was only eighteen when his first verses were published, but his first poem of importance was in commemoration of the death of Oliver Cromwell. Drydon's dependence as a i)rofessional writer on the party in power made his financial position insecure, hampered his genius, and ruined his rei)utation for consistency : his eulogy of Crom- well was followed almost immediately by poems in celebration of Charles II. The re- opening of the theaters after the Restoration gave him a less eiiuivocal opportunity for the exercise of his talents, and he led the way in the development of the new comedy (largely indebted to the French) and the heroic play with its preposterous characters and incidents and extravagant rant. After defending and perfecting the rimed couplet as a medium for tragedy, he turned to blank verse in All for Love (1078), founded upon Shakspere's Antony and Cleopatra, and generally accounted Drydcn's best play. Meanwhile he had won distinc- tion in other ways; his Essai/ of Dramatic Poesy (IGOS) is remarkable both for its literary insight and its vigorous and lucid style, which had an important influence on the development of lOnglish prose. In 1070 he was appointed poet laureate and historiographer with a salary of £200, which relieved his immediate necessities, but was not enough to save him from financial difficulties. The political intrigues at the end of Charles II's reign gave occasion for the bitter satirical poem Ahsalom and Achifophcl (10>81) which in its own kind of poetry remains unsurpassed. ReUgio Laid (1082), a poem in defense of the Church of England, was discounted by the author's conversion to Roman Catholicism on the accession of .James II, though most students of Dryden's life and writings hold that his change of view was sincere. The Hind and the Panther, a plea for the poet's newly adopted faith, appeared in 1087. The Revolution of 1088 deprived Dryden of his offices, and he was dependent for the rest of his life upon his pen. He returned to the stage with Don Sebastian (1090), one of his best tragedies, wrote excellent prologues and epilogues for the plays of other men, and worked hard at criticism and translations. After enjoying for many years the literary leadership of his time, he was buried in the Poets' Corner at Westminster Abbey. HEROIC STANZAS, CONSECRATED TO THE MEMORY OF HIS HIGHNESS OLIVER LATE LORD PROTECTOR OF THIS COMMON- WEALTH &C. Written after the celebrating of his funeral And now 't is 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. Though our best notes arc treason to his fame 5 Joined with the loud applause of public voice. Since Heaven what praise wc offer to his name Hath rendered too authentic by its choice Though in his praise no arts can liberal be, Since they, whose muses have the highest flown, 10 Add not to his immortal memory, But do an act of friendship to their own ; Yet 't is our duty and our interest too Such monuments as we can build to raise, Lest all the world prevent what we should do IS And claim a title in liim by their praise. 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; 266 I And wars, like mists that rise against the sun, Made him but greater seem, not greater grow. No borrowed bays his temples did adorn, 25 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. Fortune, that easy mistress of the young, But to her ancient servants coy and hard, Him at that age her favorites ranked among 31 When she her best-loved Pompey did dis- card. He, private, marked the faults of others' sway And set as sea-marks for himself to shun ; Not like rash monarchs, who their youth betray 35 By acts their age too late would wish un- done. And yet dominion was not his design ; We owe that blessing not to him but Heaven, Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join, Rewards that less to him than us were given. 40 Our former chiefs, like sticklers of the war. First sought to inflame the parties, then to poise, The quarrel loved, but did the cause abhor, And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise. War, our consumption, was their gainful trade ; 4S We inward bled, whilst they prolonged our pain ; He fought to end our fighting, and assayed To stanch the blood by breathing of the vein. * * * Nor died he when his ebbing fame went less. But when fresh laurels courted him to live ; so He seemed but to prevent some new suc- cess. As if above what triumphs earth could give. His latest victories still thickest came. As near the center motion does increase; Till he, pressed down by his own weighty name, SS Did, like the vestal, under spoils decease. But first the ocean as a tribute sent That giant-prince of all her watery herd; And the isle, when her protecting genius went, 59 Upon his obsequies loud sighs conferred. No civil broils have since his death arose, But faction now by habit docs obey ; And wars have that respect for his repose As winds for haJcyons when they breed at sea. His ashes in a peaceful urn shall rest; 6s His name a great example stands to show How strangely high endeavors may be blessed Where piety and valor jointly go. (1659) From ASTR.^A REDUX And welcome now, great monarch, to your own ! Behold the approaching cliffs of Albion. It is no longer motion cheats your view; As you meet it, the land approacheth you. The land returns, and in the white it wears The marks of penitence and sorrow bears. 6 But you, whose goodness your descent doth show. Your heavenly parentage and earthly too. By that same mildness which your father's crown Before did ravish shall secure your own. 10 Not tied to rules of policy, you find Revenge less sweet than a forgiving mind. Thus, when the Almighty would to Moses give A sight of all he could behold and live, A voice before his entry did proclaim 'S Long-suffering, goodness, mercy, in his name. Your power to justice doth submit your cause. Your goodness only is above the laws. Whose rigid letter, while pronounced by you. 2t)8 JUHJN UKYUHN Is softer made. So winds that tempests brew, "° When through Araliian groves they take their flight, Made wanton with rich odors, lose their spite. And as those lees that trouble it refine The agitated soul of generous wine. So tears of joy, for your returning spilt, -S Work out and expiate our former guilt. Methinks I see those crowds on Dover's strand. Who in their haste to welcome you to land Choked up the beach with their still grow- ing store And made a wilder torrent on the shore : 3o While, spurred with eager thoughts of past delight, Those who had seen you. court a second sight. Preventing still your steps and making haste To meet you often wheresoe'er you past. How shall I speak of that triumphant day, 35 When you renewed the expiring pomp of May ! A month that owns an interest in your name; You and the flowers are its peculiar claim. That star, that at your birth shone out so bright It stained the duller sun's meridian light, 4° Did once again its potent fires renew, Guiding our eyes to find and worship you. And now Time's whiter series is begun. Which in soft centuries shall smoothly run; Those clouds that overcast your morn shall fly, 45 Dispelled to farthest corners of the sky. Our nation, with united interest blest. Not now content to poise, shall sway the rest. Abroad your empire shall no limits know, But, like the sea, in boundless circles flow ; Your much-loved fleet shall with a wide command 5i Besiege the petty monarchs of the land ; And as old Time his off^spring swallowed down, Our ocean in its depths all seas shall drown. Their wealthy trade from pirates' rapine free, 55 Our merchants shall no more adventurers be; Nor in the farthest East those dangers fear Which humble Holland must dissemble here. Spain to your gift alone her Indies owes, Fpr what the powerful takes not he be- stows ; 6o And France that did an exile's presence fear May justly apprehend you still too near. At home the hateful names of parties cease. And factious souls are wearied into peace. The discontented now are only they 65 Whose crimes before did your just cause betray ; Of those your edicts some reclaim from sins, But most your life and blest example wins. Oh, happy prince, whom Heaven hath taught the way By paying vows to have more vows to pay ! Oh, happy age! oh, times like those alone 71 By fate reserved for great Augustus' throne. When the joint growth of arms and arts foreshew The world a monarch, and that monarch you ! ( 1660) From ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL The inhabitants of old Jerusalem Were Jebusites; the town so called from them, And theirs the native right. But when the chosen people grew more strong. The rightful cause at length became the wrong ; 5 And every loss the men of Jebus bore, They still were thought God's enemies the more. Thus worn and weakened, well or ill con- tent, Submit they must to David's government : Impoverished and deprived of all com- mand, 10 Their taxes doubled as they lost their land ; And, what was harder yet to flesh and blood. Their gods disgraced, and burnt like com- mon wood. This set the heathen priesthood in a flame, For priests of all religions are the same. '5 Of whatsoe'er descent their godhead be. Stock, stone, or other homely pedigree. In his defense his servants are as bold. As if he had been born of beaten gold. The Jewish rabbins, though their enemies, 20 In this conclude them honest men and wise. For 't was their duty, all the learned think. To espouse his cause by whom they eat and drink. From hence began that Plot, the nation's curse, Bad in itself, but represented worse, 25 Raised in extremes, and in extremes de- cried. With oaths affirmed, with dying vows de- nied. Not weighed or winnowed by the multitude. But swallowed in the mass, unchewed and crude. Some truth there was, but dashed and brewed with lies 30 To please the fools and puzzle all the wise : Succeeding times did equal folly call, Believing nothing or believing all. The Egyptian rites the Jebusites embraced. Where gods were recommended by their taste; 35 Such savory deities must needs be good As served at once for worship and for food. By force they could not introduce these gods. For ten to one in former days was odds : So fraud was used, the sacrificer's trade ; 40 Fools are more hard to conquer than per- suade. Their busy teachers mingled with the Jews And raked for converts even the court and stews : Which Hebrew priests the more unkindly took. Because the fleece accompanies the flock. 45 Some thought they God's anointed meant to slay By guns, invented since full many a day : Our author swears it not ; but who can know How far the devil and Jebusites may go ? This plot, which failed for want of common sense, 5° Had yet a deep and dangerous consequence ; For as, when raging fevers boil the blood. The standing lake soon floats into a flood, And every hostile humor which before Slept quiet in its channels bubbles o'er ; 55 So several factions from this first ferment Work up to foam and threat the govern- ment. Some by their friends, more by themselves thought wise. Opposed the power to which they could not rise. Some had in courts been great, and thrown from thence, 60 Like fiends were hardened in impenitence. Some by their monarch's fatal mercy grown From pardoned rebels kinsmen to the throne Were raised in power and public office high ; Strong bands, if bands ungrateful men could tie. 6s Of these the false Achitophel was first, 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, 70 In power unplcased, impatient of disgrace; 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, 75 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. Great wits are sure to madness near allied And thin partitions do their bounds di- vide ; 80 Else, why should he, with wealth and honor blest. Refuse his age the needful hours of rest? Punish a body which he could not please, Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease? And all to leave what with his toil he won To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son, 86 Got, while his soul did huddled notions try. And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy. In friendship false, implacable in hate, Resolved to ruin or to rule the state ; 90 To compass this the triple bond he broke, The pillars of the public safety shook. And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke ; Then, seized with fear, yet still affecting fame. Usurped a patriot's all-atoning name. 95 So easy still it proves in factious times With public zeal to cancel private crimes. How safe is treason and how sacred ill. Where none can sin against the people's will, Where crowds can wink and no offense be known, 1°° Since in another's guilt they find their own ! Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge ; The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge. In Israel's courts ne'er sat an abbethdin With more discerning eyes or hands more clean, 105 Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress. Swift of dispatch and ea.sy of access. 270 JOHN DRYDEN Oh ! had he been content to serve the crown With virtues only proper to tlic gown, Or had the rankncss of the soil been freed From cockle that oppressed the noble seed, ''' David for him his tuneful harp had strung And Heaven had wanted one immortal song. But wild ambition loves to slide, not stand, And fortune's ice prefers to virtue's land. Achitophel, grown weary to possess 116 A lawful fame and lazy happiness, Disdained the golden fruit to gather free And lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree. Now, manifest of crimes contrived long since, '-° He stood at bold defiance with his prince, Held up the buckler of the people's cause Against the crown, and skulked behind the laws. The wished occasion of the plot he takes; Some circumstances finds, but more he makes; '-S By buzzing emissaries fills the ears Of listening crowds with jealousies and fears, Of arbitrary counsels brought to light. And proves the king himself a Jebusite. Weak arguments! which yet he knew full well '30 Were strong with people easy to rebel. For governed by the moon, the giddy Jews Tread the same track when she the prime renews : And once in twenty years their scribes re- cord. By natural instinct they change their lord. Achitophel still wants a chief, and none 136 Was found so fit as warlike Absalon. Not that he wished his greatness to create, For politicians neither love nor hate: But, for he knew his title not allowed mo Would keep him still depending on the crowd. That kingly power, thus ebbing out, might be Drawn to the dregs of a democracy. (1681) THE HIND AND THE PANTHER A milk-white Hind, immortal and un- changed. Fed on the lawns and in the forest ranged; Without unspotted, innocent within. 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 wounds 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 di- vine. 10 Their earthly mold 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 And cried for pardon on their perjured foes. 16 Their fate was fruitful, and the sanguine seed. Endued with souls, increased the sacred breed. So captive Israel multiplied in chains, A numerous exile, and enjoyed her pains. 20 With grief and gladness mixed, their mother viewed Her martyred offspring and their race re- newed ; Their corpse to perish, but their kind to last, So much the deathless plant the dying fruit surpassed. Panting and pensive now she ranged alone, 25 And wandered in the kingdoms once her own. The common hunt, though from their rage restrained By sovereign power, her company disdained. Grinned as they passed, and with a glaring eye Gave gloomy signs of secret enmity. 30 'T is true she bounded 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 ex- pressed. Among the timorous kind the quaking Hare Professed neutrality, but would not swear. Next her the buffoon Ape, as atheists use. Mimicked all sects and had his own to choose ; 4o Still when the Lion looked, his knees he bent. And paid at church a courtier's compliment. The bristled baptist Boar, impure as he, But whitened with the foam of sanctity, With fat pollutions filled the sacred place 45 And mountains leveled in his furious race; So first rebellion 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, so He shunned the vengeance and concealed the shame, 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, 55 His impious race their blasphemy renewed. 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, Hence they began, and here they all will end. 6 1 What weight of ancient witness can pre- vail, n private reason hold the public scale? But, gracious God, how well dost thou pro- vide For erring judgments an unerring guide ! 65 Thy throne is darkness in the abyss of light, A blaze of glory that forbids the sight. O teach me to believe thee thus concealed, And search no farther than thy self re- vealed ; But her alone for my director take, 7° Whom thou hast promised never to for- sake ! My thoughtless youth was winged with vain desires ; My manhood, long misled by wandering fires. Followed false lights ; and when their glimpse was gone, My pride struck out new sparkles of her own. 75 Such was I, such by nature still I am; Be thine the glory and be mine the shame ! Good life be now my task; my doubts are done : What more could fright my faith than Three in One? Can I believe eternal God could lie 8° Disguised in mortal mold and infancy. That the great Maker of the world could die? And, after that, trust my imperfect sense Which calls in question his omnipotence? Can I my reason to my faith compel, 85 And shall my sight and touch and taste rebel ? Superior faculties are set aside; Shall their subservient organs be my guide? Then let the moon usurp the rule of day, And winking tapers show the sun his way; For what my senses can themselves per- ceive 91 T need no revelation to believe. Can they, who say the host should be descried By sense, define a body glorified, Impassible, and penetrating parts? 95 Let them declare by what mysterious arts He shot that body through the opposing might Of bolts and bars impervious to the light, And stood before his train confessed in open sight. For since thus wondrously he passed, 't is plain 100 One single place two bodies did contain, And sure the same omnipotence as well Can make one body in more places dwell. Let Reason then at her own quarry fly. But how can finite grasp infinity? 105 'T is urged again, that faith did first com- mence By miracles, which are appeals to sense. And thence concluded, that our sense must be The motive still of credibility. For later ages must on former wait, no And what began belief must propagate. But winnow well this thought, and you shall find 'T is light as chaff that flies before the wind. Were all those wonders wrought by power divine As means or ends of some more deep de- sign? IIS Most sure as means, whose end was this alone. To prove the Godhead of the eternal Son. God thus asserted : man is to believe Beyond what sense and reason can con- ceive, And for mysterious things of faith rely 120 On the proponent Heaven's authority. If then our faith we for our guide admit, Vain is the farther search of human wit; As when the building gains a surer stay. We take the unuseful scaffolding away, "s Reason by sense no more can understand ; The game is played into another hand. Why chose \vc then Hke bilanders to creep Along the coast, and land in view to keep, When safely we may lainich into the deep? In the same vessel which our Savior bore, Himself the pilot, let us leave the shore, u^ And with a better guiile a better world ex- plore. Could he his godhead veil with tlesh and blood And not veil these again to be our food? His grace in both is equal in extent; '36 The first affords us life, the second nourish- ment. And if he can, why all this frantic pain To construe what his clearest words con- tain. And make a riddle what he made so plain? To take up half on trust and half to try, 141 Name it not faith, but bungling bigotry. Both knave and fool the merchant we may call To pay great sums and to compound the small. For who would break with Heaven, and would not break for all? '45 Rest then, my soul, from endless anguish freed : Nor sciences thy guide, nor sense thy creed. Faith is the best insurer of thy bliss; The bank above must fail before the ven- ture miss. But Heaven and heaven-born faith are far from thee, iso Thou first apostate to divinity. Unkennelled range in thy Polonian plains ; A fiercer foe, the insatiate Wolf remains. Too boastful Britain, please thyself no more That beasts of prey are banished from thy shore; i5S The Bear, the Boar, and every savage name. Wild in effect, though in appearance tame, Lay waste thy woods, destroy thy blissful bower. And, muzzled though they seem, the mutes devour. More haughty than the rest, the wolfish race 160 Appear with belly gaunt and famished face; Never was so deformed a beast of grace. His ragged tail betwixt his legs he wears, Close clapped for shame; but his rough crest he rears. And pricks up his predestinating ears. 165 His wild disordered walk, his haggard eyes. Did all the bestial citizens surprise ; Though feared and hated, yet he ruled a while, As captain or compaiiidn of the spoil. Full many a year his hateful head had been 170 For tribute paid, nor since in Canil)ria seen ; The last of all the litter 'scaped by chance, And from Geneva first infested France. Some authors thus his pedigree will trace, Rut others write him of an upstart race; '75 Because of Wyclif's brood no mark he brings But his innate antipathy to kings. These last deduce him from the Helvetian kind. Who near the Leman lake his consort lined ; That fiery Zuinglius first the affection bred. And meager Calvin blessed the nuptial bed. In Israel some believe him whelped long- since, 182 When the proud sanhedrim oppressed the prince, Or, since he will be Jew, derive him higher, When Corah with his brethren did con- spire 185 From Moses' hand the sovereign sway to wrest, And Aaron of his ephod to divest; Till opening earth made way for all to pass. And could not bear the burden of a class. The Fox and he came shuffled in the dark, If ever they were stowed in Noah's ark; 191 Perhaps not made; for all their barking train The Dog (a common species) will contain; And some wild curs, who from their mas- ters ran, Abhorring the supremacy of man, 195 In woods and caves the rebel -race began. O happy pair, how well have you in- creased ! What ills in church and state have you redressed ? With teeth untried and rudiments of claws. Your first essay was on your native laws : Those having torn with ease and trampled down, -01 Your fangs you fastened on the mitered crown, And freed from God and monarchy your town. What though your native kennel still be small. Bounded betwixt a puddle and a wall ; 205 Yet your victorious colonies are sent Where the North Ocean girds the conti- nent. Quickened with fire below, your monsters breed In fenny Holland and in fruitful Tweed ; And, like the first, the last affects to be 210 Drawn to the dregs of a democracy. As, where in fields the fairy rounds are seen A rank sour herbage rises on the green ; So, springing where these midnight elves advance, Rebellion prints the footsteps of the dance. Such are their doctrines, such contempt they show 216 To Heaven above and to their prince be- low. As none but traitors and blasphemers know. God like the tyrant of the skies is placed, And kings, like slaves, beneath the crowd . debased. 220 So fulsome is their food that flocks refuse To bite, and only dogs for physic use. As, where the lightning runs along the ground, No husbandry can heal the blasting wound; Nor bladed grass nor bearded corn suc- ceeds, 225 But scales of scurf, and putrefaction breeds : Such wars, such waste, such fiery tracks of dearth Their zeal has left, and such a teemlcss earth. But as the poisons of the deadliest kind Are to their own unhappy coasts confined, As only Indian shades of sight deprive, 231 And magic plants will but in Colchos thrive, So Presbytery and pestilential zeal Can only flourish in a common-weal. These are the chief; to number o'er the rest 235 And stand, like Adam, naming every beast. Were weary work ; nor will the Muse de- scribe A slimy-born and sun-begotten tribe. Who, far from steeples and their sacred sound. In fields their sullen conventicles found. 240 These gross, half -animated lumps I leave, Nor can I think what thoughts they can conceive. But if they think at all, 't is sure no higher Than matter put in motion may aspire ; Souls that can scarce ferment their mass of clay, 24s So drossy, so divisible are they As would but serve pure bodies for allay, 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 blows of ignorance. They know not beings, and but hate a name; 252 To them the Hind and Panther are the same. The Panther, sure the noblest next the Hind And fairest creature of the spotted kind : Oh, could her inborn stains be washed away 256 She were too good to be a beast of prey! How can I praise or blame, and . not of- fend, Or how divide the frailty from the friend? Her faults and virtues lie so mixed, that she 260 Nor wholly stands condemned nor wholly free. Then, like her injured Lion, let me speak; He cannot bend her and he would not break. Unkind already, and estranged in part, The Wolf begins to share her wandering heart. 26s Though unpolluted yet with actual ill, She half commits who sins but in her will. If, as our dreaming Platonists report, There could be spirits of a middle sort, Too black for heaven and yet too white for hell, 270 Who just dropped half-way down, nor lower fell; So poised, so gently she descends from high. It seems a soft dismission from the sky. Her house not ancient, whatsoe'er pretense Her clergy heralds make in her defense 27s A second century not half-way run, Since the new honors of her blood begun. * * * Thus is the Panther neither loved nor feared, A mere mock queen of a divided herd ; Whom soon by lawful power she might control, 280 Herself a part submitted to the whole. Then, as the moon who first receives the light By which she makes our nether regions bright, So might she shine, reflecting from afar The rays she borrowed from a better star; Big with the beams which from her mother flow ^/^ And reigning oVr the rising lidos below : Now mixing with a savage crowd she goes, And meanly flatters her inveterate foes, Ruled while she rules, and losing every hour =90 Her wretched remnants of precarious power. One evening, while the cooler shade she sought. Revolving many a melancholy thought. Alone she walked, and looked around in vain 294 With rueful visage for her vanished train : None of her sylvan subjects made their court ; Levees and couchees passed without resort. So hardly can usurpers manage well Those whom they first instructed to rebel. More liberty begets desire of more ; 3oo The hunger still increases with the store. Without respect they brushed along the wood, Each in his clan, and, filled with loathsome food, Asked no permission to the neighboring flood. The Panther, full of inward discontent, 305 Since they would go, before them wisely went; Supplying want of power by drinking first. As if she gave them leave to quench their thirst. Among the rest, the Hind with fearful face Beheld from far the common watering- place, 310 Nor durst approach ; till with an awful roar The sovereign Lion bade her fear no more. Encouraged thus, she brought her young- lings nigh, Watching the motions of her patron's eye, And drank a sober draft; the rest amazed 3'5 Stood mutely still and on the stranger gazed ; Surveyed her part by part, and sought to find The ten-horned monster in the harmless Hind, Such as the Wolf and Panther had designed. They thought at first they dreamed : for 't was offense 3^0 With them to question certitude of sense, Their guide in faith : but nearer when they drew, And had the faultless object full in view, Lord, how they all admired her heavenly hue ! 324 Some, who before her fellowship disdained, Scarce, and but scarce, from inborn rage restrained, Now frisked about her and old kindred feigned. Whether for love or interest, every sect Of all the savage nation showed respect. The viceroy Panther could not awe the herd ; 33o The more the company, the less they feared. The surly Wolf with secret envy burst, Yet could not howl, the Hind had seen him first; But what he durst not speak, the Panther durst. * * * (1687) ALEXANDER'S FEAST OR THE POWER OF .MUSIC A SONG IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIa's DAY I 'T was at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip'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, 1° In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy, pair! None but the brave. None but the brave. None but the brave deserves the fair, is Chorus : Happy, happy, happy pair, etc. Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touched the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky, 20 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 : 25 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. 3° The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, A present deity, they shout around; A present deity the vaulted roofs re- bound : With ravished ears The monarch hears, 35 Assumes the god, Afifects to nod. And seems to shake the spheres. Chorus : With ravished ears, etc. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, 40 Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. The jolly god in triumph comes ; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ; Flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face : 45 Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes. Bacchus, ever fair and young. Drinking joys did first ordain ; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; 50 Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure. Sweet is pleasure after pain. Chorus : Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, etc. Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; Fought all his battles o'er again ; 56 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 ; And while he heaven and earth defied, 60 Changed his hand, and checked his pride. He chose a mournful Muse, Soft pity to infuse; He sung Darius great and good. By too severe a fate, 65 Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood ; Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed ! 70 On the bare earth exposed he lies. With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate. Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of chance below; And, now and then, a sigh he stole, 76 And tears began to flow. Chorus : Revolving in the altered soul, etc. The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree ; 80 'T was but a kindred sound to move, 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; 85 Honor but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning. Fighting still, and still destroying: If the world be worth thy winning. Think, O think it worth enjoying: 90 Lovely Thais sits beside thee. Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud ap- plause; So love was crowned, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 95 Gazed on the fair 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, 100 The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. Chorus : The prince, unable to conceal his pain, etc. Now strike the golden lyre again ; A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunder, 105 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. no 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 ! Behold a ghastly band, ii6 Each a torch in his hand ! 2/0 juriiN i>»K.xuJii\ Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburicd remain Inglorious on the plain: '-^o 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 ; And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; "-7 Thais led the way. To light him to his prey. And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. '30 Chorus: And the king seized a flambeau zeal to destroy, etc. Thus long ago. Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute '35 And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame ; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, MO Enlarged the former narrow bounds. And added length to solemn sounds. With Nature's mother-wit, and arts un- known before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize. Or both divide the crown : i45 He raised a mortal to the skies ; She drew an angel down. Grand Chorus : At last divine Cecilia came, etc. (1697) AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY It was that memorable day, in the first summer of the late war, when our navy engaged the Dutch — a day wherein the two most mighty and best appointed fleets which any age had ever seen, disputed the command of the greater half of the globe, the commerce of nations, and the riches of the universe. While these vast floating bodies, on either side, moved against each other in parallel lines, and our countrymen, under the happy conduct of his royal highness, went breaking, by little and little, into the line of the enemies, the noise of the cannon from both navies reached our ears about the city ; so that all men being alarmed with it, and in a dreadful suspense of the event, which they knew was then decid- ing, every one went following the sound as his fancy led him. And leaving the town almost empty, some took towards the Park, some cross the riv.er, others down it ; all seeking the noise in the depth of silence. Among the rest, it was the fortune of Eugenius, Crites, Lisideius, and Neander, to be in company together : three of them persons whom their wit and quality have made known to all the town ; and whom I have chosen to hide under these bor- rowed names, that they may not suffer by so ill a relation as I am going to make of their discourse. Taking then a barge, which a servant of Lisideius had provided for them, they made haste to shoot the bridge, and left behind them that great fall of waters which hindered them from hearing what they desired ; after which, having disen- gaged themselves from many vessels which rode at anchor in the Thames, and almost blocked up the passage towards Greenwich, they ordered the watermen to let fall their oars more gently; and then every one favoring his own curiosity with a strict silence, it was not long ere they perceived the air to break about them like the noise of distant thunder, or of swallows in a chimney : those little undulations of sound, though almost vanishing before they reached them, yet still seeming to retain somewhat of their first horror which they had betwixt the fleets. After they had attentively listened till such time as the sound by little and little went from them, Eugenius, lifting up his head, and taking notice of it, was the first who congratulated to the rest that happy omen of our nation's victory : adding, that we had but this to desire in con- ':_ firmation of it, that we might hear no j| more of that noise which was now leav- I ing the English coast. When the rest had concurred in the same opinion, Crites (a person of a sharp judgment, and somewhat a too delicate taste in wit, which the world 1 AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY 277 have mistaken in him for ill nature), Indignor quidquam reprehendi, non quia said, smiling to us, thac if the concern- crasse ment of this battle had not been so ex- Compositum, illepideve putetur, sed quia ceeding great, he could scarce have nuper. wished the victory at the price he knew 5 fj ^^ indignant when anything is blamed, he must pay for it, in being subject to ^^^ because it is thought badly or inelegantly the reading and hearing of so many ill ^.j^ten, but because it is new.] verses as he was sure would be made on that subject. Adding, that no argu- ^^^ after- ment could 'scape some of those eternal 10 rimers, who watch a battle with more ^^. ,,^^^.^,.^ ^. ^^ ^. ^^ ^ diligence than the ravens and birds of Scire velim, pretium chartis quotus arroget prey; and the worst of them surest to annus? be first in upon the quarry; while the better able, either out of modesty writ 15 [If time makes poems better, as it does not at all, or set that due value upon wines, I should like to know what length their poems, as to let them be often de- oi years gives value to writings.] sired, and long expected. There are some of those impertinent But I see I am engaging in a wide dis- people of whom you speak (answered 20 pute, where the arguments are not like Lisideius) who, to my knowledge, are to reach close on either side; for poesy already so provided, either way, that they is of so large an extent, and so many, can produce not only a panegyric upon both of the ancients and moderns, have the victory, but, if need be, a funeral done well in all kinds of it, that in citing elegy on the duke ; wherein, after they ^5 one against the other, we shall take up have crowned his valor with many more time this evening, than each man's laurels, they will at last deplore the odds occasions will allow him. Therefore I under which he fell, concluding, that his would ask Crites to what part of poesy he courage deserved a better destiny. 3o would confine his arguments, and whether * * * he would defend the general cause of the There are so few who write well, in ancients against the moderns, or oppose this age (said Crites), that methinks any age of the moderns against this of any praises should be welcome. They ours. neither rise to the dignity of the last 35 Crites, a little while considering upon age, nor to any of the ancients: and we this demand, told Eugenius, that if he may cry out of the writers of this time, pleased he would limit their dispute to with more reason than Petronius of his, dramatic poesy; in which he thought it Pace vestra lie eat dixisse, primi omnium not difficult to prove, either that the an- eloquentiam perdidistis: You have de- 4° cients were superior to the moderns, or bauched the true old poetry so far, that the last age to this of ours. Nature, which is the soul of it, is not in Eugenius was somewhat surprised, any of your writings ! when he heard Crites make choice of that If your quarrel (said Eugenius) to subject. For aught I see (said he), I those who now write, be grounded only 45 have undertaken a harder province than upon your reverence to antiquity, there I imagined; for, though I never judged is no man more ready to adore those the plays of the Greek or Roman poets great Greeks and Romans than I am ; but, comparable to ours, yet, on the other side, on the other side, I cannot think so con- those we now see acted come short of temptibly of the age in which I live, or 5o many which were written in the last age. so dishonorably of my own country, as But my comfort is, if we are overcome, not to judge we equal the ancients in it will be only by our own countrymen; most kinds of poesy, and in some surpass and if we yield to them in this one part them. Neither know I any reason why of poesy, we more surpass them in all I may not be as zealous for the reputation 55 the other; for in the epic or lyric way, it of our age, as we find the ancients them- will be hard for them to show us one selves were in reference to those who such amongst them, as we have many lived before them. For you hear your now living, or who lately were. They Horace saying, can produce nothing so courtly writ, or 278 JOHN DRYDEN which expresses so much the conversa- the rest; and after they had given order tion of a gentleman, as Sir John Suck- to the waterman to turn their barge, and hng; nothing so even, sweet, and flowing, row softly, that they might take the cool as Mr. Waller; nothing so majestic, so of the evening in their return, Crites, be- correct, as Sir John Dcnham ; nothing so 5 ing desired by the company to begin, elevated, so copious, and full of spirit, as spoke on behalf of the ancients, in this Mr. Cowley. As for the Italian, French, manner: — and Spanish plays, I can make it evident If confidence presage a victory, Euge- that those who now write surpass them; nius, in his own opinion, has already and that the drama is wholly ours. lo triumphed over the ancients : nothing All of them were thus far of Eugenius seems more easy to him than to overcome his opinion, that the sweetness of Eng- those whom it is our greatest praise to lish verse was never understood or prac- have imitated well ; for we do not only tised by our fathers; even Crites himself build upon their foundations, but by did not much oppose it. And every one 15 their models. Dramatic poesy had time was willing to acknowledge how much enough, reckoning from Thcspis (who our poesy is improved, by the happiness first invented it) to Aristophanes, to be of some writers yet living, who first born, to grow up, and to flourish in taught us to mold our thoughts into maturity. It has been observed of arts easy and significant words, to retrench 20 and sciences, that in one and the same the superfluities of expression, and to century they have arrived to great per- niake our rime so properly a part of the fection; and no wonder, since every age verse, that it should never mislead the has a kind of universal genius, which sense, but itself be led and governed by inclines those that live in it to some par- it. 25 ticular studies. The work then being Eugenius was going to continue this pushed on by many hands, must of neces- discourse, when Lisideius told him that it sity go forward. was necessary, before they proceeded Is it not evident, in these last hundred further, to take a standing measure of years (when the study of philosophy has their controversy ; for how was it possible 30 been the business of all the virtuosi in to be decided, who wrote the best plays, Christendom), that almost a new nature before we know what a play should be? has been revealed to us? that more errors But, this once agreed on by both parties, of the school have been detected, more each might have recourse to it, either to useful experiments in philosophy have prove his own advantages, or to discover 35 been made, more noble secrets in optics, the failings of his adversary. medicine, anatomy, astronomy, discov- He had no sooner said this, but all de- ered, than in all those credulous and sired the favor of him to give the defini- doting ages from Aristotle to us? So tion of a play ; and they were the more true it is, that nothing spreads more fast importunate, because neither Aristotle, nor 40 than science, when rightly and generally Horace, nor any other, who had writ of cultivated, that subject, had ever done it. Add to this, the more than common Lisideius, after some modest denials, at emulation that was in those times, of last confessed he had a rude notion of it; writing well; which though it be found indeed rather a description than a defini- 45 in all ages and all persons that pretend tion ; but which served to guide him in his to the same reputation, yet poesy being private thoughts, when he was to make a then in more esteem than now it is, had judgment of what others writ; that he greater honors decreed to the professors conceived a play ought to be, * A just and of it, and consequently the rivalship was lively image of human nature, represent- 5o rnore high between them. They had ing its passions and humors, and the judges ordained to decide their merit, and changes of fortune to which it is subject, prizes to reward it ; and historians have for the delight and instruction of man- been diligent to record of ^schylus, kind.' Euripides, Sophocles, Lycophron, and the This definition (though Crites raised a 55 rest of them, both who they were that logical objection against it — that it was vanquished in these wars of the theater, only a genere et fine, and so not alto- and how often they were crowned ; while gether perfect) was yet well received by the Asian kings and Grecian common- AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY 279 wealths scarce afforded them a nobler the famous rules which the French call subject than the unmanly luxuries of a les trois unites, or the three unities, debauched court, or giddy intrigues of a which ought to be observed in every reg- factious city. Alit aemulatio ingenia, ular play; namely, of time, place, and (says Paterculus) et nunc invidia, nunc 5 action. admiratio incitationem accendit: Emula- The unity of time they comprehend in tion is the spur of wit ; and sometimes twenty-four hours, the compass of a envy, sometimes admiration, quickens our natural day, or as near as it can be con- endeavors, trived; and the reason of it is obvious But now since the rewards of honor 10 to every one, — that the time of the are taken away, that virtuous emulation feigned action, or fable of the play, is turned into direct malice; yet so sloth- should be proportioned as near as can be ful, that it contents itself to condemn and to the duration of that time in which it cry down others, without attempting to is represented. Since therefore all plays do better. 'T is a reputation too un- 15 are acted on the theater in a space of profitable, to take the necessary pains for time much within the compass of twenty- it; yet wishing they had it, that desire four hours, that play is to be thought the is incitement enough to hinder others nearest imitation of nature, whose plot from it. And this, in short, Eugenius, or action is confined within that time, is the reason, why you have now so few 20 And by the same rule which concludes good poets, and so many severe judges, this general proportion of time, it follows Certainly, to imitate the ancients well, that all the parts of it are (as near as much labor and long study is required; may be) to be equally subdivided; ■which pains, I have already shown, our namely, that one act take not up the sup- poets would want encouragement to take, 25 posed time of half a day, which is out of if yet they had ability to go through the proportion to the rest; since the other work. Those ancients have been faith- four are then to be straitened within the ful imitators, and wise observers of that compass of the remaining half: for it is nature which is so torn and ill repre- unnatural, that one act, which being sented in our plays; they have handed 3° spoken or written, is not longer than the down to us a perfect resemblance of her ; rest, should be supposed longer by the which we, like ill copiers, neglecting to audience. It is therefore the poet's duty, look on, have rendered monstrous, and to take care, that no act should be im- disfigured. But, that you may know how agined to exceed the time in which it is much you are indebted to those your 35 represented on the stage; and that the masters, and be ashamed to have so ill intervals and inequalities of time be sup- requited them, I must remember you, that posed to fall out between the acts. all the rules by which we practise the This rule of time, how well it has drama at this day (either such as relate been observed by the ancients, most of to the justness and symmetry of the plot; 40 their plays will witness. You see them or the episodical ornaments, such as de- in their tragedies (wherein to follow this scriptions, narrations, and other beauties, rule is certainly most difficult), from the which are not essential to the play) very beginning of their plays, falling were delivered to us from the observa- close into that part of the story which tions which Aristotle made, of those 45 they intend for the action, or principal poets, who either lived before him, or object of it, leaving the former part to were his contemporaries. We have be delivered by narration : so that they added nothing of our own, except we set the audience, as it were, at the post have the confidence to say, our wit is where the race is to be concluded ; and better ; of which none boast in this our 5° saving them the tedious expectation of age, but such as understand not theirs, seeing the poet set out and ride the be- Of that book which Aristotle has left ginning of the course, they suffer you not us, irepJ rris noii;Ti/ci?s, Horace his Art to behold him, till he is in sight of the of Poetry, is an excellent comment, and, goal, and just upon you. I believe, restores to us that Second 55 For the second unity, which is that of Book of his concerning comedy, which is place, the ancients meant by it, that the wanting in him. scene ought to be continued through the Out of these two have been extractor! play, in the same place where it was laid 28o JOHN DRYDEN in the beginning; for the stage, on which Iiappily expresses in the name of under- it is represented, being but one and the plots: such as in Terence's Eunuch is the same phice, it is unnatural to conceive difference and reconcilement of Thais and it many; and those far distant from one Pha^dria, which is not the chief business another. I will not deny, but by the 5 of the play, but promotes the marriage of variation of painted scenes, the fancy Ch.-crea and Chrcmes's sister, principally (which in these cases will contribute to intended by the ])oct. There ought to be its own deceit) may sometimes imagine but one action (says Corneille), that is, it several places, with some appearance one complete action, which leaves the of probabilitv; yet it still carries the lo mind of the audience in a full repose; but greater likelihood of truth, if those places this cannot be brought to pass, but by be supposed so near each other, as in tlie many other imperfect actions, which con- same town or city, which may all be com- duce to it, and hold the audience in a de- prehended under the larger denomination lightful suspense of what will be. of one place; for a greater distance will is If by these rules (to omit many other bear no proportion to the shortness of drawn from the precepts and practice of time which is allotted, in the acting, to the ancients) we should judge our mod- pass from one of them to another. For ern plays, 't is probable that few of them the observation of this, next to the an- would endure the trial : that which should cients, the French are to be most com- 20 be the business of a day, takes up in some mended. They tie themselves so strictly of them an age ; instead of one action, to the unity of place, that you never see they are the ei)itomes of a man's life, and in any of their plays, a scene changed in for one spot of ground (which the stage the middle of an act: if the act begins should represent) we are sometimes in in a garden, a street, or chamber, 't is 25 more countries than the map can show ended in the same place ; and that you us. may know it to be the same, the stage But if we allow the ancients to have is so supplied with persons, that it is contrived well, we must acknowledge never empty all the time : he who enters them to have written better. Question- second, has business with him who was 30 less we are deprived of a great stock of on before; and before the second quits wit in the loss of Menander among the the stage, a third appears who has busi- Greek poets, and Caecilius, Afranius, ness with him. This Corneille calls la and Varius, among the Romans. We liaison des scenes, the continuity or join- may guess at Menander's excellency, by ing of the scenes; and 'tis a good mark 35 the plays of Terence, who translated of a well-contrived play, when all the some of them ; and yet wanted so much of persons are known to each other, and him, that he was called by C. Caesar every one of them has some affairs with the half-Menander ; and may judge of all the rest. \'arius, by the testimonies of Horace, As for the third unity, which is that 40 Martial, and Velleius Paterculus. 'T is of action, the ancients meant no other by probable that these, could they be recov- it than what the logicians do by their ered, would decide the controversy ; but finis, the end or scope of any action; that so long as Aristophanes and Plautus arc which is the first in intention, and last extant, while the tragedies of Euripides, in execution. Now the poet is to aim 45 Sophocles, and Seneca, are in our hands, at one great and complete action, to the I can never see one of those plays which carrying on of which all things in his are now written, but it increases my ad- play, even the very obstacles, are to be miration of the ancients. And yet I must subservient; and the reason of this is as acknowledge further, that to admire them evident as any of the former. 5° as we ought, we should understand them For two actions equally labored and better than we do. Doubtless many driven on by the writer, would destroy things appear fiat to us, the wit of which the unity of the poem; it would be no depended on some custom or story, which longer one play, but two: not but that never came to our knowledge; or perhaps there may be many actions in a play, as 55 on some criticism in their language, Ben Jonson has observed in his Dis- which being so long dead, and only re- coveries; but they must be all subservient maining in their books, 't is not possible to the great one, which our language they should make us understand perfectly j\i\ uss/M ur jjK/\Mi\ i iu ruiiDi To read Macrobius, explaining the pro- priety and elegancy of many words in Virgil, which I had before passed over without consideration, as common things, is enough to assure me, that I ought to think the same of Terence; and that ii the purity of his style (which Tully so much valued, that he ever carried his works about him), there is yet left in liim great room for admiration, if I knew but where to place it. In the meantime, T must desire you to take notice, that the greatest man of the last age (Ben Jonson) was willing to give place to them in all things : he was not only a professed imitator of Horace, but a learned plagiary of all the others ; you track him every- where in their snow. If Horace, Lucan, Petronius Arbiter, Seneca, and Juvenal, had their own from him, there are few serious thoughts which are new in him ; you will pardon me, therefore, if I pre- sume he loved their fashion, when he wore their clothes. But since I have otherwise a great veneration for him, and you, Eugenius, prefer him above all other poets, I will use no farther argument to you than his example : I will produce before you Father Ben, dressed in all the ornaments and colors of the ancients; you will need no other guide to our party, if you follow him; and whether you con- sider the bad plays of our age, or regard the good plays of the last, both the best and worst of the modern poets will equally instruct you to admire the an- cients. Crites had no sooner left speaking, but Eugenius, who had waited with some im- patience for it, thus began : — I have observed in your speech, that the former part of it is convincing, as to what the moderns have profited by the rules of the ancients; but in the latter you are careful to conceal how much they have excelled them. We own all the helps we have from them, and want neither veneration nor gratitude, while we acknowledge that to overcome them we must make use of the advantages we have received from them ; but to these assistances we have joined our own industry ; for, had we sat down with a dull imitation of them, we might then have lost somewhat of the old perfec- tion, but never acquired any that was new. We draw not therefore after their lines, but those of nature; and having the life before us, besides the experience of all they knew, it is no wonder if we hit some airs and features which they have missed. I deny not what you urge S of arts and sciences, that they have flourished in some ages more than others ; Init your instance in philosophy makes for me : for if natural causes be more known now than in the time of Aristotle, 10 because more studied, it follows that poesy and other arts may, with the same pains, arrive still nearer to perfection ; and, that granted, it will rest for you to prove that they wrought more perfect 15 images of human life, than we; which seeing in your discourse you have avoided to make good, it shall now be my task to show you some part of their defects, and some few excellencies of the moderns. 20 And I think there is none among us can imagine I do it enviously, or with pur- pose to detract from them ; for what in- terest of fame or profit can the living lose by the reputation of the dead? On 25 the other side, it is a great truth which \>lleius Paterculus affirms: Audita vi- sis libentius laudamiis; et praesentia invidia, practerita admirationc proseqiii- tniir; ct his nos obrni, illis instrui credi- 30 rniis [We praise things reported more v.illiiigly than those seen ; and things of the present we pursue with envy, those of tlie past with admiration, believing our- selves to be hindered by the former and 35 helped by the latter]. That praise or censure is certainly the most sincere, which unbribed posterity shall give us. Be pleased then, in the first place, to take notice, that the Greek poesy, which 40 Crites has affirmed to have arrived to perfection in the reign of the old comedy, was so far from it, that the distinction of it into acts was not known to them; 01 if it were, it is yet so darkly delivered to 45 us, that we cannot make it out. All we know of it is, from the singing of their chorus; and that too is so un- certain, that in some of their plays we have reason to conjecture they sung more 50 than five times. Aristotle indeed di- vides the integral parts of a play into four. First, the Protasis, or entrance, which gives light only to the characters of the persons, and proceeds very little Ct into any part of the action. Secondly, the Epitasis, or working up of the plot ; where the play grows warmer, the de- sign or action of it is drawing on, and 282 JOHN DRYDEN you see something proiiiisins:^ that it will tragedies it was only some tale derived come to pass. Thirdly, the Catastasis, from Thebes or Troy, or at least some- called by the Romans, Status, the height thing that happened in those two ages; and full growth of the play: we may call which was worn so thread-bare by the it properly the counterturn, which de- 5 pens of all the epic poets, and even by stroys that expectation, embroils the tradition itself of the talkative Greek- action in new difficulties, and leaves you lings (as Ben Jonson calls them), that far distant from that hope in which it before it came upon the stage, it was found you; as you may have observed in already known to all the audience; and a violent stream, resisted by a narrow lo the people, so soon as ever they heard the passage, — it runs round to an eddy, and name of Qidipus, knew as well as carries back the waters with more swift- the poet, that he had killed his father ness than it brought them on. Lastly, by a mistake, and committed incest with the Catastrophe, which the Grecians his mother, before the play; that they called ^''(^ts, the French le denouement, 15 were now to hear of a great plague, an and we the discovery, or unraveling of oracle, and the ghost of Laius ; so that the plot : there you see all things settling they sat with a yawning kind of expecta- again upon their first foundations, and, tion, till he was to come with his eyes the obstacles which hindered the design pulled out, and speak a hundred or more or action of the play once removed, it 20 verses in a tragic tone, in complaint of ends with that resemblance of truth and his misfortunes. But one CEdipus, Her- nature, that the audience are satisfied cules, or Medea, had been tolerable ; poor with the conduct of it. Thus this great people, they escaped not so good cheap ; man delivered to us the image of a play; they had still the chapon bouille [boiled and I must confess it is so lively, that 25 chicken] set before them, till their ap- from thence much light has been derived petites were cloyed with the same dish, to the forming it more perfectly into and, the novelty being gone, the pleasure acts and scenes; but what poet first vanished; so that one main end of dra- limited to five the number of the acts, matic poesy in its definition, which was to I know not ; only we see it so firmly 30 cause delight, was of consequence de- established in the time of Horace, that stroyed. he gives it for a rule in comedy: — Neu In their comedies, the Romans gen- hrevior quinto, neu sit productior actu erally borrowed their plots from the [Let it be neither shorter nor longer than Greek poets ; and theirs was commonly five acts]. So that you see the Grecians 35 a little girl stolen or wandered from her cannot be said to have consummated this parents, brought back unknown to the art; writing rather by entrances, tfian by city, there got with child by some lewd acts, and having rather a general indi- young fellow, who, by the help of his gested notion of a play, than knowing servant, cheats his father ; and when her how, and where to bestow the particular 40 time comes to cry Juno Lucina, fer opcm graces of it. [Help me, O goddess of childbearing] ! But since the Spaniards at this day one or other sees a little box or cabinet allow but three acts, which they call which was carried away with her, and so jornadas, to a play, and the Italians in discovers her to her friends, if some god many of theirs follow them, when I con- 45 do not prevent it. by coming down in a demn the ancients, I declare it is not al- machine, and taking the thanks of it to together because they have not five acts himself. to every play, but because they have not By the plot you may guess much of the confined themselves to one certain num- characters of the persons. An old father, ber; it is building a house without a 50 who would willingly, before he dies, see model; and when they succeeded in such his son well married; his debauched son, undertakings, they ought to have sacri- kind in his nature to his mistress, but ficed to Fortune, not to the Muses. miserably in want of money; a servant or Next, for the plot, which Aristotle slave, who has so much wit to strike in called TO fivBo';, and often tmv irpayixdrMviS with him, and help to dupe his father; a (rvv^eais, and from him the Romans Fahula, braggadocio captain, a parasite, and a it has already been judiciously ob- lady of pleasure. served by a late writer, that in their As for the poor honest maid, on whom the story is built, and who ought to be si court [This is making good use of one of the principal actors in the play, so short a time], says the French poet, she is commonly a mute in it; she has who furnished me with one of the ob- the breeding of the old Elizabeth way, servations : and almost all their tragedies which was for maids to be seen, and not ^ will afford us examples of the like nature. to be heard; and it is enough you know It is true, they have kept the continuity, she is willing to be married, when the or, as you called it, liaison des scenes, fifth act requires it. somewhat better: two do not perpetually These are plots built after the Italian come in together, talk, and go out togeth- mode of houses, — you see through them lo er ; and other two succeed them, and do all at once; the characters are indeed the the same throughout the act, which the imitations of nature, but so narrow, as English call by the name of single scen-^s; if they had imitated only an eye or an but the reason is, because they have sel- hand, and did not dare to venture on the dom above two or three scenes, properly lines of a face, or the proportion of a 15 so called, in every act ; for it is to be body. accounted a new scene, not only every But in how straight a compass soever time the stage is empty, but every per- they have bounded their plots and char- son who enters, though to others, makes acters, we will pass it by, if they have reg- it so; because he introduces a new busi- ularly pursued them, and perfectly £o ness. Now the plots of their plays being observed those three unities of time, narrow, and the persons few, one of their place, and action; the knowledge of acts was written in a less compass than which you say is derived to us from them, one of our well-wrought scenes; and yet But, in the first place, give me leave to they are often deficient even in this. To tell you, that the unity of place, however 25 go no farther than Terence, you find in it might be practised by them, was never the Eunuch, Antipho entering single in any of their rules : we neither find it in the midst of the third act, after Chremes Aristotle, Horace, or any who have writ- and Pythias were gone off: in the same ten of it, till in our age the French poets play you have likewise Dorias beginning first made it a precept of the stage. The 30 the fourth act alone ; and after she has unity of time, even Terence himself, who made a relation of what was done at was the best and most regular of them, the Soldier's entertainment (which by has neglected : his H eautontimornmenos, the way was very inartificial, because she or Self-punisher, takes up visibly two was presumed to speak directly to the days, says Scaliger; the two first acts 35 audience, and to acquaint them with what concluding the first day, the three last was necessary to be known, but yet the day ensuing; and Euripides, in tying should have been so contrived by the himself to one day, has committed an poet, as to have been told by persons absurdity never to be forgiven him; for of the drama to one another, and so by in one of his tragedies he has made 40 them to have come to the knowledge of Theseus go from Athens to Thebes, the people), she quits the stage, and which was about forty English miles, Phsedria enters next, alone likewise : he under the walls of it to give battle, and also gives you an account of himself, and appear victorious in the next act; and of his returning from the country, in yet, from the time of his departure to 45 monologue ; to which unnatural way of the return of the Nuntius, who gives the narration Terence is subject in all his relation of his victory, ^thra and the plays. In his Adelphi, or Brothers, Chorus have but thirty-six verses ; which Syrus and Demea enter after the scene is not for every mile a verse. was broken by the departure of Sostrata, The like error is as evident in Terence 50 Geta, and Canthara ; and indeed you can his Etmiich, when Laches, the old man, scarce look into any of his comedies, enters by mistake into the house of where you will not presently discover the Thais; where, betwixt his exit, and the same interruption. entrance of Pythias, who comes to give But as they have failed both in laying ample relation of the disorders he has 55 of their plots, and in the management, raised within, Parmeno, who was left swerving from the rules of their own upon the stage, has not above five lines art. by misrepresenting nature to us, in to speak. C'est bien employer un temps which they have ill satisfied one intention 284 JOHN DRYDEN of a play, which was dchght ; so in the both l'"rench and English, ought to give instructive part they have erred worse: place to him? instead of punishing vice, and rewarding I fear (replied Neander) that, in obey- virtue, they have often shown a prosper- ing your commands, I shall draw some ous wickedness, and an unhappy piety: 5 envy on myself. Besides, in performing they have set before us a bloody image lliem, it will be first necessary to speak of revenge in Medea, and given her somewhat of Shakspere and Fletcher, his dragons to convey her safe from punish- rivals in poesy; and one of them, in my ment; a Priam and Astyanax murdered, opinion, at least his equal, perhaps his and Cassandra ravished, and the lust and 10 superior. murder ending in the victory of him who To begin then with Shakspere. He acted them. In short, there is no in- was the man who of all modern, and per- decorum in any of our modern plays, haps ancient poets, had the largest and which, if I would excuse, I could not most comprehensive soul. All the images shadow with some authority from the 15 of nature were still present to him, and ancients. lie drew them not laboriously, but luckily: And one further note of them let me when he describes anything, you more leave you : tragedies and comedies were than see it, you feel it too. Those who not writ then, as they are now, promiscu- accuse him to have wanted learning, give ously, by the same person ; but he who 20 him the greater commendation : he was found his genius bending to the one, naturally learned; he needed not the never attempted the other way. This is spectacles of books to read nature ; he so plain, that I need not instance to you looked inwards, and found her there. I that Aristophanes, Plautus, Terence, cannot say he is everywhere alike; were never, any of them, writ a tragedy ; 25 he so, I should do him injury to compare iEschylus, Euripides, Sophocles, and him with the greatest of mankind. He Seneca never meddled with comedy. is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit The sock and buskin were not worn by degenerating into clenches, his serious the same poet. Having, then, so much swelling into bombast. But he is al- care to excel in one kind, very little is 30 ways great, when some great occasion is to be pardoned them if they miscarried presented to him : no man can say, he in it. And this would lead me to the ever had a fit subject for his wit, and consideration of their wit, had not Crites did not then raise himself as high above given me sufficient warning not to be the rest of poets, too bold in my judgment of it; because, 35 the languages being dead, and many of Quantum lenta solvent inter viburna cup- the customs and little accidents on which ressi. it depended lost to us, we are not com- [As the cypresses tower above low-grow- petent judges of it. But though I grant ing shrubs.] that, here and there, we may miss the 4° application of a proverb or a custom, yet The consideration of this made Mr. a thing well said will be wit in all Ian- Hales of Eton say, that there was no guages; and, though it may lose some- subject of which any poet ever writ, but thing in the translation, yet to him who he would produce it much better done in reads it in the original, 't is still the 45 Shakspere ; and however others are now same : he has an idea of its excellency, generally preferred before him, yet the though it cannot pass from his mind into age wherein he lived, which had con- any other expression or words than those temporaries with him, Fletcher and Jon- in which he finds it. son, never equaled them to him in their * * * 50 esteem : and in the last king's court, when As Neander was beginning to examine Ben's reputation was at highest, Sir The Silent Woman, Eugenius, earnestly John Suckling, and with him the greater regarding him : I beseech you, Neander part of the courtiers, set our Shakspere (said he), gratify the company, and me far above him. in particular, so far as, before you speak 55 Beaumont and Fletcher, of whom I am of the play, to give us a character of the next to speak, had with the advantage author; and tell us frankly your opinion, of Shakspere's wit, which was their whether you do not think all writers, precedent, great natural gifts, improved I k by study; Beaumont especially being so him; but something of art was wanting accurate a judge of plays, that Ben Jon- to the drama, till he came. He managed son, while he lived, submitted all his writ- his strength to more advantage than any ings to his censure, and 'tis thought, who preceded him. You seldom find him used his judgment in correcting, if not 5 making love in any of his scenes, or en- contriving all his plots. What value he deavoring to move the passions; his had for him, appears by the verses he genius was too sullen and saturnine to do writ to him; and therefore I need speak it gracefully, especially when he knew he no farther of it. The first play that came after those wlio had performed both brought Fletcher and him in esteem, was 10 to such a height. Humor was his their Philastcr; for before that, they had proper sphere; and in that he delighted written two or three very unsuccessfully: most to represent mechanic people. He as the like is reported of Ben Jonson, was deeply conversant in the ancients, before he writ Every Man in his Humor. both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed Their plots were generally more regular 15 boldly from them : there is scarce a poet than Shakspere's, especially those which or historian among the Roman authors were made before Beaumont's death ; of those times, whom he has not trans- and they understood and imitated the lated in Scjanits and Catiline. But he conversation of gentlemen much better ; has done his robberies so openly, that whose wild debaucheries, and quickness 20 one may see he fears not to be taxed by of wit in repartees, no poet before them any law. He invades authors like a could paint as they have done. Humor, monarch; and what would be theft in which Ben Jonson derived from particu- other poets, is only victory in him. lar persons, they made it not their busi- With the spoils of these writers he so ness to describe; they represented all 25 represents old Rome to us, in its rites, the passions very lively, but above all, ceremonies, and customs, that if one of love. I am apt to believe the English their poets had written either of his language in them arrived to its highest tragedies, we had seen less of it than in perfection; what words have since been him. If there was any fault in his Ian- taken in, are rather superfluous than 30 guage, it was, that he weaved it too ornamental. Their plays are now the closely and laboriously, in his comedies most pleasant and frequent entertain- especially: perhaps, too, he did a little nients of the stage ; two of theirs being too much Romanize our tongue, leaving acted through the year for one of Shak- the words which he translated almost as spere's or Jonson's : the reason is, because 35 much Latin as he found them; wherein, there is a certain gaiety in their come- tliough he learnedly followed their Ian- dies, and pathos in their more serious guage, he did not enough comply with plays, which suits generally with all the idiom of ours. If I would compare men's humors. Shakspere's language is him with Shakspere, I must acknowledge likewise a little obsolete, and Ben Jon- 40 him the more correct poet, but Shak- son's wit comes short of theirs. spere the greater wit. Shakspere was the As for Jonson, to whose character I Homer, or father of our dramatic poets : am now arrived, if we look upon him Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of while he was himself (for his last plays elaborate writing; I admire him, but I were but his dotages), I think him the 45 love Shakspere. To conclude of him; as most learned and judicious writer which he has given us the most correct plays, any theater ever had. He was a most so in the precepts which he has laid down severe judge of himself, as well as in his Discoveries, we have as many and others. One cannot say he wanted wit, profitable rules for perfecting the stage, but rather that he was frugal of it. In so as any w^herewith the French can furnish his works you find little to retrench or us. alter. Wit and language, and humor * * * (1667) also in some measure, we had before 55 DANIEL DEFOE (1661-1731) Defoe was the son of a nonconformist butcher, and attended a dissenting school, where, according to his own account, he received a sound training in English and other modern languages as well as in the classics ; his master, Morton, was a man of advanced ideas in education, and afterwards became vice-president of Harvard University. Defoe took part in the rebellion of Monmouth, 'engaged unsuccessfully in trade, and welcomed the Revolution. When William III was attacked as a foreigner, Defoe took up his defence in a satirical poem. The True-born Englishman, which ran through twenty-one editions and was sold in thousands in the streets. He published a number of political pamphlets, and one of them, The Shortest Way with the Dissenters, was so successful in its irony that it deceived both parties into accepting it as a serious plea for high church principles. When it became known that the author was a dissenter and that the tract was really a plea for toleration, the high church party were furious at the fraud practised upon them, and the dissenters were too sore and bewildered to defend him. Defoe was fined, imprisoned, and condemned to be exposed to public derision in the pillory (1703). But the people covered the pillory with flowers, drank his health, and bought copies of his Hymn to the Pillory, in which he denounced his antagonists as ' scandals to the times,' who ' are at a loss to find his guilt, and can't commit his crimes.' Defoe was not kept long in prison, and in 1704 he began the publication of the Review, which was continued till 1713 and marks an important advance in the development of journalism. As a journalist Defoe showed unwearied diligence, unsurpassed enterprise and resourcefulness, and a keen sense of popular interest. There are few features of the modern newspaper which are not represented in his writings. He wrote sometimes for one party, sometimes for another, and for some years he conducted Tory papers in the interests of the Whig government, by which he was employed in the secret service. His style is remarkably simple and direct, and the ' stories ' he invented can hardly be distinguished from genuine narratives. Of his numer- ous works, which would make a considerable library if reprinted, the one which has earned most enduring popularity is Robinson Crusoe (1720), a realistic autobiography of a sailor cast away upon a desolate island. It has been translated into almost every literary language and has been followed by countless imitations. From THE TRUE BORN ENGLISHMAN A true born Englishman 's a contradiction ! In speech, an irony; in fact, a fiction! A banter made to be a test of fools! Which those that use it, justly ridicules ; A metaphor invented to express 5 A man akin to all the universe ! For as the Scots, as learned men have said, Throughout the world their wandering seed have spread, So open-handed England, 't is believed, Has all the gleanings of the world received. Some think, of England 'twas, our Savior meant n The Gospel should, to all the world be sent. Since, when the blessed sound did hither reach. They to all nations might be said to preach. 286 'Tis well that virtue gives nobility; iS How shall we else the want of birth and blood supply? Since scarce one family is left alive, Which does not from some foreigner de- rive. Of sixty thousand English gentlemen Whose names and arms in registers remain, We challenge all our heralds to declare 21 Ten families which English Saxons are! France justly boasts the ancient noble line Of Bourbon, Montmorency, and Lorraine. The Germans, too, their House of Austria show, 25 And Holland their invincible Nassau — Lines which in heraldry were ancient grown, Before the name of Englishman was known. Even Scotland, too, her elder glory shows! Her Gordons, Hamiltons, and hcr Monroes ; Douglas, Mackays, and Grahams, names well known 3" Long before ancient England knew her But England, modern to the last degree, Borrows or makes her own nobility; And yet she boldly boasts of pedigree! 3S Repines that foreigners are put upon her, And talks of her antiquity and honor! Her S[ackvil]les, S[avi]les, C[eci]ls, Dela- fme]res, M[ohu]ns and M[ontag]ues, D[ura]s, and V[ee]res; Not one have English names, yet all are English peers ! 40 Your Houblons, Papillons, and Lethuliers Pass now for true born English knights and squires. And make good senate members, or lord mayors. Wealth (howsoever got) in England, makes Lords, of mechanics! gentlemen, of rakes! Antiquity and birth are needless here. 46 'Tis impudence and money make a p[ee]r! THE CONCLUSION Then let us boast of ancestors no more. Or deeds of heroes done in days of yore, In latent records of the ages past, so Behind the rear of time, in long oblivion placed. For if our virtues must in lines descend, The merit with the families would end, And intermixtures would most fatal grow, For vice would be hereditary too ; 55 The tainted blood would of necessity. In voluntary wickedness convey! Vice, like ill-nature, for an age or two, May seem a generation to pursue : But virtue seldom does regard the breed, 60 Fools do the wise, and wise men fools suc- ceed. What is it to us, what ancestors we had? If good, what better? or what worse, if bad? Examples are for imitation set, Yet all men follow virtue with regret. 65 Could but our ancestors retrieve their fate, And see their offspring thus degenerate ; How we contend for birth and names un- known. And build on their past actions, not our own : They'd cancel records, and their tombs de- face, 70 And openly disown the vile degenerate race ! For fame of families is all a cheat ; 'Tis personal virtue only makes us great' (1701) THE SHORTEST WAY WITH THE DISSENTERS Sir Roger L' Estrange tells us a story in his collection of Fables, of the cock and the horses. The cock was gotten to roost in the stable among the horses; and there being no racks or other con- veniences for him, it seems he vi'as forced to roost upon the ground. The horses jostling about for room and put- ting the cock in danger of his life, he gives them this grave advice, ' Pray, gentlefolks ! let us stand still ! for fear we should tread upon one another ! ' There are some people in the world, who, now they are unperched, and re- duced to an equality with other people, and under strong and very just appre- hensions of being further treated as they deserve, begin with Esop's cock, to preach up peace and union and the christian duty of moderation ; forgetting that when they had the power in their hands, those graces were strangers in their gates ! It is now near fourteen years, that the glory and peace of the purest and most flourishing church in the world has been eclipsed, buffeted, and disturbed by a sort of men whom God in his provi- dence has suffered to insult over her, and bring her down. These have been the days of her humiliation and tribula- tion. She has borne with an invincible patience the reproach of the wicked; and God has at last heard her prayers, and delivered her from the oppression of the stranger. And now, they find their day is over, their power gone, and the throne of this nation possessed by a royal, English, true, and ever constant member of, and friend to, the Church of England. Now ll^ey find that they are in danger of the Church of England's just resentments. Now, they cry out, ' Peace ! ' ' Union ! ' ' Forbearance !'' and ' Charity ! ' : as if the Church had not too long harbored her enemies under her wing, and nourished the viperous brood, till they hiss and fly in the face of the mother that cherished them ! zoo i^/\iNiiLi^ unrv^ii No, gentlemen, the time of mercy is ecution of ilie known laws of the land, past, your day of grace is over, you and that with but a gentle hand neither, should have practised peace, and modera- was all that the fanatical party of this tion, and charity, if you exj)ccted any land have ever called persecution. This yourselves. 5 they have magnified to a height that the We have heard none of this lesson sufferings of the Huguenots in France for fourteen years past. We have been were not to be compared with them, huffed and bullied with your Act of Tol- Now to execute the known laws of a eration. You have told us you are the nation upon those who transgress them. Church established by law, as well as lo after having first been voluntarily con- others ; have set up your canting syna- scnting to the making of those laws, can gogues at our church doors; and the never be called persecution, but justice. Church and her members have been But justice is always violence to the loaded with reproaches, with oaths, as- party offending, for every man is inno- sociations, abjurations, and what not ! 15 cent in his own eyes. Where has been the mercy, the forbear- The first execution of the laws against ance, the charity you have shown to Dissenters in England was in the days of tender consciences of the Church of Eng- King James I ; and what did it amount land that could not take oaths as fast to? Truly, the worst they suffered was, as you made them ; that, having sworn 20 at their own request, to let them go to allegiance to their lawful and rightful New England, and erect a new colony; king, could not dispense with that oath, and give them great privileges, grants, their king being still alive, and swear and suitable powers ; keep them under to your new hodge-podge of a Dutch protection, and defend them against all government? These have been turned 25 invaders; and receive no taxes or revenue out of their livings, and they and their from them ! families left to starve; their estates This was the cruelty of the Church of double taxed to carry on a war they had England. Fatal lenity ! It was the ruin no hand in, and you got nothing by ! of that excellent prince. King Charles L What account can you give of the 3° Had King James sent all the Puritans in multitudes you have forced to comply, England away to the West Indies, we had against their consciences, with your new been a national unmixed church. The sophistical politics, who, like new con- Church of England had been kept un- verts in France, sin because they can- divided and entire ! not starve? And now the tables are 35 To requite the lenity of the father, they turned upon you, you must not be per- take up arms against the son, conquer, secuted ! It is not a christian spirit ! pursue, take, imprison, and at last put You have butchered one king, deposed to death the anointed of God, and destroy another king, and made a mock king the very being and nature of government : of a third, and yet, you could have the 40 setting up a sordid impostor, who had face to expect to be employed and trusted neither title to govern, nor understand- by the fourth ! Anybody that did not ing to manage, but supplied that want, know the temper of your party, would with power, bloody and desperate coun- stand amazed at the impudence as well sels and craft, without conscience, as the folly to think of it ! 45 Had not King James I withheld the Your management of your Dutch mon- full execution of the laws : had he given arch, whom you reduced to a mere King them strict justice, he had cleared the of Clubs, is enough to give any future nation of them ! And the consequences princes such an idea of your principles had been plain ; his son had never been as to warn them sufficiently from com- 5° murdered by them, nor the monarchy ing into your clutches ; and, God be overwhelmed. It was too much mercy thanked, the Queen is out of your hands, shown them that was the ruin of his knows you, and will have a care of you ! posterity, and the ruin of the nation's There is no doubt but the supreme peace. One would think the Dissenters authority of a nation has in itself aSS should not have the face to believe that power, and a right to that power, we are to be wheedled and canted into to execute the laws upon any part peace and toleration, when they know of that nation it governs. The ex- that they have once requited us with a civil war, and once with an intolerable mistaken prince, thinking to win them by and unrighteous persecution, for our gentleness and love, proclaimed a uni- former civility. versal liberty to them, and rather dis- Nay, to encourage us to be easy with countenanced the Church of England them, it is apparent that they never had 5 than them. How they requited him, all the upper hand of the Church but they the world knows ! treated her witli all the severity, with all The late reign is too fresh in the mem- the reproach and contempt as was pos- ory of all the world to need a comment. sil)le ! What peace and what mercy did How under pretense of joining with the they show the loyal gentry of the Church lo Church in redressing some grievances, of England, in the time of their trium- they pushed things to that extremity, in phant Commonwealth ? How did they conjunction with some mistaken gentle- put all the gentry of England to ran- men, as to depose the late king; as if som, whether they were actually in arms the grievance of the nation could not for the king or not, making people com- 15 have been redressed but by the absolute pound for their estates, and starve their ruin of the prince. families ! How did they treat the clergy Here is an instance of their temper, of the Church of England, sequester the their peace, and charity ! ministers, devour the patrimony of the To what height they carried them- Church and divide the spoil, by sharing 20 selves during the reign of a king of their the Church lands among their soldiers, own, how they crept into all places of and turning her clergy out to starve! trust and profit; how they insinuated Just such measure as they have meted, themselves into the favor of the king, and should be measured to them again ! were at first preferred to the highest Charity and love is the known doctrine 25 places in the nation, how they engrossed of the Church of England, and it is plain the ministry; and, above all, how pit- she has put it in practise towards the ifuUy they managed, is too plain to need Dissenters, even beyond what they ought, any remarks. till she has been wanting to herself, and But particularly, their mercy and char- in effect unkind to her own sons; par- 3o ity, the spirit of union they tell us so ticularly, in the too much lenity of King much of, has been remarkable in Scot- James I, mentioned before. Had he so land. H any man would see the spirit of rooted the Puritans from the face of a Dissenter, let him look into Scotland, the land, which he had an opportunity There, they made entire conquest of the early to have done, they had not had 35 Church, trampled down the sacred or- the power to vex the Church, as since ders and suppressed the episcopal gov- they have done. ernment, with an absolute, and, as they In the days of King Charles H, how supposed, irretrievable victory; though it did the Church reward their bloody do- is possible they may find themselves mis- ings with lenity and mercy ! Except the 40 taken ! barbarous regicides of the pretended Now it would be a very proper ques- court of justice, not a soul suffered for tion to ask their impudent advocate, the all the blood in an unnatural war. King Observator, ' Pray how nmch mercy and Charles came in all mercy and love, favor did the members of the Episcopal cherished them, preferred them, em- 45 Church find in Scotland from the ployed them, withheld the rigor of the Scotch Presbyterian government?' And law and oftentimes, even against the I shall undertake for the Church of Eng- advice of his Parliament, gave them lib- land, that the Dissenters shall still re- erty of conscience; and how did they ceive as much here, though they de- requite him? With the villainous con- 50 serve but little. trivance to depose and murder him and In a small treatise of The Sufferings his successor, at the Rye House Plot ! of the Episcopal Clergy in Scotland, 't King James II, as if mercy was the will appear what usage they met with, inherent quality of the family, began his How they not only lost their livings; reign with unusual favor to them. Nor 55 but, in several places, were plundered could their joining with the Duke of and abused in their persons, the ministers Monmouth against him, move him to do that could not conform, were turned out, himself justice upon them. But that with numerous families and no mainte- 19 290 DANIEL DEFOE nance, and hardly charity enough left to heartily about the work, and come off relieve them with a bit of bread. The from them, as some animals, which they cruelties of the party were innumerable, say, always desert a house when it is and arc not to be attcmi)tcd in this short likely to fall, piece. S Secondly. The more numerous, the And now, to prevent the distant cloud more danoerous ; and therefore the more which they perceive to hang over their need to suppress them; and God has suf- heads from England, with a true Presby- fered us to bear them as goads in our terian policy, they put in for a union of sides, for not utterly extinguishing them nations — that England might unite their lo long ago. Church with the Kirk of Scotland, and Thirdly. If we are to allow them, only their- assembly of Scotch canting long- because wc cannot suppress them; then it cloaks in our convocation. What might ought to be tried, whether we can or not? have been, if our fanatic Whiggish states- And I am of opinion it is easy to be men continued, God only knows ; but we i^ done, and could prescribe ways and means, hope we are out of fear of that now. if it were proper: but I doubt not the It is alleged by some of the faction, government will find effectual methods and they have begun to bully us whh it, for the rooting of the contagion from the that ' if we won't unite with them, they face of this land. will not settle the Crown with us again ; 20 Another argument they use, which is but when her Majesty dies, will choose a this. That this is a time of war, and king for themselves ! ' we have need to unite against the com- If they won't, we must make them; mon enemy, and it is not the first time we have let We answer, this common enemy had them know that w-e arc able. The 25 been no enemy, if they had not made crowns of these kingdoms have not so him so. He was quiet, in peace, and no far disowned the right of succession, but way disturbed and encroaclicd upon us; they may retrieve it again; and if Scot- and we know no reason we had to quar- land thinks to come off from a succes- rel with him. sive to an elective state of government, 3° But further. We make no question England has not promised, not to as- but we are able to deal with this com- sist the right heir, and put him into pos- mon enemy without their help: but why session, without any regards to their must we unite with them, because of the ridiculous settlements. enemy? Will they go over to the enemy. These are the gentlemen! these, their 3S if we do not prevent it, by a union with ways of treating the Church, both at home them ? We are very well contented they and abroad ! should, and make no question, we shall Now let us examine the reasons they be ready to deal with them and the com- pretend to give, why we should be favor- mon enemy too; and better without them able to them ; why we should continue 40 than with them. Besides, if we have a and tolerate them among us. common enemy, there is the more need First. They are very numerous, they to be secure against our private enemies, say. They are a great part of the nation. If there is one common enemy, we have and we cannot suppress them ! the less need to have an enemy in our To this, may be answered : 45 bowels I First. They are not so numerous as the It was a great argument some people Protestants in France : and yet the used against suppressing the old money. French king effectually cleared the na- that ' it was a time of war, and it was tion of them at once ; and we don't find too great a risk for the nation to run. he misses them at home ! ^° If we should not master it, w^e should be But I am not of the opinion they are so undone ! ' And yet the sequel proved the numerous as is pretended. Their party hazard was not so great, but it might be is more numerous than their persons ; and mastered, and the success w^as answer- those mistaken people of the Church who able. The suppressing the Dissenters is are misled and deluded by their wheedling 5S not a harder work, nor a work of less artifices to join with them, make thc'r necessity to the public. We can never party the greater: but those will open enjoy a settled, uninterrupted union and their eyes when the government shall set tranquillity in this nation, till the spirit of Whiggism, faction, and schism is senters, and therefore it is time enough, melted down Hke the old money ! But this is a weak answer. For first : To talk of difficulty is to frighten our- if the danger be real, the distance of it selves with chimeras and notions of a is no argument against, but rather a spur powerful party, which are indeed a party 5 to quicken us to prevention, lest it be too without power. Difficulties often appear late hereafter. greater at a distance than when they are And secondly: here is the opportunity, searched into with judgment, and dis- and the only one, perhaps, that ever the tinguished from the vapors and shadows Church had to secure herself and destroy that attend them. lo her enemies. We are not to be frightened with it! The representatives of the nation have This age is wiser than that, by all our now an opportunity. The time is come own experience, and theirs too ! King which all good men have wished for, Charles I had early suppressed this party, that the gentlemen of England may serve if he had taken more deliberate measures. 15 the Church of England, now they are In short, it is not worth arguing, to talk protected and encouraged by a Church of of their arms. Their Monmouths and England queen ! Shaftesburys and Argyles are gone ! What will you do for your sister in the Their Dutch sanctuary is at an end! day that she shall be spoken for? Heaven has made way for their destruc- 20 If ever you will establish the best chris- tion, and if we do not close with the tian church in the world ; if ever you will divine occasion, we are to blame our- suppress the spirit of enthusiasm; if ever selves ! and may hereafter remember that you will free the nation from the viperous we had, once, an ojiportunity to serve the brood that have so long sucked the blood Church of England, by extirpating her 25 of their mother; if ever you will leave implacable enemies; and having let slip your posterity free from faction and re- the minute that Heaven presented, may hellion, this is the time ! This is the time experimentally complain, post est occasio to pull up this heretical weed of sedition, calva [opportunity is bald behind]. that has so long disturl^cd the peace of Here are some popular objections in 3° the Church, and poisoned the good corn ! the way. But, says another hot and cold objector. As first, the queen has promised this is renewing fire and faggot, reviv- them to continue them in their tolerated ing the Act, de herctico comburendo [for liberty; and has told us she will be a the burning of heretics]. This will be religious observer of her word. 35 cruelty in its nature, and barbarous to all What her Majesty will do we cannot the world, help, but what, as the head of the Church, I answer, it is cruelty to kill a snake she ought to do, is another case. Her or a toad in cold blood, but the poison of Majesty has promised to protect and de- their nature makes it a charity to our fend the Church of England, and if she 40 neighbors to destroy those creatures, not cannot effectually do that without the for any personal injury received, but for destruction of the Dissenters, she must, prevention ; not for the evil they have of course, dispense with one promise to done, but the evil they may do. Serpents, comply with another. toads, vipers, etc., are noxious to the But to answer this cavil more effectu- 45 body, and poison the sensitive life: thcFe ally. Her Majesty did never promise to poison the soul, corrupt our posterity, en- maintain the toleration to the destruction snare our children, destroy the vitals of of the Church ; but it was upon supposi- our happiness, our future felicity, and tion that it may be compatible with the contaminate the whole mass ! well-being and safety of the Church, 5o Shall any law be given to such wild which she had declared she would take creatures? Some beasts are for sport, especial care of. Now if these two in- and the huntsmen give them the advan- terests clash, it is plain her Majesty's tages of ground, but some are knocked on intentions are to uphold, protect, defend, the head by all possible ways of violence and establish the Church; and this, we 55 and surprise. conceive, is impossible. I do not prescribe fire and faggot ; but Perhaps it may be said, that the Church as Scipio said of Carthage, Dclciida est is in no immediate danger from the Dis- Carthago [Carthage must be destroyed] ! 292 DANIEL DEFOE they are to be rooted out of this nation, fines were the reward of going to a con- if ever we will live in peace, serve God, venticle to preach or hear, tlicre would or enjoy our own. As for the manner, not be so many sufferers. The spirit of I leave it to those hands who have a right martyrdom is over. They that will go to to execute God's justice on the nation's 5 church to be chosen sheriffs and mayors, and the Church's enemies. would go to forty churches rather than be But if we must be frighted from this hanged ! justice, under these specious pretenses, If one severe law were made and punc- and odious sense of cruelty, nothing will tually executed that whoever was found l)c effected. It will be more barbarous ,0 at a conventicle should be banished the to our own children and dear posterity, nation, and the preacher be hanged, we when they shall reproach their fathers, should soon sec an end of the tale. They as we ours, and tell us, ' You had an op- would all come to church again, and one portunity to root out this cursed race age would make us all one again, from the world under the favor and pro- ,^ To talk of five shillings a month for tcction of a true Church of England not coming to the sacrament, and one queen, and out of your foolish pity, you shilling per week, for not coming to spared them, because, forsooth, you would church : this is such a way of converting not be cruel ! And now our Church is people as was never known. This is suppressed and persecuted, our religion 20 selling them a liberty to transgress, for so trampled under foot, our estates plun- much money. dered, our persons imprisoned, and If it be not a crime, why don't we give dragged to gaols, gibbets, and scafTolds ! them full license ? And if it be, no price Your sparing this Amalekite race is our ought to compound for the committing of destruction ! Your mercy to them proves 25 it, for that is selling a liberty to people cruelty to your poor posterity ! ' to sin against God and the government. How just will such reflections be when If it be a crime of the highest conse- our posterity shall fall under the merciless quence, both against the peace and wel- clutches of this uncharitable generation; fare of the nation, the glory of God, the when our Church shall be swallowed up 30 good of the Church, and the happiness of in schism, faction, enthusiasm, and confu- the soul, let us rank it among capital sion; when our government shall be de- ofTenses, and let it receive a punishment volved upon foreigners, and our mon- in proportion to it. archy dwindled into a republic! We hang men for trifles, and banish It would be more rational for us, if we 35 them for things not worth naming; but must spare this generation, to summon that an offense against God and the our own to a general massacre; and as we Church, against the welfare of the world, have brought them into the world free, to and the dignity of religion shall be bought send them out so ; and not betray them to off for five shillings : this is such a shame destruction by our supine negligence, and 40 to a Christian government that it is with then cry, ' It is mercy ! ' regret I transmit it to posterity. Moses was a merciful meek man; and If men sin against God, affront his yet with what fury did he run through the ordinances, rebel against his church, and camp, and cut the throats of three and disobey the precepts of their superiors; thirty thousand of his dear Israelites that 45 let them suffer, as such capital crimes were fallen into idolatry. What was the deserve. So will religion flourish, and reason? It was mercy to the rest, to this divided nation be once again united, make these examples, to prevent the de- And yet the title of barbarous and struction of the whole army. cruel will soon be taken off from this law- How many millions of future souls we 50 too. I am not supposing that all the Dis- save from infection and delusion, if the senters in England should be hanged or present race of poisoned spirits were banished. But as in case of rebellions purged from the face of the land ! and insurrections, if a few of the ring- It is vain to trifle in this matter. The leaders suffer, the multitude are dis- light foolish handling of them by mulcts, 5s missed; so a fevv obstinate people being fines, etc.; 'tis their glory and their ad- made examples, there is no doubt but the vantage ! If the gallows instead of the severity of the law would find a stop in counter, and the galleys instead of the the compliance of the multitude. THE SHORTEST WAY WTiH THE DISSENTERS 293 To make the reasonableness . of this it is our own fault if ever we suffer them matter out of question, and more unan- to be so. Providence and the Church of swerably plain, let us examine for what it Eng^land seem to join in this particular, is that this nation is divided into parties that now the destroyers of the nation's and factions ; and let us see how they can 5 peace may be overturned ; and to this end, justify a separation; or we of the Church the present opportunity seems to put into of England can justify our bearing the our hands, insults and inconveniences of the party. To this end, her present Majesty seems One of their leading pastors, and a man reserved to enjoy the crown, that the of as much learning as most among them, 10 ecclesiastic as well as civil rights of the in his Anszvcr to a pamphlet entitled nation may be restored by her hand. An Enquiry into the Occasional Con- To this end, the face of affairs has re- formity, hath these words, p. 27 : — ' Do ceived such a turn in the process of a few the religion of the Church and the meet- months as never has been before. The ing houses make two religions? Wherein ir leading men of the nation, the universal do they differ? The substance of the cry of the people, the unanimous request same religion is conmion to them both, of the clergy agree in this, that the de- and the modes and accidents are the liverance of our Church is at hand ! things in which only they dift'er.' P. 28 : For this end, has Providence given — ' Thirty-nine Articles are given us for 20 such a parliament, such a convoca- the summary of our religion ; thirty-six tion, such a gentry, and such a queen, as contain the substance of it wherein we we never had before, agree ; three are additional appendices, And what may be the consequences of about which we have some differences.' a neglect of such opportunities? The Now, if, as by their. own acknowledg- 25 succession of the crown has but a dark ment, the Church of England is a true prospect. Another Dutch turn may make church, and the difference is only in a the hopes of it ridiculous, and the prac- few ' modes and accidents,' why should tice impossible. Be the house of our we expect that they will suffer the gal- future princes ever so well inclined, they lows and galleys, corporal punishment and 30 will be foreigners. Many years will be banishment, for these trifles? There is spent in suiting the genius of strangers no question, but they will be wiser. Even to this crown, and the interests of the their own principles won't bear them out nation ; and how many ages it may be be- in it. fore the English throne be filled with so They will certainly comply with the 35 much zeal and candor, so much tender- laws, and with reason. And though, at ness and hearty affection to the Church, the first, severity may seem hard, the next as we see it now covered with, who can age will feel nothing of it; the contagion imagine? will be rooted out. The disease being It is high time, then, for the friends cured, there will be no need of the opera- 40 of the Church of England to think of tion. But if they should venture to trans- building up and establishing her in such gress, and fall into the pit, all the world a manner that she may be no more in- must condemn their obstinacy, as being vaded by foreigners, nor divided by fac- without ground from their own prin- tions, schisms, and error, ciples. 45 If this could be done by gentle and easy Thus the pretense of cruelty will be methods, I should be glad : but the wound taken off, and the party actually sup- is corroded, the vitals begin to mortify, pressed, and the disquiets they have so and nothing but amputation of members often brought upon the nation, prevented. can complete the cure. All the ways of Their numbers and their wealth make 50 tenderness and compassion, all persuasive them haughty; and that is so far from arguments have been made use of in being an argument to persuade us to for- vain. bear them, that it is a warning to us. The humor of the Dissenters has so in- without any more delay, to reconcile them creased among the people, that they hold to the unity of the Church, or remove 55 the Church in defiance, and the house of them from us. God is an abomination among them. At present, Heaven be praised ! they are Nay, they have brought up their posterity not so formidable as they have been, and in such prepossessed aversion to our holy 294 DANIEL DEFOE religion, that the if;norant inoh tliink we up a standard against pride and Anti- are' all idolaters and \vorship])ers of clirist, that the posterity of the sons of Baal, and account it a sin to come within error may be rooted out from the face the walls of our churches. The primitive of this land, for ever! christians were not more shy of a heathen S (1702) temple, or of meat offered to idols, nor the Tews of swine's flesh, than some of our Dissenters are of the church and the PREFACE TO THE FIRST VOLUME divine service solemnized therein. OF THE REVIEW The obstinacy must be rooted out, with 10 the profession of it. While the genera- When authors present their works to tion are left at liberty daily to "affront the world, like a thief at the gallows, God Almighty, and dishonor his holy they make a speech to the people, worship, we are wanting in our duty to The author, indeed, has something like God, and to our mother, the Church of is this to say, too, ' Good people all, take Eno-land. warning by me ! ' I have studied to in- How can we answer it to God, to the form and to direct the world, and what Church, and to our posterity, to leave have I had for my labor? them entangled with fanaticism, error, Profit, the press would not allow; and and obstinacy, in the bowels of the na- 20 therein I am not deceived, for I expected tion; to leave them an enemy in their none. But good manners and good Ian- streets, that, in time, may involve them guage, I thought I might expect, because in the same crimes, and endanger the I gave no other; and it were but just to utter extirpation of the religion' of the treat mankind as we would be treated by nation. 25 them. But neither has this been paid What is the difference betwixt this, me, in debt to custom and civility, and being subject to the power of the How often have my ears, my hands, Church of Rome, from whence we have and my head been to be pulled off ! Im- rcformed. If one be an extreme to the potent bullies ! that attacked by truth, and one hand, and one on another, it is 30 their vices stormed, fill the air with equally destructive to the truth to have rhodomontades and indecencies; but errors settled among us, let them be of never show their faces to the resentment what nature they will. Both are enemies truth had a just cause to entertain for of our Church, and of our peace ; and them, why should it not be as criminal to admit 3s I have passed through clouds of an enthusiast as a Jesuit? Why should clamor, cavil, raillery, and objection; and the papist with his seven sacraments be have this satisfaction, that truth being worse than the Quaker with no sacra- the design, Finis coronal [The end ments at all ? Why should religious crowns the work] ! houses be more intolerable than meeting 40 I am never forward to value my own houses? performances. 'Let another man's mouth Alas, the Church of England ! What praise thee ! ' said the Wise Man ; but I with popery on one hand, and schismat- camiot but own myself infinitely pleased, ics on the other, how has she been and more than satisfied that wise men read crucified between two thieves. Now, let 45 this paper with pleasure, own the just ob- us crucify the thieves! servations in it, and have voted it useful. Let her foundations be established The first design I allow is not yet pur- upon the destruction of her enemies! sued, and indeed I must own the field is The doors of mercy being always open to so large, the design so vast, and the the returning part of the deluded people, so necessary preliminaries so many that let the obstinate be ruled with the rod of though I cannot yet pass for an old man, iron! I must be so, if I live to go through with Let all true sons of so holy and op- it. pressed a mother, exasperated by her This volume has passed through my afflictions, harden their hearts against ss descriptions of the French grandeur, with those who have oppressed her. its influence on the aflairs of Poland, And may God Almighty put it into the Sweden, and Hungary. What assaults hearts of all the friends of truth, to lift have I met with from the impatience of rKr.r iA^^j::. lu itin. KtLVliLW 295 the readers ; what uneasiness of friends, lest I was turned about to the enemy; I leave to their reading the sheets to dis- cover. How is this age unqualified to bear feeling truth, how unwilling to hear what we do not like, though ever so necessary to know ! And yet if this French monarchy were not very powerful, vastly strong, its power terrible, its increasing encroach- ing measures formidable; why do we (and justly too) applaud, extol, con- gratulate, and dignify the victorious Duke of Marlborough at such a rate? If it had been a mean and contemptible enemy, how shall we justify the English army's march through so many hazards; the nation's vast charge; the daily just concern in every article of this war; and (as I have frequently hinted), why not beat them, all this while? They who have made, or may make, an ill use of the true plan of French great- ness, which I have laid down, must place it to the account of their own corrupted prejudiced thoughts. My design is plain — to tell you the strength of your enemy, that you may fortify yourselves in due proportion, and not go out with your ten thousands against his twenty thousands. In like manner, I think myself very oddly handled in the case of the Swedes and the Hungarians. How many com- plaints of ambassadors for the one, and of fellow Protestants for the other ! And yet, after the whole story is finished, I have this felicity (than which no author can desire a greater) viz., not one thing I ever afifirmed, but was exactly true; not one conjecture have I made, but has appeared to be rational ; not one in- ference drawn, but the consequences have proved just; and not one thing guessed at, but what has come to pass. I am now come home to England, and entered a little into our own afTairs. In- deed, I have advanced some things as to trade, navies, seamen, etc., which some may think a little arrogant, because per- fectly new. But as I have offered noth- ing but what I am always ready to make appear practicable, I finish my apology by saying to the world. ' Bring me to the test ; and the rest, I leave to time.' In the bringing the story of France down to the matter of trade. I confess myself surprisingly drawn into a vast wilderness of a subject so large that I know not where it will end. The mis- fortune of which is, that thinking to have finished it with this volume, I found my- 5 self strangely deceived, and indeed amazed, when I found the story of it intended to be the end of this volume, and hardly enough of it entered upon to say it is begun. 10 However, the volume being of neces- sity to be closed, I am obliged to content myself with taking what is here as an introduction to the next volume ; and to give this notice, that the matter of our 15 English trade appears to be a thing of such consequence to be treated of, so much pretended to, and so little under- stood, that nothing could be more profit- able to the readers, more advantageous to 20 the public interest of this nation, or more suitable to the greatness of this undertak- ing, than to make an essay at the evils, causes, and remedies of our general negoce. 25 I have been confirmed in my opinion of the consequences and benefit of this un- dertaking by a crowd of entreaties from persons of the best judgment, and some of extraordinary genius in these afiairs; 30 whose letters are my authority for this clause, and whose arguments are too forcible for me to resist. And this is to me a sufficient apology for a vast digression from the affairs of 35 France, which were really in my first de- sign, and to which my title at first too straitly bound me. Whoever shall live to see this under- taking finished, if the author (or some 40 better pen after him) shall bring 20 or 30 volumes of this work on the stage, it will not look so preposterous as it seems now to have one whole volume to be employed on the most delightful as well as profit- 45 able subject of the English trade. Things at short distance look large, and public patience is generally very short ; but when remote, the case alters, and people see the reason of things in 50 themselves. It is this remote prospect of affairs which I have before me. And this makes me not so much regard the uneasiness people show at the story be- ing frequently broken abruptly, and run- ii ning great lengths before it revolves upon itself again ; but as time and the course of things will bring all about again, and make the whole to be of a piece with 296 DANIEL DEFOE itself, I am content to wait the approba- When I first found the design of this tion of the readers, till such time as the paper (which had its birth in tencbris) thing- itself forces it from the at present [in darkness], I considered it would be impatient readers. a thing very historical, very long; and Readers are strange judges when they 5 though it could be much better performed see but part of the design. It is a new than ever I was likely to do it, this age thing for an author to lay down his had such natural aversion to a solenm thoughts piece-meal. Importunate cavils and tedious affair, that however profit- assault him every day. They claim to be able, it would never be diverting, and answered to-day ! before to-morrow ! and 10 the world would never read it. are so far from staying till the story is To get over this difficulty, the secret finished, that they can hardly stay till hand (I make no doubt) that directed this their letters come to hand, but follow the birth into the world, dictated to make first with a second, that with clamor, and some sort of entertainment or amusement this sometimes with threatening scoffs, 15 at the end of every paper, upon the im- banters, and raillery ! mediate subject, then on the tongues of Thus I am letter-baited by querists; the town — which innocent diversion and I think my trouble in writing civil would hand on the more weighty and private answers to teasing and querulous serious part of the design into the heads epistles, has been equal to, if not more 20 and thoughts of those to whom it might troublesome than, all the rest of this be useful. work. Through these difficulties I steer I take this opportunity to assure the with as much temper and steadiness world that receiving or answering letters as I can. I still hope to give satisfaction of doubts, difficulties, cases, and ques- in the conclusion; and it is this alone that 25 tions, as it is a work I think myself very makes the continuing of the work toler- meanly qualified for, so it was the re- able to me. If I cannot, I have made my motest thing from my first design of any- essay. thing in the world ; and I could be If those that know these things better heartily glad, if the readers of this paper than I would bless the world with further 3° would excuse me from it yet. But I see instructions, I shall be glad to see them, it cannot be, and the world will have it and very far from interrupting or dis- done. I have therefore done my best to couraging them, as these do me. oblige them ; but as I have not one word Let not those gentlemen who are to say for my performance that way, so critics in style, in method, or manner, be 35 I leave it where I found it, a mere cir- angry, that I have never pulled off my cumstance casually and undesignedly an- cap to them, in humble excuse for my nexed to the work, and a curiosity, loose way of treating the world as to though honestly endeavored to be com- language, expression, and politeness of plied with. phrase. Matters of this nature differ 40 If the method I have taken in answer- from most things a man can write. ing questions has pleased some wiser men When I am busied writing essays and more than I expected it would, I confess matters of science, I shall address them it is one of the chief reasons why I was for their aid, and take as much care to induced to continue it. avoid their displeasure as becomes me ; 45 I have constantly adhered to this rule but when I am upon the subject of trade in all my answers (and I refer my reader and the variety of casual story, I think to his observation for the proof), that myself a little loose from the bonds of from the loosest and lightest questions. I cadence and perfections of style, and sat- endeavor to draw some useful inferences, isfy myself in my study to be explicit, 50 and, if possible, to introduce something easy, free, and very plain. And for all solid, and something solemn in applying the rest. Nee careo, nee euro [I neither it. The custom of the ancients in writing need it, nor pay attention to it] ! fables is my very ]audal)le pattern for I had a design to say something on the this; and my firm resolution, in all 1 entertaining part of this paper; but I ^'- write, to exalt virtue, expose vice, pro- have so often explained myself on that mote truth, and help men to serious re- head, that I shall not trouble the world flection, is my first moving cause, and much about it. last directed end. FROM AN ESSAY UPON PROJECTS 1 nil. E.i^u»^iA 1 iwiN wr vvvJiVllLiN 207 If any shall make ill use of, wrest, that they should 'think it a necessary wrongly interpret, wilfully or otherwise ornament to a woman? or how much mistake the honest design of this work; worse is a wise woman than a fool? or let such wait for the end, when I douht what has the woman done to forfeit the not, the author will be cleared by their 5 privilege of being taught? Does she own vote, their want of charity will ap- plague us with her pride and imperti- pear, and they be self-condemned till they nence? Why did we not let her learn, come to acknowledge their error, and that she might have had more wit? openly to justify Shall we upbraid women with folly, when Their humble servant, D. F. lo 't is only the error of this inhuman cus- I ■ (1705) toin that hindered them from being made "l wiser? The capacities of women are sup- THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN posed to be greater, and their senses 15 quicker than those of the men ; and what they might be capable of being bred to, I have often thought of it as one of is plain from some instances of female the most barbarous customs in the world, wit, which this age is not without, considering us as a civilized and a chris- which upbraids us with injustice, and tian country, that we deny the advantages 20 looks as if we denied women the advan- of learning to women. We reproach the tages of education, for fear they should sex every day with folly and imperti- vie with the men in their improve- nence; while I am confident, had they the ments. . . . advantages of education equal to us, they They should be taught all sorts of would be guilty of less than ourselves. _ 25 breeding suitable both to their genius One would wonder, indeed, how it and quality. And in particular, music should happen that women are conver- and dancing, which it would be cruelty sible at all, since they are only beholden to bar the sex of because they are their to natural parts for all their knowledge, darlings. But besides this, they should Their youth is spent to teach them to 30 be taught languages, as particularly stitch and sew, or make baubles. They French and Italian, and I would venture are taught to read, indeed, and perhaps the injury of giving a woman more to write their names, or so; and that is tongues than one. They should, as a the height of a woman's education. And particular study, be taught all the graces I would but ask any who slight the sex 3S of speech, and all the necessary air of for their understanding, what is a man conversation, which our common educa- (a gentleman, I mean) good for, that is tion is so defective in that I need not ex- taught no more ? I need not give in- pose it. They should be brought to read stances, or examine the character of a books, and especially history; and so to gentleman, with a good estate, of a good ^o read as to make them understand the family, and with tolerable parts; and ex- world, and be able to know and judge amine what figure he makes for want of of things when they hear of them, education. To such whose genius would lead them The soul is placed in the body like a to it, I would deny no sort of learning; rough diamond, and must be polished, or 45 but the chief thing, in general, is to cul- the luster of it will never appear. And tivate the understandings of the sex, that 't is manifest, that as the rational soul they may be capable of all sorts of con- distinguishes us from brutes, so educa- versation ; that their parts and judgments tion carries on the distinction, and makes being improved, they may be as profitable some less brutish than others. This is ?o in their conversation as they are pleas- too evident to need any demonstration. ant. But why then should women be denied Women, in my observation, have little the benefit of instruction? If knowledge or no difference in them, but as they are and understanding had been useless addi- or are not distinguished by education, tions to the sex, God Almighty would 55 Tempers, indeed, may in some degree in- never have given them capacities; for he fluence them, but the main distinguishing made nothing needless. Besides, I would part is their breeding, ask such, what they can see in ignorance. The whole sex are generally quick and 298 DANIEL DEFOE sharp — I believe, I may be allowed to which is seen in the world between men say, generally so: for you rarely see and women, is in their education; and them lumpish and heavy when they are this is manifested by comparing it with children, as boys will often be. If a the difference between one man or woman be well bred, and taught the 5 woman, and another. proper management of her natural wit. And herein it is that I take upon me to she proves generally very scnsilile and re- make such a bold assertion, that all the tentive. world are mistaken in their practice about And, without partiality, a woman of women. For I cannot think that God sense and maimers is the finest and most 10 Almighty ever made them so delicate, so delicate part of God's creation, the glory glorious creatures, and furnished them of her Maker, and the great instance of with such charms, so agreeal)le and so his singular regard to man, his darling delightful to mankind, with souls capable creature, to whom he gave the best gift of the same accomplishments with men; either God could bestow or man receive. 15 and all, to be only stewards of our houses, And 't is the sordidest piece of folly and cooks, and slaves. ingratitude in the world, to withhold Not that I am for exalting the female from the sex the due luster which the government in the least; but, in short, I advantages of education give to the would have men take women for com- natural beauty of their minds. 20 panions, and educate them to be fit for A woman well bred and well taught, it. A woman of sense and breeding will furnished with the additional accomplish- scorn as much to encroach upon the pre- ments of knowledge and behavior, is a rogative of man, as a man of sense will creature without comparison. Her so- scorn to oppress the weakness of the ciety is the emblem of sublimer enjoy- 25 woman. But if the women's souls were ments, her person is angelic, and her refined and improved by teaching, that conversation heavenly. She is all soft- word would be lost. To say, the weak- ness and sweetness, peace, love, wit, and ness of the sex, as to- judgment, would delight. She is every way suitable to the be nonsense ; for ignorance and folly sublimest wish ; and the man that has 30 would be no more to be found among such a one to his portion, has nothing women than men. to do but to rejoice in her, and be thank- I remember a passage, which I heard ful. from a very fine woman. She had wit On the other hand, suppose her to be and capacity enough, an extraordinary the very same woman, and rob her of the 35 shape and face, and a great fortune, but benefit of education, and it follows: — had been cloistered up all her time, and If her temper be good, want of educa- for fear of being stolen, had not had tie tion makes her soft and easy. liberty of being taught the common neces- Her wit, for want of teaching, makes sary knowledge of women's affairs. And her impertinent and talkative. 40 when she came to converse in the world Her knowledge, for want of judgment her natural wit made her so sensible of and experience, makes her fanciful and the want of education, that she gave this whimsical. short reflection on herself: 'I am If her temper be bad, want of breeding ashamed to talk with my very maids,' makes her worse ; and she grows haughty, 45 says she, ' for I don't know when they do insolent, and loud. right or wrong. I had more need go to If she be passionate, want of manners school, than be married.' makes her a termagant and a scold, which I need not enlarge on the loss the de- is much at one with lunatic. feet of education is to the sex, nor argue If she be proud, want of discretion 50 the benefit of the contrary practice. 'T is (which still is breeding) makes her con- a thing will be more easily granted than ceited, fantastic, and ridiculous. remedied. This chapter is but an essay And from these she degenerates to be at the thing; and I refer the practice to turbulent, clamorous, noisy, nasty, the those happy days (if ever they shall be) devil ! . . . 5> when men shall be wise enough to mend The great distinguishing difference, it. '^1697) JONATHAN SWIFT (i 667-1 745) Swift was born in Dublin — a chance wliich all his life he chose to resent as the first of many insults of fortune. At Kilkenny Grammar School and at Trinity College, Dublin, where he was ' wild, witty, and poor,' he had to be supported by one relative, and for the next decade, he was a discontented dependent of another. Sir William Temple. During one of his disagreements with the latter, he left in a huff, crossed to Ireland, and went into holy orders. Dryden had crushed his poetic inclinations and incurred his lasting resentment by the solid remark, ' Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet.' He did not discover his genius for satire until about his thirtieth year, when he wrote A Talc of a Tub and The Battle of the Books. These were published anonymously in 1704, preceded and followed by a rapid volley of pamjjhlets upon subjects then in dispute. For about ten years, he spent much of his time in London, mingled with the reigning wits in tlieir homes and clubs, amused his leisure with squibs and verses, and projected the Scriblerus Club whose cliief members, besides him- self, were Pope, Arbuthnot, Allerbury, Parnell and Gay. In 1710, personal interest united with conscience to engage him on the Tory side. He edited the Examiner (1710-11), threw himself ferociously into political intrigue, and, for a time, wielded an extraordinary personal influence. But, though he could dictate the preferment of bishops, the author of A Tale of a Tub was powerless to secure a high appointment for himself. He had to be content with the Deanery of St. Patrick's, at Dublin, whither after the disruption of the Tory party in 1714, he permanently retired, — an embittered and disappointed man. Ten years later, an attempt to exploit the Irish people by a scheme of debased coinage called forth the most angry, unscrupulous, and masterly of his controversial series, the Letters of M. B. Drapier (1724). Here, and in his Modest Proposal for preventing the Children of Poor People from being a Burden to their Parents, and similar ironical extravagances, he voiced his savage indignation at the unjust and heart-rending poverty of his adopted people. After the death of 'the unfortunate Stella' (Esther Johnson), Swift's powerful faculties began to show signs of derangement. ' I shall die at the top,' he had once said, pointing to a tree which had been blasted by lightning, — and the words were prophetic. Already, in the last portions of Gulli- ver's Travels (172G), we see the horrible evidences of 'a mind diseased.' In 1741, he became ' furiously insane,' then lapsed into idiocy, and at last was laid to rest in his own cathedral, in the city of his birth, ' where,' in the words of his epitaph, which he himself composed, ferocious indignation can no longer tear the heart' — Ubi saeva indignatio Cor ulterius lacerare nequit. In dealing with Swift, it is never safe to forget the deadly purpose and ' intent to kill ' which inspires his grim horseplay. He bitterly hated the world's shams and inconsistencies. His reckless and irreverent energy of thought and the acrid irony of his style made him dangerous to all he touched. His humor was like fire ; what it played over, it consumed. From A TALE OF A TUB considered of some good legacies to be- SECTION II queath you; and at last, with much care, as well as expense, have provided each Once upon a time there was a man of you (here they are) a new coat, who had three sons by one wife, and all 5 Now, you are to understand that these at a birth, neither could the midwife tell coats have two virtues contained in them; certainly which was the eldest. Their one is, that with good wearing they will father died while they were young; and last you fresh and sound as long as you upon his death-bed, calling the lads to live; the other is, that they will grow in him, spoke thus : — " the same proportion with your bodies, ' Sons, because I have purchased no lengthening and widening of themselves, estate, nor was born to any, I have long so as to be always fit. Here ; let me see 299 300 JONATHAN SWIFT them on you Ijcl'ore I die. So; very open airj ; got a list of peers by heart well; pray, children, wear them clean, in one company, and with great familiar- and brush them often. You will find in ity retailed them in another. Above all, my wilP (here it is) full instructions they constantly attended those committees in every particular concerning the wear- 5 of senators who are silent in the house ing and management of your coats; and loud in the coffee-house; where they wherein you must be very exact, to avoid nightly adjourn to chew the cud of the penalties I have appointed for every politics, and are encompassed with a ring transgression or neglect, upon which your of disciples, who lie in wait to catch up future fortunes will entirely depend. I 10 their droppings. The three brothers had have also commanded in my will that acquired forty other qualifications of the you should live together in one house like stamp, too tedious to recount, and like brethren and friends, for then you by consequence were justly reckoned the will be sure to thrive, and not otherwise.' most accomplished persons in the town ; Here, the story says, this good father 15 but all would not suffice, and the ladies died, and the three sons went all together aforesaid continued still inflexible. To to seek their fortunes. clear up which difficulty I must, with the I shall not trouble you with recounting reader's good leave and patience, have what adventures they met for the first recourse to some points of weight, which seven years, any farther than by taking 20 the authors of that age have not suffi- notice that they carefully observed their ciently illustrated. father's will, and kept their coats in very For about this time it happened a sect good order: that they traveled through arose ^ whose tenets obtained and spread several countries, encountered a reason- very far, especially in the grande mondc, able quantity of giants, and slew certain 25 and among everybody of good fashion, dragons. " They worshipped a sort of idol,^ who, as Being now arrived at the proper age their doctrine delivered, did daily create for producing themselves, they came up men by a kind of manufactory operation, to town, and fell in love with the ladies, This idol they placed in the highest parts but especially three, who about that time 3° of the house, on an altar erected about were in chief reputation; the Duchess three foot; he was shown in the posture d' Argent, Madame de Grands Titres, of a Persian emperor, sitting on a super- and the Countess d'Orgueil. On their ficies, with his legs interwoven under first appearance our three adventurers him. This god had a goose for his en- met with a very bad reception; and soon 35 sign ; whence it is that some learned men with great sagacity guessnig out the pretend to deduce his original from reason, they quickly began to improve in Jupiter Capitolinus. At his left hand, the good qualities of the town; they writ, beneath the altar, hell seemed to open and rallied, and rhymed, and sung, and and catch at the animals the idol was said, and said nothing; they drank, and 40 creating; to prevent which, certain of fought, and whored, and slept, and swore, his priests hourly fiung in pieces of the and took snuff; they went to new plays uninformed mass, or substance, and some- on the first night, haunted the chocolate- times whole limbs already enlivened, houses, beat the watch, lay on bulks, and which that horrid gulf insatiably swal- got claps; they bilked hackney-coachmen, 45 lowed, terrible to behold. The goose was ran in debt with shop-keepers, and lay also held a subaltern divinity or dens with their wives; they killed bailiffs, tninomm gentium [god of the lesser kicked fiddlers down stairs, eat at peoples], before whose shrine was sac- Locket's, loitered at Will's; they talked rificed that creature whose hourly food of the drawing-room, and never came 5o jg human gore, and who is in so great there; dined with lords they never saw; renown abroad for being the delight and whispered a duchess, and spoke never a favorite of the Egyptian Cercopithecus.* word; exposed the scrawls of their laundress for billets-doux of quality ; came ^xiiis is an occasional satire upon dress and ever just from court and were never seen ^'^f\^'Z '£'^:''rr^':Z^^ '°"°^"- in it ; attended the levee sub aw [in the 4 Ti,e Egyptians worshipped a monkey, which animal is very fond of eating lice, styled here • The New Testament. creatures that feed on human gore. Millions of these animals were cruelly indeed, that these animals, which are slaughtered every day to appease the vulgarly called suits of clothes, or hunger of that consuming deity. The dresses, do, according to certain com- chief idol was also worshipped as the in- positions, receive different appellations, ventor of the yard and needle ; whether 5 If one of them be trimmed up with a as the god of seamen, or on account of gold chain, and a red gown, and white certain other mystical attributes, has not rod, and a great horse, it is called a been sufificiently cleared. lord-mayor: if certain ermines and furs The worshippers of this deity had also be placed in a certain position, we style a system of their belief, which seemed lo them a judge; and so an apt conjunction to turn upon the following fundamentals. of lawn and black satin we entitle a They held the universe to be a large suit bishop. of clothes, which invests everything; that Others of these professors, though the earth is invested by the air; the air agreeing in the main system, were yet is invested by the stars; and the stars 15 more refined upon certain branches of it; are invested by the prinium mobile. and held that man was an animal com- Look on this globe of earth, you will find pounded of two dresses, the natural and it to be a very complete and fashionable celestial suit, which were the body and dress. What is that which some call the soul : that the soul was the outward, land but a fine coat faced with green? 20 and the body the inward clothing; that or the sea, but a waistcoat of water- the latter was ex traduce; but the former tabby? Proceed to the particular works of daily creation and circumfusion; this of the creation, you will find how cu- last they proved by scripture, because in rious journeyman Nature has been to them we live, and move, and have our trim up the vegetable beaux; observe 25 being; as likewise by philosophy, because how sparkish a periwig adorns the head they are all in all, and all in every part. of a beech, and what a fine doublet of Besides, said they, separate these two and white satin is worn by the birch. To you will find the body to be only a sense- conclude from all, what is man himself less unsavory carcase; by all which it is but a microcoat,^ or rather a complete 30 manifest that the outward dress must suit of clothes with all its trimmings? needs be the soul. As to his body there can be no dispute ; To this system of religion were tagged but examine even the acquirements of several subaltern doctrines, which were his mind, you will find tliem all con- entertained with great vogue: as partic- tribute in their order towards furnishing 35 ularly tlie faculties of the mind were out an exact dress: to instance no more; deduced by the learned among them in is not religion a cloak, honesty a pair of this manner; embroidery was sheer wit, shoes worn out in the dirt, self-love a gold fringe was agreeable conversation, surtout, vanity a shirt, and conscience a gold lace was repartee, a huge long peri- pair of breeches? * * * 40 wig was humor, and a coat full of powder These postulata being admitted, it will was very good raillery — all which re- follow in due course of reasoning that quired abundance of finesse and delica- those beings, which the world calls im- tesse to nianage with advantage, as well properly suits of clothes, are in reality the as a strict observance after times and most refined species of animals ; or, to pro- 45 fashions. ceed higher, that they are rational crea- I have, with much pains and reading, tures or men. For, is it not manifest collected out of ancient authors this short that they live, and move, and talk, and summary of a body of philosophy and perform all other offices of human life? divinity, which seems to have been com- are not beauty, and wit, and mien, and ?o posed by a vein and race of thinking breeding, their inseparable proprieties? very different from any other systems in short, we see nothing but them, hear either ancient or modern. And it was nothing but them. Is it not they who not merely to entertain or satisfy the walk the streets, fill up parliament-, cof- reader's curiosity, but rather to give fee-, play-, bawdy-houses? 'T is true, 55 liiii^ light into several circumstances of the following story; that, knowing the 1 Alluding to the word mkrocosm, or a little State of dispositions and opinions in an world, as man has been called by philosophers. age SO remote, he may better comprehend 302 JUJNAIHAN bWlFT those great events which were the issue temper should they find? — ohedience of them. I advise, therefore, the cour- was absolutely necessary, and yet shoul- teous reader to peruse with a world of der-knots appeared extremely requisite, application, again and again, whatever I After much tliought one of tlie brothers, have written upon this matter. And 5 who happened to Ic more book-learned leaving these broken ends, I carefully than the other two, said he had found an gather up the chief thread of my story expedient. ' 'T is true,' said he, ' there and proceed. is nothing here in this will, totidem These opinions, therefore, were so uni- verbis [in so many words], making men- versal, as well as the practices of them, lo tion of shoulder-knots: but I dare con- among the refined part of court and jecture we may find them inclusive, or town, that our three brother adventurers, totidem syllabis [in so many syllables].' as their circumstances then stood, were This distinction was immediately ap- strangely at a loss. For, on the one proved by all, and so they fell again to side, the three ladies they addressed 15 examine the will ; but their evil star had themselves to, whom we have named al- so directed the matter that the first syl- ready, were at the very top of the fash- lable was not to be found in the whole ion, and abhorred all that were below it writing. Upon which disappointment, but the breadth of a hair. On the other he who found the former evasion took side, their father's will was very precise; 20 heart, and said, 'Brothers, there are yet and it was the main precept in it, with hopes; for though we cannot find them the greatest penalties annexed, not to totidem verbis, nor totidem syllabis, I add to or diminish from their coats one dare engage we shall make them out thread, without a positive command in tertio modo [by a third method] or to- the will. Now, the coats their father 25 //J^j;j Uteris [in so many letters].' had left them were, 'tis true, of very This discovery was also highly com- good cloth, and besides so neatly sewn, mended, upon which they fell once more you would swear they were all of a to the scrutiny, and picked out S, H, O, piece; but at the same time very plain, U, L, D, E, R; when the same planet, and with little or no ornament: and it 30 enemy to their repose, had wonderfully happened that before they were a month contrived that a K was not to be found, in town great shoulder-knots ^ came up Here was a weighty difficulty ! but the — straight all the world was shoulder- distinguishing brother, for whom we shall knots — no approaching the ladies' hereafter find a name, now his hand was ruelles without the quota of shoulder- 35 in, proved by a very good argument that knots. That fellow, cries one, has no K was a modern, illegitimate letter, un- soul; where is his shoulder-knot? Our known to the learned ages, nor anywhere three brethren soon discovered their to be found in ancient manuscripts, want by sad experience, meeting in their * 'T is true,' said he, * Calendse hath in walks with forty mortifications and in- 40 Q. V. C.^ been sometimes writ with a dignities. If they went to the playhouse K, but erroneously; for in the best the door-keeper showed them into the copies it ever spelt with a C. And, by twelvepenny gallery; if they called a consequence, it was a gross mistake in boat, says a waterman, ' I am first scul- our language to spell ' knot ' with a K ' ; ler' ; if they stepped to the Rose to take 45 but that from henceforward he would take a bottle, the drawer would cry, ' Friend, care it should be writ with a C. Upon we sell 110 ale ' ; if they went to visit a this all farther difficulty vanished — lady, a footman met them at the door shoulder-knots were made clearly out to with ' Pray send up your message.' In be jure paterno [according to the law of this unhappy case they went immediately 50 the father], and our three gentlemen to consult their father's will, read it over swaggered with as large and as flaunting and over, but not a word of the shoulder- ones as the best. knot. What should they do? — what But, as human happiness is of a very short duration, so in those days were hu- iBy this is understood the first introducing oi ^^ ^^^^ fashionS, upOU which it entirelv de- pageantry, and unnecessary ornaments in the '■ Cluiich, such as were neither for convenience nor edification, as a shoulder-knot, in which there is ^ Q„|]^^5f]arn veteribus codicibus; i. e. some an- neither symmetry nor use. cient manuscripts. pends. Shoulder-knots had their time, here before us there is no precept or and we must now imagine them in mention about gold lace, conceditur their decline; for a certain lord came [it is conceded] but si idem affirmetur de just from Paris, with fifty yards of nuncnpatorio, ncgatur [if the same is as- gold lace upon his coat, exactly trimmed 5 serted of the nuncupatory, it is denied], after the court fashion of that month. For, brothers, if you remember, we heard In two days all mankind appeared closed a fellow say when we were boys that he up in bars of gold lace : ^ whoever heard my father's man say, that he durst peep abroad without his com- heard my father say, that he would ad- plement of gold lace was as scandal- lo vise his sons to get gold lace on their ous as a , and as ill received coats as soon as ever they could procure among the women : what should our money to buy it.' ' By G ! that is three knights do in this momentous af- very true,' cries the other; 'I remember fair? they had sufficiently strained a it perfectly well,' said the third. And point already in the aftair of shoulder- 15 so without more ado they got the larg- knots: upon recourse to the will, noth- est gold lace in the parish, and walked ing appeared there but altiim silcntium about as fine as lords, [primeval silence]. That of the shoul- A while after there came up all in der-knots was a loose, flying, circum- fashion a pretty sort of flame-colored stantial point; but this of gold lace 20 satin for linings; and the mercer brought seemed too considerable an alteration a pattern of it immediately to our three without better warrant; it did aliquo gentlemen; 'An please your worships,' modo cssentiae adhaercre [in some man- said he, ' my lord C ^ and Sir J. W. ner belong to the essence of the matter], had linings out of this very piece last and therefore required a positive pre- 25 night: it takes wonderfully, and I shall cept. But about this time it fell out not have a remnant left enough to make that the learned brother aforesaid had my wife a pincushion by to-morrow read Aristotelis dialectica, and especially morning at ten o'clock.' Upon this they that wonderful piece de intcrprctatione, fell again to rummage the will, because which has the faculty of teaching its 30 the present case also required a positive readers to find out a meaning in every- precept — the lining being held by thing but itself; like commentators on orthodox writers to be of the essence of the Revelations, who proceed prophets the coat. After long search they could without understanding a syllable of the fix upon nothing to the matter in hand, text. ' Brothers,' said he, * you are to 35 except a short advice of their father in be informed that of wills duo sunt gen- the will to take care of fire * and put out era [there are two kinds], nuncupatory- their candles before they went to sleep, and scriptory: that in the scriptory will This, though a good deal for the pur- pose, and helping very far towards self- 1 I cannot tell whether the author means any ^q conviction, yet not seeming wholly of new innovation by this word or whether it be only f^j.^^ ^^ establish a command (being to introduce the new methods of forcing and per- i j , • j r .1 1 verting Scripture. resolved to avoid farther scruple as 2 By this is meant tradition, allowed by the well aS futUre OCCasion for SCandal), Papists to have equal authority with the Scripture, gays he that was the Scholar, ' I remem- "S'ilta'SStory. whereof he speaks more par. 4Sber tO have read m W.lls of a Codicd ticularly hereafter; but here, only to shew how annexed, whlch IS Uldced a part of the Scripture was perverted to prove it, which was will, and what it contains hath equal done by giving equal authority with the canon to authority with the rest. Now, I have Apocrypha, called here a codicil annexed, it is , -j • r ^1 • -hi likely the author, in every one of these changes been Considering of this Same Will here in the brothers' dresses, refers to some particular 50 before US, and I cannOt reckon it tO be error in the Church of Rome, though it is not complete for want of SUch a COdicil : I easy, I think, to apply them all: but by this of ^jn therefore fasten One in its proper Hanie-colored satin, is manifestly intended Purga- , , 1 t 1 1 1 ■ tory; by gold lace may perhaps be understood, the plaCC very dCXterOUSly — 1 have had it lofty ornaments and plate in the churches; the shoulder-knots and silver fringe are not so obvious, ,, ' This shews the time the author writ, it being at least to me; but the Indian figures of men, about fourteen years since those two persons were women, and children, plainly relate to the pictures reckoned the fine gentlemen of the town. in the Romish churches, of God like an old man, * That is, to take care of hell; and, in order to of the Virgin Mary, and our Savior as a child. d > that, to subdue and extinguish their lusts. 304 JUJNAiJrlArM bWlt* i by me some time — it was written l)y a fashion, lonj^ antiquated, of embroidery dog-keeper of my grandfather's,^ and with IncHan figures of men, women, and talks a great deal, as good luck would children. Here they remembered but have it, of this very tlame-colored satin.' too well how their father had always ab- The project was immediately a])proved S horred this fashion ; that he made sev- by the other two ; an old parchment eral paragraphs on purpose, importing scroll was tagged on according to art his utter detestation of it, and bestowing in the form of a codicil annexed, and the his everlasting curse to his sons when- satin bought and worn. ever they should wear it. I'or all this. Next winter a player, hired for the lo in a few days they appeared higher in purpose by the corporation of fringe- the fashion than anybody else in the makers, acted his part in a new comedy, town. But they solved the matter by all covered with silver-fringe,- and, ac- saying that these figures were not at all cording to the laudable custom, gave rise the same with those that were formerly to that fashion. Upon which the 15 worn and were meant in the will. Be- brothers, consulting their father's will, sides, they did not wear them in the to their great astonishment found these sense as forbidden by their father; but words: 'item, I charge and command my as they were a commendable custom, and said three sons to wear no sort of silver of great use to the public.^ That these fringe upon or about their said coats,' 20 rigorous clauses in the will did there- etc, with a penalty, in case of disobedi- fore require some allowance and a favor- ence, too long here to insert. However, able interpretation, and ought to be un- after some pause, the brother so often derstood cum grano sails [with a grain mentioned for his erudition, who was of salt]. well skilled in criticisms, had found in 25 But fashions perpetually altering in a certain author, which he said should that age, the scholastic brother grew be nameless, that the same word which weary of searching farther evasions, and in the will is called fringe does also solving everlasting contradictions. Re- signify a broomstick: and doubtless solved, therefore, at all hazards, to com- ought to have the same interpretation in 3o ply with the modes of the world, they this paragraph. This another of the concerted matters together, and agreed brothers disliked, because of that ep- unanimously to lock up their father's ithet silver, which could not he humbly will in a strong box, brought out of conceived in propriety of speech be Greece or Italy (I have forgot which), reasonably applied to a broomstick: but 35 and trouble themselves no farther to ex- it was replied upon him that this epithet amine it, but only refer to its authority was understood in a mythological and whenever they thought fit. In conse- allegorical sense. However, he objected quence whereof, a while after it grew a again why their father should forbid general mode to wear an infinite number them to wear a broomstick on their 40 of points, most of them tagged with sil- coats — a caution that seemed unnatural ver: upon which the scholar pronounced, and impertinent; upon which he was tak- ex cathedra [from the bench], that en up short, as one who spoke irreverently points were absolutely jure paterno, as of a mystery, which doubtless was very they might very well remember. 'T is useful and significant, but ought not to 45 true, indeed, the fashion prescribed be over-curiously pried into or nicely somewhat more than were directly named reasoned upon. And, in short, their in the will ; however, that they, as heirs- father's authority being now consider- general of their father, had power to ably sunk, this expedient was allowed make and add certain clauses for public to serve as a lawful dispensation for 5° emolument, though not deducible, totidem wearing their full proportion of silver verbis, from the letter of the will, or fringe. else mult a absurda sequercntur [many A while after was revived an old absurdities would follow]. This was understood for canonical, and therefore, • I believe this refers to that part of the 55 on the following Sunday, they came to Apocrypha where mention is made of Tobit and church all COVered with points, his dog. *This is certainly the farther introducing the ^ Here they had no occasion to examine the will: pomps of habit and ornament. they remembered. — First tdition. SECTION IV The learned brother, so often men- I hope, when this treatise of mine tioned, was reckoned the best scholar in shall be translated into foreign languages all that or the next street to it, insomuch (as I may without vanity affirm that the as, having run something behindhand in labor of collecting, the faithfulness in the world, he obtained the favor of a 5 recounting, and the great usefulness of certain lord ^ to receive him into his the matter to the public, will amply de- house, and to teach his children. A serve that justice), that the worthy while after the lord died, and he, by long members of the several academies practice of his father's will, found the abroad, especially those of France and way of contriving a deed of conveyance lo Italy, will favorably accept these humble of that house to himself and his heirs; offers for the advancement of universal upon which he took possession, turned knowledge. I do also advertise the most the young squires out, and received his reverend fathers, the eastern mission- brothers in their stead. aries, that I have, purely for their sakes, ^ ^ ^ 15 made use of such words and phrases as will best admit an easy turn into any of the oriental languages, especially the Chinese. And so I proceed with great I have now, with much pains and study, content of mind, upon reflecting how conducted the reader to a period where 20 much emolument this whole globe of the he must expect to hear of great revolu- earth is likely to reap by my labors. tions. For no sooner had our learned The first undertaking of lord Peter brother, so often mentioned, got a warm was, to purchase a large continent,^ house of his own over his head than he lately said to have been discovered in began to look big and take mightily 25 terra australis incognita fan unknown upon him; insomuch that, unless the country to the south]. This tract of land gentle reader, out of his great candor, he bought at a very great pennyworth will please a little to exalt his idea, I from the discoverers themselves (though am afraid he will henceforth hardly some pretend to doubt whether they had know the hero of the play when he hap- 3o ever been there), and then retailed it pens to meet him ; his part, his dress, and into several cantons to certain dealers, his mien being so much altered. who carried over colonies, but were all He told his brothers he would have shipwrecked in the voyage. Upon which them to know that he was their elder, lord Peter sold the said continent to and consequently his father's sole heir ; 3S other customers again, and again, and nay, a while after, he would not allow again, and again, with the same success. them to call him brother, but Mr. The second project I shall mention PETER, and then he must be styled was his sovereign remedy for the worms, Father PETER; and sometimes. My Lord especially those in the spleen. The pa- PETER. To support this grandeur, 40 tient was to eat nothing after supper which he soon began to consider could for three nights : ^ as soon as he went not be maintained without a better fondc to bed he was carefully to lie on one side, than what he was born to, after much and when he grew weary to turn upon thought, he cast about at last to turn the other; he must also duly confine his projector and virtuoso, wherein he so -t^ two eyes to the same object. * * * well succeeded, that many famous dis- These prescriptions diligently observed, coveries, projects and machines, which the worms would void insensibly by bear great vogue and practice at pres- perspiration, ascending through the ent in the world, are owing entirely to brain. lord PETER'S invention. I will de- ''° A third invention was the erecting of duce the best account I have been able a whispering-ofiice for the public good to collect of the chief among them, wath- and ease of all such as are hypochon- out considering much the order they driacal or troul)led with the colic; as came out in ; because I think authors are not well agreed as to that point. 5S ; That is Purgatory. ° ^ ^ Here the autlior ridicules the penances of the ' This was Constantine the Great, from whom Church of Rome, wh'rh may be made as easy to the the popes pretend a donation of St. Peter's patri- sinner as he pleases, provided he will pay for them mony, which they have never been able to produce. accordingly. 3o6 JONATHAN SWIFT inidwives/ small politicians, friends virtues, was a quite different thing, fallen out, re])ealing pucls, lovers liappy For Peter would ])ut in a certain quan- or in despair, bawds, privy-counsellors, tity of his powder i)iniperlinipinq), after pages, parasites, and buffoons; in short, which it never failed of success. The of all such as are in*danger of bursting s operation was performed by spargefac- with too much wind. An ass's head was tion, in a i)ro])er time of the moon. The placed so conveniently that the party ef- patient who was to be jMckled, if it were fected nnght easily with his mouth accost a house, would infallibly be preserved either of the animal's ears; to which he from all s]:)iders, rats, and weasels; if was to apply close for a certain space, lo the party affected were a dog, he should and by a fugitive faculty, peculiar to the be exempt from mange, and madness, ears of that animal, receive immediate and hunger. It also infallibly took away benefit, either by eructation, or expira- all scabs, and lice, and scalled heads from tion, or evomitation. children, never hindering the patient Another very beneficial project of lord is from any duty, either at bed or board. Peter's was an office of insurance for But of all Peter's rarefies he most tobacco-pipes,^ martyrs of the modern valued a certain set of bulls, whose race zeal, volumes of poetry, shadows, , was by great fortune preserved in a and rivers; that these, nor any of these, lineal descent from those that guarded shall receive damage by fire. Whence 20 the golden fleece. Though some, who our friendly societies may plainly find pretended to observe them curiously, themselves to be only transcribers from doubted the breed had not been kept en- this original; though the one and the tirely chaste, because they had degen- other have been of great benefit to the erated from their ancestors in some undertakers, as well as of equal to 2s qualities, and had acquired others very the public. extraordinary, by a foreign mixture. Lord PETER was also held the orig- The bulls of Colchis are recorded to have inal author of puppets and raree-shows ; ^ brazen feet; but whether it happened by the great usefulness whereof being so iH pasture and running, by an allay from generally known, I shall not enlarge far- 3o intervention of other parents, from ther upon this particular. stolen mtrigues ; whether a weakness in But another discovery for which he their progenitors had impaired the semi- was much renowned, was his famous uni- nal virtue, or by a decline necessary versal pickle. For, having remarked through a long course of time, the orig- how your common pickle * in use among 35 inals of nature being depraved in these housewives was of no farther benefit latter sinful ages of the world; what- than to preserve dead flesh and certain ever was the cause, it is certain that lord kinds of vegetables, Peter, with great Peter's bulls were extremely vitiated by cost as well as art, had contrived a pickle the rust of time in the metal of their proper for houses, gardens, towns, men, 40 feet, which was now sunk into common women, children, and cattle; wherein he lead. However, the terrible roaring pe- could preserve them as sound as insects culiar to their lineage was preserved: in amber. Now, this pickle, to the taste, as likewise that faculty of breathing out the smell, and the sight, appeared ex- fire from their nostrils, which, notwith- actly the same with what is in common ^s standing, many of their detractors took service for beef, and butter, and herrings, to be a feat of art, to be nothing so and has been often that way applied with terrible as it appeared, proceeding only great success ; but, for its many sovereign from their usual course of ^diet which was of squibs and crackers.-' However, lAs likewise of all eavesdroppers, midwives, etc. So they had two peculiar marks, which ex- — First Edition. tremely distinguished them from the bulls 2 This I take to be the office of indulgences, the ^f Jason, and which I have not met to- ReTormttion' "''"'"^ *^'''' ""'' °''''"" ^"'' '^^ J^^ther in the description of any other » I believe are the monkeries and ridiculous pro- monster beside that in Horace ! cessions, etc., among the papists. 55 * This is easily understood to be holy water, ° These are the fulminations of the pope, composed of the same ingredients with matiy other threatening hell and damnation to those princes pickles. who offend him. Varias indiicere plumas; 'To all mayors, sheriffs, jailors, con- and [putting on gay plumage.] stables, bailiffs, hangmen, etc. Whereas Atrum desinat in piscem. we are informed that A. B. remains in [ending in a foul fish below.] the hands of you, or some of you, under 5 the sentence of death. We will and For these had fishes' tails, yet upon oc- connnand you, upon sight hereof, to let casion could outfly any bird in the air. the said prisoner depart to his own hab- Peter put these bulls upon several em- itation, whether he stands condemned ploys. Sometimes he would set them for murder, sodomy, rape, sacrilege, in- a-roaring to fright naughty boys,^ and lo cest, treason, blasphemy, etc., for which make them quiet. Sometimes he would this shall be your sufficient warrant ; and send them out upon errands of great im- if you fail hereof, G — d — mn you and portance; where, it is wonderful to re- yours to all eternity. And so we bid you count (and perhaps the cautious reader heartily farewell, may think much to believe it), an appc- 15 Your most humble titus scnsihilis [an appetite of the senses] Man's man, deriving itself through the whole family Emperor PETER,' from their noble ancestors, guardians of ■ the golden fleece, they continued so ex- The wretches, trusting to this, lost tremely fond of gold, that if Peter sent 20 their lives and money too. them abroad, though it were only upon I desire of those whom the learned a compliment, they would roar, and among posterity will appoint for com- spit, and belch, and snivel out fire, and mentators upon this elaborate treatise, keep a perpetual coil, till you flung them that they will proceed with great caution a bit of gold ; but then, pulvcris exigui 25 upon certain dark points, wherein all who jactu [by throwing on a little dust], are not vcre adcpti [genuine adepts] they would grow calm and quiet as laml)s. may be in danger to form rash and hasty In short, whether by secret connivance conclusions, especially in some myste- or encouragement from their master, or rious paragraphs, where certain arcana out of their own liquorish affection to 30 are joined for brevity sake, which in the gold, or both, it is certain they were no operation must be divided. And I am better than a sort of sturdy, swaggering, certain that future sons of art will re- beggars; and where they could not pre- turn large thanks to my memory for so vail to get an alms, would make women grateful, so useful an innuendo. miscarry, and children fall into fits, who 35 It will be no difficult part to persuade to this very day usually call sprights the reader that so many worthy discov- and hobgoblins by the name of bull-beg- eries met with great success in the gars. They grew at last so very trouble- world; though I may justly assure him some to the neighborhood, that some that I have related much the smallest gentlemen of the north-west got a par- 40 number ; my design having been only to eel of right English bull-dogs, and baited single out such as will be of most benefit them so terribly that they felt it ever for public imitation, or which best serve after. to give some idea of the reach and wit 1 must needs mention one more of of the inventor. And therefore it need lord Peter's projects, which was very 45 not be wondered at if by this time lord extraordinary, and discovered him to be Peter was become exceeding rich : but, master of a high reach and profound alas ! he had kept his brain so long and invention. Whenever it happened that so violently upon the rack, that at last it any rogue of Newgate was condemned shook itself, and began to turn round to be hanged, Peter would offer him a 50 for a little ease. In short, what with pardon for a certain sum of money; pride, projects, and knavery, poor Peter which, when the poor caitiff had made was grown distracted, and conceived the all_ shifts to scrape up and send, his lord- strangest imaginations in the world. In ship would return a piece of paper in the height of his fits, as it is usual with this form : — - 55 those who run mad out of pride, he would ,„.,.,. . . J ,- J. , <^al^ himself God Almightv,^ and some- ^ Inat IS, kings who incurred liis displeasure. 2 This is a copy of a general pardon, signed servus servorum (slave of slaves). ' -j-j^g p^pp jg ^^j ^^jy allowed to be the vicar 3o8 JONATHAN SWIFT times monarch of the universe. I have fermented liquor, diffused through the seen him (says my author) take three mass of the bread.' Upon the strength of old high-crowned hats,' and clap them all these conclusions, next day at dinner was on his head three story high, with a huge the brown loaf served up in all the bunch of keys at his girdle,- and an an- 5 formality of a city feast. ' Come, broth- gling-rod in his hand. In which guise, ers,' said Peter, 'fall to, and spare not; whoever went to take him by the hand here is excellent good mutton ; or hold, in the way of salutation, Peter with now my hand is in, I will help you.' At much grace, like a well-educated spaniel, which word, in much ceremony, with would present them with his foot, and if 10 fork and knife, he carves out two good they refused his civility, then he would slices of a loaf, and presents each on a raise it as high as their chaps, and give plate to his brothers. The elder of the them a damned kick on the mouth, which two, not suddenly entering into lord hath ever since been called a salute. Peter's conceit, began with very civil Whoever walked by without paying him 15 language to examine the mystery. ' My their compliments, having a wonderful lord,' said he, ' I doubt, with great sub- strong breath, he would blow their hats mission, there may be some mistake.'- — off into the dirt. Meantime his affairs * ' What,' says Peter, ' you are pleasant ; at home went upside down, and his two come then, let us hear this jest your head brothers had a wretched time ; where his 20 is so big with.' — * None in the world, my first boutade ^ was to kick both their lord ; but, unless I am very much de- wives one morning out of doors, and his ceived, your lordship was pleased a while own too; and in their stead gave orders ago to let fall a word about mutton, and to pick up the first three strollers that I would be glad to see it with all my could be met with in the streets. A while 25 heart.' — ' How,' said Peter, appearing in after he nailed up the cellar-door, and great surprise, ' I do not comprehend this would not allow his brothers a drop of at all.' Upon which the younger inter- drink to their victuals.* Dining one day posing to set the business aright, ' My at an alderman's in the city, Peter ob- lord,' said he, * my brother, I suppose, is served him expatiating, after the manner 3o hungry, and longs for the mutton your of his brethren, in the praises of his lordship has promised us to dinner.' — sirloin of beef. ' Beef,' said the sage ' Pray,' said Peter, ' take me along with magistrate, 'is the king of meat; beef you ; either you are both mad, or disposed comprehends in it the quintessence of to be merrier than I approve of; if you partridge, and quail, and venison, and 35 there do not like your piece I will carve pheasant, and plum-pudding, and custard.' you another; though I should take that to When Peter came home he would needs be the choice bit of tlie whole shoulder.' take the fancy of cooking up this doc- — ' What then, my lord,' replied the first, trine into use, and apply the precept, in ' it seems this is a shoulder of mutton default of a sirloin, to his brown loaf. 40 all this while?' — 'Pray, sir,' says Peter, ' Bread,' says he, ' dear brothers, is the ' eat your victuals, and leave off your im- staff of life; in which bread is contained, pertinence, if you please, for I am not dis- inclusive, the quintessence of beef, mut- posed to relish it at present': but the ton, veal, venison, partridge, plum- other could not forbear, being over-pro- pudding, and custard ; and, to render all 45 voked at the affected seriousness of complete, there is intermingled a due Peter's countenance : ' By G — , my lord,' quantity of water, whose crudities are said he, ' I can only say, that to my eyes, also corrected by yeast or barm, through and fingers, and teeth, and nose, it seems which means it becomes a wholesome to be nothing but a crust of bread.' Upon 50 which the second put in his word : ' I of Christ, but by several divines is called God upon never saw a piece of mutton in my life earth and other blasphemous titles. SO nearly resembling a slice from a ^ The triple crown. , , i r > < -r i ^i > »The keys of the Church. twelvepenny loaf.'— Look ye, gentlemen, 'This word properly signifies a sudden jerk, or cries Peter, in a rage; ' to convince you lash of a horse, when you do not expect it. 55 what a couple of blind, positive, ignorant, JJ^ ^'r .".!"'r lUl 'c°„;S„;f^;, 'S; w/lf"' P"PPi« y°" -e, I will use but this bread, and that the bread is the real and entire P'ain argument: by G — , it IS true, gOod, body of Christ. natural mutton as any in Leadenhall- iT. J. r^i 1 r\ i UD o'-'y market; and G — confound you both to hell if they pretended to make the eternally if you offer to believe otherwise.' least scruple of believing him. One time Such a thundering proof as this left no he swore he had a cow at home which farther room for objection; the two un- gave as much milk at a meal as would believers began to gather and pocket up 5 fill three thousand churches; and, what their mistake as hastily as they could. was yet more extraordinary, would never ' Why truly,' said the first, ' upon more turn sour. Another time he was telling mature consideration ' — 'Ay,' says of an old sign-post,- that belonged to his the other, interrupting him, ' now I have father, with nails and timber enough in thought better on the thing, your lordship 10 it to build sixteen large men of war. seems to have a great deal of reason.' — Talking one day of Chinese wagons, ' \^ery well,' said Peter; 'here, boy, fill me which were made so light as to sail over a beer-glass of claret; here's to you both mountains, 'Z — ds,' said Peter, * where 's with all my heart.' The two brethren, the wonder of that? By G — , I saw a much delighted to see him so readily is large house of lime and stone travel over appeased, returned their most humble sea and land (granting that it stopped thanks, and said they would be glad to sometimes to bait) above two thousand pledge his lordship. ' That you shall,' German leagues.' And that which was said Peter; 'I am not a person to refuse the good of it, he would swear desperately you anything that is reasonable: wine, 20 all the while that he never told a lie in his moderately taken, is a cordial; here is a life; and at every word, 'By G — , gentle- glass a-piece for you ; 't is true natural men, I tell you nothing but the truth ; and juice from the grape, none of your damned the d — 1 broil them eternally that will not vintner's brewings.' Having spoke thus, believe me.' he presented to each of them another 25 In short, Peter grew so scandalous, large dry crust, bidding them drink it that all the neighborhood began in plain off, and not be bashful, for it would do words to say he was no better than a them no hurt. The two brothers, after knave. And his two brothers, long weary having performed the usual ofiice in such of his ill-usage, resolved at last to leave delicate conjectures, of staring a sufii- 3° him; but first they humbly desired a copy cient period at lord Peter and each other, of their father's will, which had now lain and finding how matters were likely to go, by neglected time out of mind. Instead resolved not to enter on a new dispute, of granting this request he called them but let him carry the point as he pleased ; damned . . . rogues, traitors, and the for he was now got into one of his mad 35 rest of the vile names he could muster up. fits, and to argue or expostulate farther However, while he was abroad one day would only serve to render him a hundred upon his projects, the two youngsters times more untractable. watched their opportunity, made a shift I have chosen to relate this worthy to come at the will,^ and took a copia matter in all its circumstances, because '»° vera [true copy] by which they presently it gave a principal occasion to that great saw how grossly they had been abused; and famous rupture ^ which happened their father having left them equal heirs, about the same time among these breth- and strictly commanded that whatever ren, and was never afterwards made up. they got should lie in common among But of that I shall treat at large in an- ^S them all. Pursuant to which their next other section. enterprise was to break open the cellar- However, it is certain that lord Peter, door, and get a little good drink,* to spirit even in his lucid intervals, was very and comfort their hearts. In copying the lewdly given in his common conversa- will they had met another precept against tion, extremely wilful and positive, and 5° whoring, divorce, and separate mainte- would at any time rather argue to the nance ; upon which their next work ^ was death than allow himself once to be in to discard their concubines, and send for an error. Besides, he had an abominable 2 By the sign-post is meant the cross of our faculty of telling huge palpable lies upon Blessed Savior. all occasions; and not only swearing to 55 ^Translated the Scriptures into the vulgar the truth, but cursing the whole company '""Administered the cup to the laity at the com- munion. 'By this rupture is meant the Reformation. ^Allowed the marriages of priests. 3IO JONATHAN SWIFT their wives. While all this was in agita- ing where common charity directs me, tion there enters a solicitor from New- to the assistance of his two brothers at gate, desiring lord Peter would please their lowest ebb. However, I shall by no procure a pardon for a thief that was to means forget my character of an his- be hanged to-morrow. But the two s torian to follow the truth step by step, brothers^'told him he was a coxcomb to whatever happens, or wherever it may seek pardons from a fellow who deserved lead me. to be hanged much better than his client; The two exiles, so nearly united m and discovered all the method of that im- fortune and interest, took a lodging to- posture in the same form I delivered it a together; where, at their first leisure, they while ago, advising the solicitor to put his began to reflect on the numberless mis- friend upon obtaining a pardon from the fortunes and vexations of their life past, kino- 1 In the midst of all this clutter and and could not tell on the sudden to what revolution, in comes Peter with a f^le of failure in their conduct they ought to im- draf^oons at his heels,^ and gathering 15 pute them; when, after some recollec- from all hands what was in the wind, he tion, they called to mind the copy of and his gang, after several millions of their father's will, which they had so scurrilities and curses, not very important happily recovered. This was imnicdi- iiere to repeat, by main force very fairly ately produced, and a firm resolution kicked them both out of doors,^ and would 20 taken between them to alter whatever never let them come under his roof from was already amiss, and reduce all their that day to this. future measures to the strictest obedience * * * prescribed therein. The main body of the will (as the reader cannot easily have SECTION VI 2, forgot) consisted in certain admirable We left lord Peter in open rupture with rules about the wearing of their coats; in his two brethren ; both for ever discarded the perusal whereof, the two brothers from his house, and resigned to the wide at every period duly comparing the doc- world with little or nothing to trust to. trine with the practice, there was never Which are circumstances that render 3° seen a wider difference between two them proper subjects for the charity of things; horrible downright transgressions a writer's pen to work on; scenes of of every point. Upon which they both misery ever affording the fairest harvest resolved, without further delay, to fall for great adventures. And in this the mimediately upon reducing the whole ex- world may perceive the difference be- 3S actly after their father's model, tween the integrity of a generous author But here it is good to stop the hasty and that of a common friend. The latter reader, ever impatient to see the end of is observed to adhere close in prosperity, an adventure before we writers can duly but on the decline of fortune to drop sud- prepare him for it. I am to record that denly off. Whereas the generous author, 10 these two brothers began to be distin- iust on the contrary, finds his hero on the guished at this time by certain names, dunghill, from thence by gradual steps gne of theni desired to be called MAR- raises him to a throne, and then im- Tm,-* and the other took the appellation mediately withdraws, expecting not so of JACK.^ These two had lived in much much as thanks for his pains; in imita- 45 friendship and agreement under the tion of which example, I have placed tyranny of their brother Peter, as it is lord Peter in a noble house, given him a the talent of fellow-sufferers to do; men title to .wear and money to spend. There in misfortune being like men in the I shall leave him for some time; return- dark, to whom all colors are the same: so but when they came forward into the 1 Directed penitents not to trust to pardons and world, and began tO display themselves absolutions procured for money, but sent them to ,^ ,^^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^j^^ jj ,^ ^j^^j^. ^^^_ iiuplore the mercy of God, from whence alone re- . i itc mission is to be obtained. plcxions appeared extremely different; 2 By Peter's dragoons is meant the civil power, which the present pOStUre of their af- whicii those princes who were bigoted to the 55 £^j^j, ^^^,^ ^l-,^^! sudden Opportunity to Rnmi-h superstition, employed rmauist tlie reform- ,. " ^^ ' discover. * The Pope shuts all who dissent from him out of the Church. * Martin Luther. "John Calvin. But here the severe reader may justly preserve them from falHng. Resolving, tax me as a writer of short memory, a therefore, to rid his coat of a great deficiency to which a true modern can- quantity of gold-lace, he picked up the not but of necessity be a little subject. stitches with much caution, and dili- Because memory, being an employment 5 gently gleaned out all the loose threads of the mind upon things past, is a as he went, which proved to be a work faculty for which the learned in our illus- of time. Then he fell about the em- trious age have no manner of occasion, broidered Indian figures of men, women, who deal entirely with invention, and and children; against which, as you have strike all things out of themselves, or at lo heard in its due place, their father's least by collision from each other : upon testament was extremely exact and which account we think it highly reason- severe; these, with much dexterity and able to produce our great forgetfulness as application, were, after a while, quite an argument unanswerable for our great eradicated or utterly defaced. For the wit. 1 ought in method to have informed if rest, where he observed the embroidery the reader, about fifty pages ago, of a fancy to be worked so close as not to be got lord Peter took, and infused into his away without damaging the cloth, or brothers, to wear on their coats whatever where it served to hide or strengthen any trimmings came up in fashion; never flaw in the body of the coat, contracted pulling off any as they went out of the 20 by the perpetual tampering of workmen mode, but keeping on all together, which upon it, he concluded the wisest course amounted in time to a medley the most was to let it remain, resolving in no case antic you can possibly conceive ; and this whatsoever that the substance of the stuff to a degree, that upon the time of their should suffer injury ; which he thought the falling out there was hardly a thread of 25 best method for serving the true intent the original coat to be seen; but an in- and meaning of his father's will. And finite quantity of lace, and ribbons, and this is the nearest account I have been fringe, and embroidery, and points; I able to collect of Martin's proceedings mean only those tagged with silver,^ for upon this great revolution, the rest fell off. Now this material cir- 3° But his brother Jack, whose adventures cumstance, having been forgot in due will be so extraordinary as to furnish a place, as good fortune hath ordered, great part in the remainder of this dis- comes in very properly here when the course, entered upon the matter with two brothers are just going to reform other thoughts and a quite dift'erent spirit, their vestures into the primitive state 35 For the memory of lord Peter's injuries prescribed by their father's will. produced a degree of hatred and spite They both unanimously entered upon which had a much greater share of in- this great work, looking sometimes on citing him than any regards after his their coats; and sometimes on the will. father's commands; since these appeared, Martin laid the first hand ; at one twitch 4° at best, only secondary and subservient brought off a large handful of points; to the other. However, for this medley and, with a second pull, stripped away ten of humor' he made a shift to find a very dozen yards of fringe. But when he had plausible name, honoring it with the title gone thus far he demurred a while: he of zeal; which is perhaps the most sig- knew very well there yet remained a ^S nificant word that has been ever yet great deal more to be done ; however, the produced in any language : as I think I first heat being over, his violence began have fully proved in my excellent to cool, and he resolved to proceed more analytical discourse upon that subject; moderately in the rest of the work, hav- wherein I have deduced a histori-theo- ing already narrowly escaped a swinging 5° physi-logical account of zeal, showing rent, in pulling off the points, which, how it first proceeded from a notion into being tagged with silver (as we have a word, and thence, in a hot summer, observed before), the judicious workman ripened into a tangible substance. This had, with much sagacity, double sewn, to work, containing three large volumes in 5^ folio, I design very shortlv to publish ^Points tagged with silver are those doctrines ^ ^j^^ modern way of subscription, not that promote the greatness and wealth of the ,- , . 1.1 1 -i- 1 r Church, which have been therefore woven deepest doubtUlg but the nobdlty and gentry of into the body of popery. the land will give me all possible en- ^lis jvjiN/\i n/\i\ ovviri couragement; having- had already such a their actions by any reflection upon taste of what I am able perform. Peter, but by observing the rules pre- I record, therefore, that brother Jack, scribed in their father's will. That he brimful of this miraculous compound, re- should remember Peter was still their fleeting with in(lit;nation upon Peter's 5 brother, whatever faults or injuries he tyranny, and farther provoked by the had committed ; and therefore they should despondency of Martin, prefaced his res- by all means avoid such a thought as olutions to this purpose. ' What,' said that of taking measures for good and he, ' a rogue that locked up his drink, evil from no other rule than of opposi- turncd away our wives, cheated us of our lo tion to him. That it was true, the testa- fortunes; palmed his damned crusts upon ment of their good father was very exact us for mutton; and at last kicked us out in what related to the wearing of their of doors; must we be in his fashions, coats: yet it was no less penal and strict with a pox ? A rascal, besides, that all in prescribing agreement, and friendship, the street cries out against.' Having 15 and affection Ijetween them. And there- thus kindled and inflamed himself as fore, if straining a point were at all dis- high as possible, and by consequence in a pensable, it would certainly be so rather delicate temper for beginning a reforma- to the advance of unity than increase of tion, he set about the work immediately ; contradiction. and in three minutes made more despatch 20 MARTIN had still proceeded as gravely than Martin had done in as many hours. as he began, and doubtless would have For, courteous reader, you are given to delivered an admirable lecture of moral- understand that zeal is never so highly ity, which might have exceedingly con- obliged as when you set it a-tearing; and tributed to my reader's repose both of Jack, who doted on that quality in him- 25 body and mind, the true ultimate end of self, allowed it at this time its full swing. ethics ; but Jack was already gone a Thus it happened that, stripping down a flight-shot beyond his patience. And as parcel of gold lace a little too hastily, in scholastic disputes nothing serves to he rent the main body of his coat from rouse the spleen of him that opposes so top to bottom ; and whereas his talent 3° much as a kind of pedantic affected was not of the happiest in taking up a calmness in the respondent ; disputants stitch, he knew no better way than to being for the most part like unequal darn it again with packthread and a scales, where the gravity of one side ad- skewer. But the matter was yet in- vances the lightness of the other, and finitely worse (I record it with tears) 35 causes it to fly up and kick the beam; when he proceeded to the embroidery : so it happened here that the weight of for, being clumsy by nature, and of Martin's argument exalted Jack's levity, temper impatient; withal, beholding mil- and made him fly out, and spurn against lions of stitches that required the nicest his brother's moderation. In short. Mar- hand and sedatest constitution to extri- 40 tin's patience put Jack in a rage ; but cate ; in a great rage he tore off the whole that which most afflicted him was, to piece, cloth and all, and flung them into observe his brother's coat so well reduced the kennel, and furiously thus continu- into the state of innocence ; while his ing his career: * Ah, good brother Mar- own was either wholly rent to his shirt, tin,' said he, ' do as I do, for the love of 45 or those places which had escaped his God ; strip, tear, pull, rend, flay off all, cruel clutches were still in Peter's livery, that we may appear as unlike the rogue So that he looked like a drunken beau, Peter as it is possible; I would not for half rifled by bullies; or like a fresh a hundred pounds carry the least mark tenant of Newgate, when he has refused about me that might give occasion to the 50 the payment of garnish ; or like a dis- neighbors of suspecting that I was re- covered shoplifter, left to the mercy of lated to such a rascal.' But Martin, who Exchange women ; or like a bawd in her at this time happened to be extremely old velvet petticoat, resigned into the phlegmatic and sedate, begged his secular hands of the mobile. Like any. brother, of all love, not to damage his 55 or like all these, a medley of rags, and coat by any means; for he never would lace, and rents, and fringes, unfortunate get such another: desired him to consider Jack did now appear: he would have that it was not their business to form been extremely glad to see his coat in the condition of Martin's, but infinitely section xi gladder to find that of Martin in the same predicament with his. However, After so wide a compass as I have since neither of these was likely to come wandered, I do now gladly overtake and to pass, he thought fit to lend the whole 5 close in with my subject, and shall business another turn, and to dress up henceforth hold on with it an even pace necessity into a virtue. Therefore, after to the end of my journey, except some as many of the fox's arguments as he beautiful prospect appears within sight could muster up, for bringing Martin to of my way; whereof though at present reason, as he called it ; or, as he meant lo I have neither warning nor expectation, it, into his own ragged, bobtailed condi- yet upon such an accident, come when it tion; and observing he said all to little will, I shall beg my reader's favor and purpose; what, alas! was left for the company, allowing me to conduct him forlorn Jack to do, but, after a million through it along with myself. For in of scurrilities against his brother, to run 15 writing it is as in traveling; if a man mad with spleen, and spite, and contradic- is in haste to be at home (which I tion. To be short, here began a mortal acknowledge to be none of my case, breach between these two. Jack went having never so little business as when immediately to new lodgings, and in a I am there), and his horse be tired with few days it was for certain reported that 20 long riding and ill ways, or be naturally he had run out of his wits. In a short a jade, I advise him clearly to make the time after he appeared abroad, and con- straightest and the commonest road, be firmed the report by falling into the it ever so dirty; but then surely we must oddest whimseys that ever a sick brain own such a man to be a scurvy com- conceived. 2"; panion at best; he spatters himself and And now the little boys in the streets his fellow-travelers at every step; all began to salute him with several names. their thoughts, and wishes, and conversa- Sometimes they would call him Jack the tion turn entirely upon the subject of bald;i sometimes. Jack with a lantern;- their journey's end; and at every splash sometimes, Dutch Jack ; ^ sometimes, 30 and plunge, and stumble, they heartily French Hugh;* sometimes, Tom the wish one another at the devil, beggar ;s and sometimes. Knocking Tack On the other side, when a traveler of the North.*5 And it was under "one, and his horse are in heart and plight, or some, or all of these appellations, when his purse is full and the day before which I leave the learned reader to de- 35 him, he takes the road only where it is termine, that he has given rise to the clean and convenient; entertains his com- most illustrious and epidemic sect of pany there as agreeably as he can; but, Aeolists; who, with honorable commem- "Pon the first occasion, carries them oration, do still acknowledge the re- ^lo^g with him to every delightful scene nowned JACK for their author and 40 in view, whether of art, of nature, or founder. Of whose original, as well as of both; and if they chance to refuse, principles, I am now advancing to gratify 9^1 of stupidity or weariness, let them the world with a very particular account. Jog on by themselves and be d n'd; he '11 overtake them at the next town ; -Melleo contingens cuncta lepore. "5 at which arriving, he rides furiously [Touching everything with a honeyed through; the men, women and children, charm . "^ ^ "^ -^ run out of gaze ; a hundred ^ noisy curs run barking after him, of which, if he , ~. , . ^ , . , , , , , honors the boldest with a lash of his ' That IS, Calvin, from calf us, bald. i • -^ • i r . , ,„ ^ , J . ^ ,. , 50 whip, it IS rather out of sport than re- All those who pretend to mward hght. ^^^^^ . ^^^^ ^j^^^j^ ^^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^^ bapists "' "'" '"' "'' '° '"' ^"" ^^^^ t°° "^^'^ ^" approach, he receives *The Hu-uenots ^ salute on the chaps by an accidental ^^/^ ^"^"^"° ^" stroke from the courser's heels, nor is in na^derwer'e'c^a,;:^:^' "^"^^ ^°'"^ '^°""^"" 55 fny ground lost by the blow. which sends him yelping and limping home. ' John Knox, the reformer of Scotland. ' By these are meant what the author calls the true critics. ^ii4 jvji\/A 1 n/\iN :3vvif i I now proceed to sum up the singular medicine.' In consequence of which rap- adventures of my renowned Jack; the tures, he resolved to make use of it in state of whose dispositions and fortunes the necessary as well as the most paltry the careful reader does, no doubt, most occasions of life.' ITe had a way of exactly remember, as I last parted vi'ith 5 working it into any shape he pleased; so them in the conclusion of a former sec- that it served him for a nightcaj) wlien tion. Therefore, his next care must be, he went to bed, and for an umbrella in from two of the foregoing, to extract a rainy weather. He would lap a piece of scheme of notions that may best fit his it about a sore toe, or, when he had fits, understanding for a true relish of what ,0 burn two inches under his nose; or, if is to ensue. anything lay heavy on his stomach, JACK had not only calculated the first scrape ofif and swallow as much of tlie revolution of his brain so prudently as powder as would lie on a silver penny; to give rise to that epidemic sect of they were all infallible remedies. With Aeolists. Init succeeding also into a new ,5 analogy to these refinements, his common and strange variety of conceptions, the talk and conversation ran wholly in the fruitfulness of his imagination led him phrase of his will, and he circumscribed into certain notions, which, although in the utmost of his eloquence within that appearance very unaccountable, were not compass, not daring to let slip a syllable without their mysteries and their mean- ^o without authority from thence. . . . ings, nor wanted followers to countenance He made it a part of his religion never and improve them. I shall therefore be to say grace to his meat;- nor could all extremely careful and exact in recount- the world persuade him, as the common ing such material passages of this nature phrase is, to eat his victuals like a chris- as I have been able to collect, either from 25 tian.^ undoubted tradition or indefatigable read- He bore a strange kind of appetite to ing; and shall describe them as graph- snap-dragon,* and to the livid snuffs of ically as it is possible, and as far as a burning candle, which he would catch notions of that height and latitude can and swallow with an agility wonderful be brought within the compass of a pen. 30 to conceive; and, by this procedure. Nor do I at all question but they will maintained a perpetual flame in his belly, furnish plenty of noble matter for such which, issuing in a glowing steam from whose converting imaginations dispose both his eyes^ as well as his nostrils and them to reduce all things into types; his mouth, made his head appear, in a who can make shadows, no thanks to the 35 dark night, like the skull of an ass, sun; and then mould them into sub- wherein a roguish boy had conveyed a stances, no thanks to philosophy; whose farthing candle, to the terror o'f his peculiar talent lies in fixing tropes and majesty's liege subjects. Therefore, he allegories to the letter, and refining what made use of no other expedient to light is literal into figure and mystery. 4o himself home, but was wont to say that JACK had provided a fair copy of his a wise man was his own lantern, father's will, engrossed in form upon a He would shut his eyes as he walked large skin of parchment; and resolving along the streets, and if he happened to to act the part of a most dutiful son, he bounce his head against a post, or fall became the fondest creature of it im- 45 into a kennel, as he seldom missed either aginable. For although, as I have often to do one or both, he would tell the gib- told the reader, it consisted wholly in certain plain, easy directions, about the 'The author here lashes those pretenders to management and wearing their coats Z^'^^s Sn"., ^c^lons.'""" ^" "^'"^ '^'" with legacies, and \ penalties in case of ?o 2 The slovenly way of receiving the sacrament obedience or neglect, yet he began to among the fanatics. entertain a fancy fflat the matter was , ' T'lis is a common phrase to _ express eating 1 111 \ 1 ,1 1- i cleanly, and is meant for an mvective against that deeper and darker, aikl therefore must j^j^cent manner among some people in receiving needs have a great deal "^OVe of mystery the sacrament; so in the lines before, which is tn at the bottom. ' Gentlet^en,' said he, 55 t>e imderstood of the Dissenters refusing to kneel 'I will prove this very skin of parch- the sacrament . - J 1 1 ■ u ' ^ cannot well find ont the author's meaning ment to be meat, drink, and- cloth, to be here, unless it be the hot, untimely, bhnd zeal of the philosopher's stone and tlSe universal enthusiasts. ing prentices who looked on that he giant Laurcalco/ who was lord of the submitted with entire resignation as to silver bridge. Most properly, therefore, a trip or a blow of fate, with whom he O eyes, and with great justice, may you found, by long experience, how vain it be compared to those foolish lights which was either to wrestle or to cufif; and 5 conduct men through dirt and darkness, whoever durst undertake to do either till they fall into a deep pit or a noisome would be sure to come ofif with a swing- bog.' ing fall or a bloody nose. * It was This I have produced as a scantling of ordained,' said he, ' some few days be- Jack's great eloquence, and the force of fore the creation, that my nose and this lo his reasoning upon such abstruse matters, very post should have a rencounter ; and He was, besides, a person of great de- therefore nature thought fit to send us sign and improvement in affairs of both into the world in the same age, and devotion, having introduced a new deity, to make us countrymen and fellow-citi- who has since met with a vast number zens. Now, had my eyes been open, 15 of worshippers; by some called Babel, by it is very likely the business might have others Chaos, who had an ancient temple been a great deal worse; for how many of Gothic structure upon Salisbury plain, a confounded slip is daily got by a man famous for its shrine and celebration by with all this foresight about him? Be- pilgrims. sides, the eyes of the understanding see 20 When he had some roguish trick to best when those of the senses are out play,- he would down with his knees, up of the way; and therefore blind men are with his eyes, and fall to prayers, though observed to tread their steps with much in the midst of the kennel. Then it was more caution, and conduct, and judg- that those who understood his pranks ment, than those who rely with too much 25 would be sure to get far enough out of confidence upon the virtue of the visual his way; and whenever curiosity at- nerve, which every little accident shakes tracted strangers to laugh or to listen, out of order, and a drop or a film can he would, of a sjidden, ... all be- wholly disconcert; like a lantern among spatter them with mud. a pack of roaring bullies when they 3o in winter he went always loose and scour the streets, exposing its owner and unbuttoned,^ and clad as thin as possible itself to outward kicks and buffets, which to let in the ambient heat; and in summer both might have escaped if the vanity lapped himself close and thick to keep it of appearing would have suffered them out. to walk in the dark. But farther, if we 35 In all revolutions of government* he examine the conduct of these boasted would make his court for the office of lights, it will prove yet a great deal hangman general; and in the exercise worse than their fortune. 'T is true, I of that dignity, where he was very have broke my nose against this post, dexterous, would make use of no other because fortune either forgot, or did not 40 vizard ^ than a long prayer, think it convenient, to twitch me by the He had a tongue so musculous and elbow, and give me notice to avoid it. subtile, that he could twist it up into his But let not this encourage either the nose, and deliver a strange kind of present age or posterity to trust their speech from thence. He was also the noses into the keeping of their eyes, 45 first in these kingdoms who began to which may prove the fairest way of improve the Spanish accomplishment of losing them for good and all. For, O ye braying; and having large ears, perpetu- eyes, ye blind guides; miserable guard- ally exposed and erected, he carried his ians are ye of our frail noses ; ye, I say, art to such perfection, that it was a point who fasten upon the first precipice in 50 view, and then tow our wretched willing ^ Vide [See] Don Quixote. bodies after VOU to the very brink of , 'The villainies and cruelties, committed by en- . -iS i 1 I ii J. -u • 1 • thusiasts and fanatics among us, were all performed destruction. But alas ! that brmk is ^^^^^^ ^^e disguise of religion and long prayers, rotten, our feet slip, and we tumble 3 xhey affect differences in habit and behavior, down prone into a gulf, without one 55 * They are severe persecutors and all in a hospitable shrub in the way to break the ^°™ ,°L -^ if, ^'confederates went, as they fall ; a fall to which not any nose Ot called it, to seek the Lord, when they resolved to mortal make is equal, except that of tlic murder the king. 3i6 JONATHAN SWIFT of great difficulty to ilistinguish, either by procure a basting sufficient to swell up the view or the sound, between the orig- his fancy and his sides, he would return inal and the copy. home extremely comforted, and full of He was troubled with a disease reverse terrible accounts of what he had under- to that called the stinging of the taran- 5 gone for the public good. ' Observe this tula ; and would run dog-mad at the noise stroke,' said he, showing his bare shoul- of music, especially a pair of bagpipes. ders; 'a plaguy janizary gave it me this But he would cure himself again by tak- very morning, at seven o'clock, as, with ing two or three turns in Westminster- much ado, I was driving of¥ the great hall, or Billingsgate, or in the boarding- lo Turk. Neighbors, mind, this broken school, or the Royal Exchange, or a state head deserves a plaster ; had poor Jack coffee-house. been tender of his noddle, you would He was a person that feared no colors, have seen the pope and the French king, but mortally hated all, and, upon that ac- long before this time of day, among your count, bore a cruel aversion against 15 wives and your warehouses. Dear painters,^ insomuch that, in his parox- christians, the great Mogul was come as ysms, as he walked the streets, he would far as Whitechapel, and you may thank have his pockets loaden with stones to these poor sides that he hath not (God pelt at the signs. bless us!) already swallowed up man, Having, from this manner of living, 20 woman, and child.' frequent occasion to wash himself, he It was highly worth observing the would often leap over head and ears into singular effects of that aversion * or the water, though it were in the midst antipathy which Jack and his brother of the winter, but was always observed Peter seemed, even to an affectation, to to come out again much dirtier, if pos- 25 bear toward each other. Peter had sible, than he went in. lately done some rogueries that forced He was the first that ever found out him to abscond, and he seldom ventured the secret of contriving a soporiferous to stir out before night, for fear of bail- medicine to be conveyed in at the ears ; ^ iffs. Their lodgings were at the two it was a compound of sulphur and balm 3o most distant parts of the town from each of Gilead, with a little pilgrim's salve. other; and whenever their occasions or He wore a large plaster of artificial humors called them abroad, they would caustics on his stomach, with the fervor make choice of the oddest unlikely times, of which he could set himself a-groaning, and most uncouth rounds they could in- like the famous board upon application 35 vent, that they might be sure to avoid of a red-hot iron. one another; yet, after all this, it was He would stand in the turning of a their perpetual fortune to meet. The street, and, calling to those who passed reason of which is easy enough to ap- by, would cry to one, ' Worthy sir, do prehend ; for, the frenzy and the spleen me the honor of a good slap in the 40 of both having the same foundation, we chaps.' 2 To another, ' Honest friend, may look upon them as two pair of com- pray favor me with a handsome kick on passes, equally extended, and the fixed the arse: Madam, shall I entreat a small foot of each remaining in the same box on the ear from your ladyship's fair center, which, though moving contrary hands? Noble captain, lend a reason- 45 ways at first, will be sure to encounter able thwack, for the love of God, with somewhere or other in the circumfer- that cane of yours over these poor shoul- ence. Besides, it was among the great ders.' And when he had, by such misfortunes of Jack to bear a huge per- earnest solicitations, made a shift to sonal resemblance with his brother so Peter. Their humor and dispositions iThey quarrel at the most innocent decency and were not onlv the same, but there was a ornament, and defaced the statues and paintings ^j^^^ analogy in their shape, and size, "^SnaUcteTc^TnrcX'S- either of hell and and their mien. Insomuch, that nothing damnation, or a fulsome descrii)tion of the joys was niore frcquent than for a bailiff to of heaven; hoth in such a dirty, nauseous style, 55 as to be well resembled to pilprim's salve. * The Papists and fanatics, though they appear = The fanatics have always had a way of affect- the most averse to each other, yet bear a near ing to run into persecution, and count vast merit resemblance in many things, as has been observed upon every little hardship they suffer. by learned men. , ^. .^ ^ — J^^ seize Jack by the shoulder, and cry, EflFugiet tamen haec sceleratus vincula Pro- ' Mr. Peter, you are the king's prisoner.' teas. Or, at other times, for one of Peter's [Still wicked Proteus eludes these chains.] nearest friends to accost Jack with open arms, ' Dear Peter, I am glad to see 5 It is good, therefore, to read the max- thee ; pray send me one of your best ims of our ancestors, with great allow- medicines for the worms.' This, we may ances to times and persons ; for, if we suppose, was a mortifying return of look into primitive records, we shall find those pains and proceedings Jack had that no revolutions have been so great labored in so long; and finding how 10 or so frequent as those of human ears, directly opposite all his endeavors had In former days there was a curious in- answered to the sole end and intention vention to catch and keep them, which which he had proposed to himself, how I think we may justly reckon among the could it avoid having terrible effects artcs perditce [lost arts] ; and how can upon a head and heart so furnished as 15 it be otherwise, when in the latter cen- his? However, the poor remainders of turies the very species is not only dimin- his coat bore all the punishment; the ished to a very lamentable degree, but the orient sun never entered upon his poor remainder is also degenerated so diurnal progress without missing a piece far as to mock our skilfullest tenure? of it. He hired a tailor to stitch up the 20 For, if the only slitting of one ear in collar so close that it was ready to a stag has been found sufficient to prop- choke him, and squeezed out his eyes agate the defect through a whole for- at such a rate as one could see nothing est, why should we wonder at the but the white. \Miat little was left of greatest consequences from so many lop- the main substance of the coat he rub- 25 pings and mutilations to which the ears bed every day for two hours against a of our fathers, and our own, have been rough-cast wall, in order to grind away of late so much exposed? It is true, the remnants of lace and embroidery; indeed, that while this island of ours was but at the same time went on with so under the dominion of grace, many en- niuch violence that he proceeded a 3° deavors were made to improve the heathen philosopher. Yet, after all he growth of ears once more among us. could do of this kind, the success con- The proportion of largeness was not only tinued still to disappoint his expecta- looked upon as an ornament of the out- tion. For, as it is the nature of rags ward man, but as a type of grace in the to bear a kind of mock resemblance to 35 inward. Lastly, the devouter sisters, finery, there being a sort of fluttering who looked upon all extraordinary dilata- appearance in both which is not to be tions of that member as protrusions of distinguished at a distance, in the dark, zeal, or spiritual excrescences, were or by short-sighted eyes, so, in those sure to honor every head they sat upon junctures, it fared with Jack and his 40 as if they had been marks of grace ; ^ tatters, that they offered to the first view but especially that of the preacher, a ridiculous flaunting, which, assisting whose ears were usually of the prime the resemblance in person and air, magnitude; which, upon that account, thwarted all his projects of separation, he was very frequent and exact in ex- and left so near a similitude between 45 posing with all advantages to the peo- them as frequently deceived the very pie; in his rhetorical paroxysms turning disciples and followers of both. sometimes to hold forth the one, and sometimes to hold forth the other: from which custom the whole operation of Desiint non- 50 preaching is to this very day, among nulla [something is wanting]. . their professors, styled by the phrase of holding forth. The old Sclavonian proverb said well, Such was the progress of the saints that it is with men as with asses; who- for advancing the size of that member; ever would keep them fast must find a 55 and it is thought the success would have very good hold at their ears. Yet I been every way answerable, if, in proc- think we mav affirm that it hath been 1 *<; if ,h^„ ., .„. , ■r , , - ^ J , As It they had been cloven tongues. — First verified by repeated experience that— Edition. ^ 3i8 JONATHAN SWIFT ess of time, a cruel king had not risen, ^ all due points, to the delicate taste of who raised a bloody persecution against this our noble age. But, alas ! with my all ears above a certain standard; upon utmost endeavors, I have been able only which, some were glad to hide their to retain a few of the heads. Under flourishing sprouts in a black border, 5 which, there was a full account how others crept wholly under a periwig; Peter got a ])rotcction out of the king's some were slit, others cropped, and a bench; and of a reconcilement-^ between great number sliced off to the stumps. Jack and him, upon a design they had, But of this more hereafter in my general in a certain rainy night, to trepan history of ears, which I design very 10 brother Martin into a spunging-house, speedily to bestow upon the public. and there strip him to the skin. How From this brief survey of the falling Martin, with much ado, showed them state of ears in the last age, and the both a fair pair of heels. How a new small care had to advance their ancient warrant came out against Peter ; upon growth in the present, it is manifest how 15 which, how Jack left him in the lurch, little reason we can have to rely upon stole his protection, and made use of it a hold so short, so weak, and so slippery, himself. How Jack's tatters came into and that whoever desires to catch man- fashion in court and city; how he got kind fast must have recourse to some upon a great horse,* and eat custard.^ other methods. Now, he that will 20 But the particulars of all these, with examine human nature with circuraspec- several others which have now slid out tion enough may discover several handles, of my memory, are lost beyond all hopes whereof the six - senses afford one- of recovery. For which misfortune, a-piece, beside a great number that are leaving my readers to condole with each screwed to the passions, and some few 25 other, as far as they shall find it to agree riveted to the intellect. Among these with their several constitutions, but con- last, curiosity is one, and of all others, juring them by all the friendship that affords the firmest grasp: curiosity, that has passed between us, from the title- spur in the side, that bridle in the mouth, page to this, not to proceed so far as to that ring in the nose, of a lazy and im- 30 injure their healths for an accident past patient and a grunting reader. By this remedy — I now go on to the ceremonial handle it is, that an author should seize part of an accomplished writer, and upon his readers; which as soon as he therefore, by a courtly modern, least of has once compassed, all resistance and all others to be omitted, struggling are in vain; and they become 35 * * * ( i7oa^ his prisoners as close as he pleases, till \ / ^J weariness or dulness force him to let go his grip. A MEDITATION UPON A BROOM- "^ And therefore, I, the author of this STICK, according to the style and miraculous treatise, having hitherto, be- 40 manner of the hon. robert boyle's yond expectation, maintained, by the meditations aforesaid handle, a firm hold upon my „,..,., ... , 4.1 J -4. • -a ^ \ t. This smgle stick, which you now bc- Sfentle readers, it is with great reluctance , , , . , 9 , 1 • ■ ^: ^ 1 . j f, ^ T ^1 *i II J * •* nold inglonously lying in that neglected that I am at length compelled to remit '=' j j ^ & my grasp; leaving them, in the perusal 45 Mn the reign of King James the Second of what remains, to that natural OSci- ?''« Presbyterians by the king's invitation, • 1 i^ • ^1 i •!_ T 1 iomed with the Papists, against the Church fancy inherent in the tribe. I can only „f England, and addressed him for repeal of the assure thee, courteous reader, for both penal laws and test. The king, by his dispensins our comforts, that mv concern is alto- power, gave liberty of conscience, which both gether equal to thine for my unhappineSS ^of^T ^^ Presbyterians made use of; but. upon ? , . ^ ... -^ ^' - the Revolution, the Papists being down of course, in losing, or mislaying among my papers, the Presbyterians freely continued their assemblies, the remaining part of these memoirs; by virtue of King James's indulgence, before they which consisted of accidents, turns, and '^^d a toleration by law. This I believe the author adventures, both new, agreeable, and Tking le'^f ft SSr""' ''■°""'°"' ^"' surprising; and therefore calculated, m 55 * SW Humphry Edwyn, a Presbyterian, when lord-mayor of London, in 1697, had the insolence ' This was King Charles the Second, who, at his to go in his formalities to a conventicle, with the restoration, turned out all the dissenting teachers ensigns of his office, that would not conform. '' Custard is a famous dish at a lord-mayor's ' Including Scaliger's. feast. L\\jx Kjjr\.i 6^ corner, I once knew in a flourishing kicked out of doors, or made use of to state in a forest; it was full of sap, full kindle flames for others to warm them- of leaves, and full of boughs; but now selves by. in vain does the busy art of man pre- (1704) tend to vie with nature, by tying that 5 withered bundle of twigs to its sajJess trunk; 'tis now at best but the reverse A MODEST PROPOSAL of what it was, a tree turned upside for preventing the children of poor down, the branches on the earth, and people in irelanu from ueing a bur- the root in the air; 'tis now handled 10 den to their parents or country, by every dirty wench, condemned to do and for making them beneficial to her drudgery, and, by a capricious kind xhe public of fate, destined to make other things clean, and be nasty itself; at length, It is a melancholy object to those who worn to the stumps in the service of 15 walk through this great town or travel the maids, it is either thrown out of in the country, when they see the streets, door, or condemned to the last use, of the roads, and cabin doors, crowded with kindling a lire. When I beheld this, I beggars of the female sex, followed by sighed, and said within myself: three, four, or six children, all in rags SURELY MAN IS A BROOMSTICK ! 20 and importuning every passenger for an nature sent him into the world strong alms. These mothers, instead of being and lusty, in a thriving condition, wear- able to work for their honest livelihood, ing his own hair on his head, the proper are forced to employ all their time in branches of this reasoning vegetable, strolling to beg sustenance for their help- until the axe of intemperance has lopped 25 less infants: who as they grow up either off his green boughs, and left him a turn thieves for want of work, or leave withered trunk; he then flies to art, and their dear native country to fight for the puts on a periwig, valuing himself upon pretender in Spain, or sell themselves to an unnatural bundle of hairs, all cov- the Barbadoes. ered with powder, that never grew on 3o I think it is agreed by all parties that his head; but now should this our broom- this prodigious number of children in stick pretend to enter the scene, proud the arms, or on the backs, or at the heels of those birchen spoils it never bore, of their mothers, and frequently of their and all covered with dust, though the fathers, is in the present deplorable state sweepings of the finest lady's chamber, 35 of the kingdom a very great additional Y/e should be apt to ridicule and despise grievance; and, therefore, whoever could its vanity. Partial judges that we are find out a fair, cheap, and easy method of our own excellences, and other men's of making these children sound, useful defaults ! members of the commonwealth, would But a broomstick, perhaps you will 40 deserve so well of the public as to have •jay, is an emblem of a tree standing on his statue set up for a preserver of the its head; and pray, what is man but a nation. topsy-turvy creature, his animal faculties But my intention is very far from be- perpetually mounted on his rational; his ing confined to provide only for the chil- head where his heels should be, grovel- a'-> dren of professed beggars ; it is of a ing on the earth! and yet, with all his much greater extent, and shall take in faults, he sets up to be a universal re- the whole number of infants at a certain former and corrector of abuses, a re- age who are born of parents in effect mover of grievances; rakes into every as little able to support them as those slut's corner of nature, bringing hidden 50 who demand our charity in the streets, corruption to the light, and raises a As to my own part, having turned my mighty dust where there was none be- thoughts for many years upon this im- fore; sharing deeply all the while in portant subject, and maturely weighed the very same pollutions he pretends to the several schemes of other projectors, sweep away: his last days are spent in 55 I have always found them grossly mis- slavery to women, and generally the least taken in the computation. It is true, a deserving, till, worn out to the stumps, child just dropped from its dam maybe like his brother besom, he is either supported by her milk for a solar vear. 320 JONATHAN SWIFT with little other nourishment; at most the age of six, even in a part of the king- not above the value of 2s., which the dom so renowned for the quickest pro- mother may certainly get, or the value ficiency in that art. in scraps, by her lawful occupation of I am assured by our merchants, that a begging; and it is exactly at one year 5 boy or a girl before twelve years old is old that I propose to provide for them no salable connnodity; and even when in such a manner as instead of being a they come to this age they will not yield charge upon their parents or the parish, above three pounds, or three jjounds and or wanting food and raiment for the rest half-a-crown at most on the exchange : of their lives, they shall on the contrary lo which cannot turn to account either to contribute to the feeding, and partly to the parents or kingdom, the charge of the clothing, of many tliousands. nutriment and rags having been at least There is* likewise another great ad- four times that value, vantage in my scheme, that it will pre- I shall now therefore humbly propose vent those voluntary abortions, and that 15 my own thoughts, which I hope will not horrid practice of women murdering be liable to the least objection, their bastard children, alas ! too frequent I have been assured by a very knowing among us ! sacrificing the poor innocent American of my acquaintance in London, babes I doubt more to avoid the expense that a young healthy child well nursed than the shame, which would move tears 20 is at a year old a most delicious, nourish- and pity in the most savage and inhuman ing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, breast. roasted, baked, or boiled ; and I make no The number of souls in this kingdom doubt that it will equally serve in a being usually reckoned one million and fricassee or a ragout. a half, of these I calculate there may be 25 I do therefore humbly offer it to pub- about two hundred thousarxi couple lie consideration that of the hundred and whose wives are breeders; from which twenty thousand children already com- number I subtract thirty thousand couples puted, twenty thousand may be reserved who are able to maintain their own chil- for breed, whereof only one-fourth part dren, although I apprehend there cannot Soto be males; which is more than we al- be so many, under the present distresses low to sheep, black cattle or swine; and of the kingdom ; but this being granted, my reason is, that these children are there will remain an hundred and seventy seldom the fruits of marriage, a circum- thousand breeders. I again substract fifty stance not much regarded by our savages, thousand for those women who miscarry, 35 therefore one male will be sufficient to or whose children die by accident or dis- serve four females. That the remaining ease within the year. There only re- hundred thousand may, at a year old, be mains one hundred and twenty thousand offered in the sale to the persons of children of poor parents annually born, quality and fortune through the kingdom ; The question therefore is. how this num- 40 always advising the mother to let them bar shall be reared and provided for, suck plentifully in the last month, so as which, as I have already said, under the to render them plump and fat for a good present situation of affairs, is utterly table. A child will make two dishes at impossible by all the methods hitherto an entertainment for friends; and when proposed. For we can neither employ 4S the family dines alone, the fore or hind them in handicraft or agriculture; we quarter will make a reasonable dish, an.! neither build houses (I mean in the seasoned with a little pepper or salt will country) nor cultivate land: they can be very good boiled on the fourth dav, very seldom pick up a livelihood by steal- especially in winter. ing^ till they arrive at six years old, except so I have reckoned upon a medium that a where they are of towardly parts, although child just born will weigh 12 pounds, I confess they learn the rudiments much and in a solar year, if tolerably nursed, earlier, during which time, they can how- increaseth to 28 pounds, ever be properly looked upon only as I grant this food will be somewhat probationers, as I have been informed by ''' dear, and therefore very proper for land- a principal gentleman in the county of lords, who, as they have already devoured Cavan, who protested lo me that he never most of the parents, seem to have the best knew above one or two instances imder title to the children. Infant's flesh will be in season through- ents, if alive, or otherwise by their near- out the year, but more plentiful in March, est relations. But with due deference to and a little before and after; for we are so excellent a friend and so deserving a told by a grave author, an eminent patriot, I cannot be altogether in his French physician, that fish being a pro- 5 sentiments ; for as to the males, my lific diet, there are more children born American acquaintance assured me/from in Roman Catholic countries about nine frequent experience, that their flesh was months after Lent than at any other generally tough and lean, like that of our season; therefore, reckoning a year after school-boys by continual exercise, and Lent, the markets will be more glutted lo their taste disagreeable; and to fatten than usual, because the number of popish them would not answer the charge. infants is at least three to one in this Then as to the females, it would, I think, kingdom: and therefore it will have one with humble submission be a loss to the other collateral advantage, by lessening public, because they soon would become the number of papists among us. 15 breeders themselves ; and besides^ it is not I have already computed the charge of improbable that some scrupulous people nursing a beggar's child (in which list might be apt to censure such a practice I reckon all cottagers, laborers, and four- (although indeed very unjustly), as a fifths of the farmers) to be about two little bordering upon cruelty; which, I shillings per annum, rags included; and 20 confess, hath always been with me the I believe no gentleman would repine to strongest objection against any project, give ten shillings for the carcass of a however so well intended, good fat child, which, as I have said, But in order to justify my friend, he will make four dishes of excellent nutri- confessed that this expedient was put tive meat, when he hath only some par- 25 into his head by the famous Psalmanazar, ticular friend or his own family to dine a native of the island Formosa, who came with him. Thus the squire will learn to from thence to London above twenty be a good landlord, and grow popular years ago, and in conversation told my . among his_ tenants ; the mother will have friend, that in his country when any eight shillings net profit, and be fit for 30 young person happened to be put to death, work till she produces another child. the executioner sold the carcass to per- Those who are more thrifty (as I must sons of quality as a prime dainty; and confess the times require) may flay the that in his time the body of a plump carcass; the skin of which artificially girl of fifteen, who was crucified for an dressed will make admirable gloves for 35 attempt to poison the emperor, was sold ladies, and summer boots for fine gentle- to his imperial majesty's prime minister men. ' of state, and other great mandarins of As to our city of Dublin, shambles may the court, in joints from the gibbet, at be appointed for this purpose in the most four hundred crowns. Neither indeed convenient parts of it, and butchers we 40 can I deny, that if the same use were may be assured will not be wanting; al- made of several plump young girls in though I rather recommend buying the this town, who without one single groat children alive than dressing them hot to their fortunes cannot stir abroad from the knife as we do roasting pigs. without a chair, and appear at playhouse A very worthy person, a true lover of 45 and assemblies in foreign fineries which his country, and whose virtues I highly they never will pay for, the kingdom esteem, was lately pleased in discoursing would not be the worse. on this matter to offer a refinement upon Some persons of a desponding spirit my scheme. He said that many gentle- are in great concern about that vast men of this kingdom, having of late de- 50 number of poor people, who are aged, stroyed their deer, he conceived that the diseased, or maimed, and I have been want of venison might be well supplied desired to employ my thoughts what by the bodies of young lads and maidens, course may be taken to case the nation not exceeding fourteen years of age nor of so grievous an encumbrance. But I under twelve ; so great a number of both 55 am not in the least pain upon that matter, sexes in every country being now ready because it is very well known that they to starve for want of work and service ; are every day dying and rotting by cold and these to be disposed of by their par- and famine, and filth and vermin, as fast 3^^ J^^-^----^-^- ^.,.x X as can be reasonably expected. And as gentlemen, vvlio justly value themselves to the young laborers, they are now in as upon their knowledge in good eating: hopeful a condition; they cannot get and a skilful cook, who understands how work, and consequently pine away for to oblige his guests, will contrive to make want' of nourishment, to a degree that if sit as expensive as they please, at any time they are accidentally hired Sixthly, This would be a great induce- to common labor, they have not strength ment to marriage, which all wise nations to perform it; and thus the country and have either encouraged by rewards or themselves are happily delivered from the enforced by laws and penalties. It would evils to come. '° increase the care and tenderness of I have too long digressed, and therefore mothers toward their children, when shall return to my subject. I think the they were sure of a settlement for life advantages by the proposal which I have to the poor babes, provided in some sort made are obvious and many, as well as by the public, to their annual profit in- of the highest importance. 15 stead of expense. We should see an For first, as I have already observed, honest emulation among the married it would greatly lessen the number of women, which of them could bring the papists, with whom we are yearly over- fattest child to the market. Men would run, being the principal breeders of the become as fond of their wives during the nation as well as our most dangerous 20 time of their pregnancy as they are now enemies; and who stay at home on pur- of their mares in foal, their cows in calf, pose with a design to deliver the king- their sows when they are ready to far- dom to the pretender, hoping to take their row; nor ofYer to beat or kick them (as is advantage by the aljsence of so many too frequent a practice) for fear of a good protestants, who have chosen rather 25 miscarriage. to leave their country than stay at home Many other advantages might be enu- and pay tithes against their conscience merated. For instance, the addition of to an episcopal curate. some thousand carcasses in our exporta- Secondly, The poorer tenants will have tion of barreled beef, the propagation of ;-:omething valuable of their own, which r^ swine's flesh, and improvement in the art by law may be made liable to distress of making good bacon, so much wanted und help to pay their landlord's rent, among us by the great destruction of pigs, their corn and cattle being already seized, too frequent at our tables; which are no ind money a thing unknown. way comparable in taste or magnificence Thirdly, Whereas the maintenance of 3S to a well-grown, fat, yearling child, which an hundred thousand children, from two roasted whole will make a consideral)le years old and upward, cannot be com- figure at a lord mayor's feast or any other puted at less than ten shillings a-piece public entertainment. But this and many per annum, the nation's stock will be others I omit, being studious of brevity, thereby increased fifty thousand pounds 4° Supposing that one thousand families per annum, beside the profit of a new in this city would be constant customers dish introduced to the tables of all gentle- for infants' flesh, beside others who might men of fortune in the kingdom who have have it at merry-meetings, particularly any refinement in taste. And the money weddings and christenings, I compute that will circulate among ourselves, the goods 4S Dublin would take off annually about being entirely of our own growth and twenty thousand carcasses; and the rest manufacture. of the kingdom (where probably they will Fourthly, The constant breeders, beside be sold somewhat cheaper) the remaining the gain of eight shillings sterling per eighty thousand. aimum by the sale of their children, will 5° I can think of no one objection that be rid of the charge of maintaining them will possibly be raised against this pro- after the first year. posal, unless it should be urged that the Fifthly, This food would likewise bring number of people will be thereby much great custom to taverns ; where the vint- lessened in the kingdom. This I freely ners will certainly be so prudent as to 5S own, and was indeed one principal de- procure the best receipts for dressing it sign in offering it to the world. I desire to perfection, and consequently have the reader will observe, that I calculate their houses frequented by all the fine my remedy for this one individual king- dom of Ireland and for no other that ever glad to eat up our whole nation without was, is, or I think ever can be upon earth. it. Therefore let no nian talk to me of other After all, I am not so violently bent expedients: of taxing our absentees at upon my own opinion as to reject any five shillings a pound; of using neither s offer proposed by wise men, which shall clothes nor household furniture except be found equally innocent, cheap, easy, what is of our own growth and manu- and effectual. But before something of facture; of utterly rejecting the materials that kind shall be advanced in contradic- and instruments that promote foreign tion to my scheme, and offering a better, luxury; of curing the expensivencss of lo I desire the author or authors will be pride, vanity, idleness, and gaming in our pleased maturely to consider two points, women; of introducing a vein of parsi- First, as things now stand, how they will mony, prudence, and temperance; of be able to find food and raiment for an learning to love our country, wherein we hundred thousand useless mouths and differ even from Laplanders and the ;-, lacks. And secondly, there being a inhabitants of Topinamboo; of quitting round million of creatures in human our animosities and factions, nor act any figure throughout this kingdom, whose longer like the Jews, who were murdering whole subsistence put into a common one another at the very moment their city stock would leave them in debt two mil- was taken; of being a little cautious not 20 lions of pounds sterling, adding those who to sell our country and conscience for are beggars by profession to the bulk of nothing; of teaching landlords to have farmers, cottagers, and laborers, with at least one degree of mercy toward their their wives and children who are beggars tenants; lastly, of putting a spirit of in effect: I desire those politicians who honesty, industry, and skill into our shop- 2s dislike my overture, and may perhaps be keepers; who, if a resolution could now so bold as to attempt an answer, that be taken to buy only our native goods, they will first ask the parents of these would immediately unite to cheat and ex- mortals, w^hether they would not at this act upon us in the price, the measure, and day think it a great happiness to have the goodness, nor could ever yet be 30 been sold for food at a year old in the brought to make one fair proposal of just manner I prescribe, and thereby have dealing, though often and earnestly in- avoided such a perpetual scene of mis- vited to it. fortunes as they have since gone through Therefore I repeat, let no man talk by the oppression of landlords, the im- to me of these and the like expedients, till 3S possibility of paying rent without money he hath at least some glimpse of hope that or trade, the want of common sustenance, there will be ever some hearty and sincere with neither house nor clothes to cover attempt to put them in practice. them from the inclemencies of the But as to myself, having been wearied weather, and the most inevitable prospect out for many years with offering vain, 40 of entailing the like or greater miseries idle, visionary thoughts, and at length upon their breed for ever, utterly despairing of success I fortunately I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, fell upon this proposal; which, as it is that I have not the least personal interest wholly new, so it hath something solid in endeavoring to promote this necessary and real, of no expense and little trouble, 45 work, having no other motive than the full in our own power, and whereby we public good of my country, by advancing can incur no danger in disobliging Eng- our trade, providing for infants, reliev- land. For this kind of commodity will ing the poor, and giving some pleasure not bear exportation, the flesh being of to the rich. I have no children by which too tender a consistence to admit a long 50 I can propose to get a single penny; the continuance in salt, although perhaps I youngest being nine years old, and my could name a country wdiich would be wife past child-bearing. (1729) 55 SIR RICHARD STEELE (1672-1729) Steele, like Swift, was born in Dublin. He passed, with Addison, through Charterhouse School to Oxford, but soon left the university to seek his fortune in the amiy. By 1701, he had gained a captaincy in the Tower Guards and was a vivacious figure among the wits who haunted the coffee-houses, clubs, and theaters of London. Several comedies, in which he made a manly and effective effort to win a place for decency on the English stage, were still sprightly enough to sustain his reputation as a wit and good fellow. He was soon taken on by the government and, in 1707, was commissioned to write The Gazette. While ofhcially ' keeping that paper very innocent and very insipid,' Steele discovered the possibilities of periodical writing. Two years later he began The Tatler, picking up as a disguise the char- acter of a fictitious astrologer, Isaac Bickerstaff, which Swift had let drop after provoking the town to hilarious scoffing at one Partridge, an almanac-maker. Addison soon penetrated the disguise and was eagerly welcomed as a contributor. After about a year, Steele and Addison together devised the more commodious plan of The Spectator. The novel periodical created and supplied a new kind of literary demand. Its freedom from party bias, and the penetrating and yet urbane irony of its portrayals and criticisms of English manners gave it a wide appeal. The Spectator became a part of the 'tea-equipage' in London clubs and coffee-houses and wide-awake provincial homes. It turned out a valuable pecuniary asset ; but the partnership did not last. Steele was a turbulent politician; Addison disapproved of his factious spirit; and, after the earlier numbers of The Guardian (1713), they ceased to collaborate. None of the later periodicals of either approximated the success of The Spectator. Steele was now approaching the liveliest part of his life. He had a stormy parliamentary experience, was made supervisor of the Drury Lane Theater, and George I knighted him for energetic championship of the Hanoverian succession. His prosperity was brief, however. Through his opposition to the Peerage Bill (1719), he lost the support of his party and received some sore knocks from his old friend. He was frequently in money difficulties, and finally, broken in health as well as fortune, he took refuge in Wales, not as Swift venomously rimed, ' from perils of a hundred gaols,' but from the expenses of a London establishment, so that his debts might be paid before his death. Steele's Irish imprudences are sometimes exaggerated for the sake of contrasting him with Addison. He was not, in practice, above the fashionable vices of his times, and he was sinfully reckless in money matters. He was, nevertheless, a sincere champion of virtue and lover of piety; he was chivalrous toward women, generous and forgiving toward his friends, and intrepid where his political conscience was involved. The uncalculating prodigality and sweetness of his nature are reflected in his pages, and have made many besides Thackeray ' own to liking Dick Steele the man, and Dick Steele the author, much better than much better men and much better authors.' From THE TATLER public-spirited as to neglect their own affairs to look into transactions of state. [N^o- !•] Now^ these gentlemen, for the most part, THE ADVERTISEMENT being persons of strong zeal and weak 5 intellects, it is both a charitable and Though the other papers which are necessary work to offer something published for the use of the good people whereby such worthy and well-aftectcd of England have certainly very whole- members of the commonwealth may be some effects and are laudable in their instructed, after their reading, what to particular kinds, they do not seem to lo think; which shall be the end and pur- come up to the main design of such pose of this my paper, wherein I shall narrations, which, I humbly presume, from time to time report and consider should be principally intended for the all matters of what kind soever that shall use of politic persons, who are so occur to me, and publish such my advices 324 and reflections every Tuesday, Thursday casting a figure, tell you all that will hap- and Saturday in the week, for the con- pen before it comes to pass, venience of the post. I resolve also to But this last faculty I shall use very have something which may be of enter- sparingly, and speak but of few things tainment to the fair sex, in honor of s until they are passed, for fear of divulg- whom I have invented the title of this ing matters which may offend our supe- paper. I therefore earnestly desire all riors. Tuesday, April 12, 1709. persons, without distinction, to take it in ♦ * * for the present gratis, and hereafter at the price of one penny, forbidding all 10 j-^, „ ^ hawkers to take more for it at their peril. l-^°' ^°^-] And I desire all persons to consider that A. RECOLLECTION I am at a very great charge for proper materials for this work, as well as that. The first sense of sorrow I ever knew before I resolved upon it, I had settled 15 was upon the death of my father, at a correspondence in all parts of the which time I was not quite five years of known and knowing world. And foras- age; but was rather amazed at what all much as this globe is not trodden upon the house meant than possessed with a by mere drudges of business only, but real understanding why nobody was will- that men of spirit and genius are justly 20 ing to play with me. I remember I went to be esteemed as considerable agents in into the room where his body lay, and my it, we shall not upon a dearth of news mother sat weeping alone by it. I had present you with musty foreign edicts, or my battledore in my hand, and fell a-beat- dull proclamations, but shall divide our ing the coffin, and calling 'Papa'; for I relation of the passages which occur in 25 know not how, I had some slight idea action or discourse throughout this town, that he was locked up there. My mother as well as elsewhere, under such dates of catched me in her arms, and transported places as may prepare you for the matter beyond all patience of the silent grief she you are to expect, in the following man- was before in, she almost smothered me ner: 30 in her embrace, and told me in a flood of All accounts of gallantry, pleasure, and tears, ' Papa could not hear me, and entertainment shall be under the article would play with me no more, for they of White's Chocolate-house; poetry, under were going to put him under ground, that of Will's Coffee-house ; learning, whence he could never come to us again.' under the title of Grecian; foreign and 35 She was a very beautiful woman, of a domestic news, you will have from Saint noble spirit, and there was a dignity in James's Coffee-house; and what else I her grief amidst all the wildness of her have to offer on any other subject shall be transport, which, methought struck me dated from my own apartment. with an instinct of sorrow which, before I once more desire my reader to con- 4° I was sensible of what it was to grieve, sider that, as I cannot keep an ingenious seized my very soul, and has made pity man to go daily to Wills under twopence the weakness of my heart ever since. each day, merely for his charges; to The mind in infancy is, methinks, like the White's under sixpence ; nor to the body in embryo, and receives impressions Grecian, without allowing him some plain 45 so forcible that they are as hard to be Spanish, to be as able as others at the removed by reason, as any mark with learned table; and that a good observer which a child is born is to be taken away cannot speak with even kidney at Saint by any future application. Hence it is James's without clean linen; I say, these that good-nature in me is no merit; but. considerations will, I hope, make all per- 5° having been so frequently overwhelmed sons willing to comply with my humble with her tears before I knew the cause of request (when my gratis stock is ex- any affliction, or could draw defenses hausted) of a penny a piece; especially from my own judgment. I imbibed com- since they are sure of some proper amuse- miseration, remorse, and an unmanlv ment, and that it is impossible for me to 55 gentleness of mind, which has since in- want means to entertain them, having, snared me into ten thousand calamities, besides the force of my own parts, the and from whence I can reap no advantage, power of divination, and that I can, by except it be that, in such a humor as I am 326 SIR RICHARD STEELE now in, I can the better indulge myself beloved than esteemed. His tenants in the softnesses or humanity, and enjoy grow rich, his servants look satisfied, all that sweet anxiety which arises from the the young women profess love to him. memory of past afflictions. and the young men are glad of his com- June 5, 1710. s pany ; when he comes into a house, he calls the servants by their names, and talks all the way up stairs to a visit. 1 From THE SPECTATOR must not omit, that Sir Roger is a jus- tice of the quorum; that he fills the chair I -^'o- 2.] ,0 at a quarter-sessions with great abilities, THE CI UB '^"'■^ three months ago, gained universal applause, by explaining a passage in the The first of our society is a gentleman game-act. of Worcestershire, of ancient descent, a The gentleman next in esteem and baronet, his name is Sir Roger de 15 authority among us, is another bachelor, Coverley. His great grandfather was in- who is a member of the Inner Temple; ventor of that famous country-dance a man of great probity, wit, and under- which is called after him. All who know standing; but he has chosen his place of that shire are very well acquainted with residence rather to obey the direction of the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He 20 an old humorsome father, than in pursuit is a gentleman that is very singular in of his own inclinations. He was placed his behavior, but his singularities proceed there to study the laws of the land, and from his good sense, and are contradic- is the most learned of any of the house tions to the manners of the world, only in those of the stage. Aristotle and as he thinks the world is in the wrong. 25 Longinus are much better understood by However, this humor creates him no him than Littleton or Coke. The fatHer enemies, for he does nothing with sour- sends up every post questions relating to ness or obstinacy; and his being uncon- marriage articles, leases and tenures, in fined to modes and forms, makes him but the neighborhood; all which questions he the readier and more capable to please 30 agrees with an attorney to answer and and oblige all who know him. When he take care of in the lump. He is studying is in town, he lives in Soho Square, It the passions themselves, when he should is said, he keeps himself a bachelor, by be inquiring into the debates among men reason he was crossed in love by a per- which arise from them. He knows the verse beautiful widow of the next county 3S argument of each of the orations of to him. Before this disappointment, Sir Demosthenes and Tully; but not one case Roger was what you call a fine gentle- in the reports of our own courts. No man, had often supped with my Lord one ever took him for a fool, but none, Rochester and Sir George Etherege, except his intimate friends, know he has fought a duel upon his first coming to 40 a great deal of wit. This turn makes town, and kicked Bully Dawson in a him at once both disinterested and agree- public coffee house for calling him young- able; as few of his thoughts are drawn ster. But, being ill used by the above from business, they are most of them fit mentioned widow, he was very serious for conversation. His taste of books is for a year and a half; and though, his 45 a little too just for the age he lives in; temper being naturally jovial, he at last he has read all, but approves of very got over it, he grew careless of himself, few. His familiarity with the customs, and never dressed afterwards. He con- manners, actions, and writings of the tinues to wear a coat and doublet of the ancients, makes him a very delicate ob- same cut that were in fashion at the 50 server of what occurs to him in the pres- time of his repulse, which, in his merry ent world. He is an excellent critic, and humors, he tells us, has been in and out the time of the play is his hour of busi- twelve times since he first wore it. He ness ; exactly at five he passes through is now in his fifty-sixth year, cheerful, New Inn, crosses through Russell court, gay, and hearty; keeps a good house both ss and takes a turn at Will's, till the play in town and country; a great lover of begins; he has his shoes rubbed, and his mankind: but there is such a mirthful periwig powdered at the barber's as you cast in his Ijehavior, that he is rather go into the Rose. It is for the good of the audience when he is at a play; for merit is placed in so conspicuous a view, the actors have an ambition to please impudence should get the better of mod- him. esty. When he has talked to this pur- The person of next consideration is Sir pose, I never heard him make a sour Andrew Freeport, a merchant of great s expression, but frankly confess that he eminence in the city of London. A left the world, because he was not fit for person of indefatigable industry, strong it. A strict honesty and an even regular reason, and great experience. His no- behavior are in themselves obstacles to tions of trade are noble and generous, him that must press through crowds who and (as every rich man has usually some lo endeavor at the same end with himself, sly way of jesting, which would make no the favor of a commander. He will, great figure were he not a rich man) he however, in his way of talk, excuse gen- calls the sea the British Common. He erals for not disposing according to men's is acquainted with commerce in all its desert, or inquiring into it : for, says he, parts, and will tell you that it is a stupid k that great man who has a mind to help and barbarous way to extend dominion me, has as many to break through to by arms, for true power is to be got by come at me, as I have to come at him : arts and industry. He will often argue, therefore, he will conclude, that the man that if this part of our trade were well who would make a figure, especially in a cultivated, we should gain from one na- 20 military way, must get over all false tion, — and if another, from another. I modesty, and assist his patron against have heard him prove, that diligence the importunity of other pretenders, by makes more lasting acquisitions than a proper assurance in his own vindica- valor, and that sloth has ruined more tion. He says, it is a civil cowardice to nations than the sword. He abounds in 2s he backward in asserting what you ought several frugal maxims, amongst which to expect, as it is a military fear to be the greatest favorite is, ' A penny saved slow in attacking when it is your duty. is a penny got.' A general trader of With this candor does the gentleman good sense is pleasanter company than speak of himself and others. The same a general scholar ; and Sir Andrew hav- 30 frankness runs through all his conversa- ing a natural unaffected eloquence, the tion. The military part of his life has perspicuity of his discourse gives the furnished him with many adventures, in same pleasure that wit would in another the relation of which he is very agree- man. He has made his fortunes himself; able to the company; for he is never and says that England may be richer 35 over-bearing, though accustomed to com- than other kingdoms, by as plain methods mand men in the utmost degree below as he himself is richer than other men; him; nor ever too obsequious, from an though at the same time I can say this of habit of obeying men highly above him. him, that there is not a point in the com- But, that our society may not appear pass but blows home a ship in which he 40 a set of humorists, unacquainted with the is an owner. gallantries and pleasures of the age, we Next to Sir Andrew in the club-room have among us the gallant Will Honey- sits Captain Sentry, a gentleman of great comb, a gentleman who, according to his courage, good understandmg, but in- years, should be in the decline of his vincible modesty. He is one of those 4S life, but, having ever been very careful that deserve very well, but are very of his person, and always had a very easy awkward at putting their talents within fortune, time has made but a very little the observation of such as should take impression, either by wrinkles on his notice of them. He was some years a forehead, or traces on his brain. His captain, and behaved himself with great 50 person is well turned, of a good height. gallantry in several engagements and at He is very ready at that sort of discourse several sieges; but having a small estate with which men usually entertain women. of his own, and being next heir to Sir He has all his life dressed very well, and Roger, he has quitted a way of life, in remembers habits as others do men. He which no man can rise suitably to his S5 can smile when one speaks to him, and merit, who is not something of a courtier laughs easily. He knows the history of as well as a soldier. I have heard him every mode, and can inform vou from often lament, that in a profession where what Frenchwomen our wives and daugh- 328 SIR RICHARD STEELE ters had this manner of curHng their [No. 6.] hair, that way of placing their hoods; and whose vanity to shew her foot made SIR ROGER ON MEN OF PARTS that part of the dress so sliort in such a year. In a word, all his conversation s I know no evil under the sun so great and knowledge have been in the female as the abuse of the understanding, and world; as other men of his age will take yet there is no one vice more common, notice to you what such a minister said It has diffused itself through both sexes, upon such and such an occasion, he will and all qualities of mankind ; and there tell you, when the Duke of Monmouth lo is hardly that person to be found, who is danced at court, such a woman was then not more concerned for the reputation of smitten, another was taken with him at wit and sense, than honesty and virtue, the head of his troop in the Park. For But this unhappy affectation of lacing all these important relations, he has ever wise rather than honest, witty than good- about the same time received a kind is natured, is the source of most of the ill glance or a blow of a fan from some habits of life. Such false impressions celebrated beauty, mother of the present are owing to the abandoned writings of lord such-a-one. men of wit, and the awkward imitation This way of talking of his very much of the rest of mankind, enlivens the conversation, among us of 20 For this reason. Sir Roger was saying a more sedate turn ; and I find there is last night, that he was of opinion that not one of the company, but myself, who none but men of fine parts deserve to be rarely speak at all, but speaks of him as hanged. The reflections of such men are of that sort of man who is usually called so delicate upon all occurrences which a well-bred fine gentleman. To conclude 25 they are concerned in, that they should his character, where women are not con- be exposed to more than ordinary in- cerned, he is an honest worthy man. famy and punishment, for offending I cannot tell whether I am to account against such quick admonitions as their him whom I am next to speak of, as one of own souls give them, and blunting the our company; for he visits us but seldom, 3o fine edge of their minds in such a man- but when he does, it adds to every man ner, that they are no more shocked at else a new enjoyment of himself. He is vice and folly, than men of slower ca- a clergyman, a very philosophic man, of pacities. There is no greater monster in general learning, great sanctity of life, being, than a very ill man of great parts, and the most exact good breeding. He 3S He lives like a man in a palsy, with one has the misfortune to be of a very weak side of him dead. While perhaps he en- constitution; and consequently cannot joys the satisfaction of luxury, of wealth, accept of such cares and business as pre- of ambition, he has lost the taste of good ferments in his function would oblige will, of friendship, of innocence. Scare- him to ; he is therefore among divines 40 crow, the beggar in Lincoln's-inn-fields. what a chamber-councillor is among who disabled himself in his right leg, and lawyers. The probity of his mind, and asks alms all day to get himself a warm the integrity of his life, create him fol- supper at night, is not half so despicable lowers, as being eloquent or loud ad- a wretch, as such a man of sense. The vances others. He seldom introduces the 4; beggar has no relish above sensations; subject he speaks upon; but we are so he finds rest more agreeable than mo- far gone in years that he observes, when tion ; and while he has a warm fire, never he is among us, an earnestness to have reflects that he deserves to be whipped, him fall on some divine topic, which he Every man who terminates his satisfac- always treats with much authority, as 5° tions and enjoyments within the supply one who has no interest in this world, as of his own necessities and passions is, one who is hastening to the object of all says Sir Roger, in my eye as poor a rogue his wishes, and conceives hope from his as Scarecrow. ' But,' continued he, ' for decays and infirmities. These are my the loss of public and private virtue we ordinary comi)anions. 5S are beholden to your men of fine parts Friday, March 2, 1710-11. forsooth; it is with them no matter what is done, so it be done with an air. But to me who am so whimsical in a corrupt oirv jwjyjn^jx win ivir^iN \jr ir/YKio 329 age as to act according to nature and man who appears in public, and whoever reason, a selfish man in the most shining does not proceed upon that foundation, circumstance and equipage, appears in injures his country as fast as he succeeds the same condition with the fellow above in his studies. When modesty ceases to mentioned, but more contemptible in pro- s be the chief ornament of one sex, and portion to what more he robs the public integrity of the other, society is upon a of and enjoys above him. I lay it down wrong basis, and we shall be ever after therefore for a rule, that the whole man without rules to guide our judgment in is to move together; that every action what is really becoming and ornamental, of any importance, is to have a prospect 10 Nature and reason direct one thing, pas- of public good: and that the general sion and humor another. To follow the tendency of our indifferent actions ought dictates of these two latter, is going into to be agreeable to the dictates of rea- a road that is both endless and intricate ; son, of religion, of good breeding; with- when we pursue the other, our passage is out this, a man, as I have before hinted, 15 delightful, and what we aim at easily is hopping instead of walking, he is not attainable. in his entire and proper motion.' I do not doubt but England is at pres- While the honest knight was thus be- ent as polite a nation as any in the world ; wildering himself in good starts, I looked but any man who thinks can easily see, intentively upon him, which made him, 20 that the affectation of being gay and in I thought, collect his mind a little. fashion, has very near eaten up our good ' What I aim at,' says he, ' is, to repre- sense and our religion. Is there anything sent, that I am of opinion, to polish our so just as that mode and gallantry should understandings and neglect our manners be built upon exerting ourselves in what is of all things the most inexcusable. 25 is proper and agreeable to the institu- Reason should govern passion, but in- tions of justice and piety among us? stead of that, you see, it is often sub- And yet is there anything more common, servient to it; and, as unaccountable as than that we run in perfect contradic- one would think it, a wise man is not tion to them? All which is supported by always a good man.' This degeneracy 30 no other pretension, than that it is done is not only the guilt of particular persons, with what we call a good grace, but also at some times of a whole people; Nothing ought to be held laudable or and perhaps it may appear upon examina- becoming, but what nature itself should tion, that the most polite ages are the prompt us to think so. Respect to all least virtuous. This may be attributed 35 kinds of superiors is founded, methinks, to the folly of admitting wit and learn- upon instinct; and yet what is so ridicu- ing as merit in themselves, without con- lous as age? I make this abrupt transi- sidering the application of them. By tion to the mention of this vice, more this means it becomes a rule, not so much than any other, in order to introduce a to regard what we do, as how we do it. ^o little story, which I think a pretty in- But this false beauty will not pass upon stance that the most polite age is in men of honest minds and true taste. Sir danger of being the most vicious. Richard Blackmore says, with as much ' It happened at Athens, during a public good sense as virtue, ' It is a mighty dis- representation of some play exhibited in honor and shame to employ excellent 4S honor of the commonwealth, that an old faculties and abundance of wit, to gentleman came too late for a place humor and please men in their vices and suitable to his age and quality. Many follies. The great enemy of mankind, of the young gentlemen, who observed notwithstanding his wit and angelic the difficulty and confusion he was in, faculties, is the most odious being in the 50 made signs to him that they would ac- whole creation.' He goes on soon after commodate him if he came where they to say, very generously, that he under- sat. The good man bustled through the took the writing of his poem 'to rescue crowd accordingly; but when he came to the Muses out of the hands of ravishers, the seats to which he was invited, the to restore them to their sweet and chaste 55 jest was to sit close and expose him, as mansions, and to engage them in an em- he stood out of countenance, to the whole ployment suitable to their dignity.' This audience. The frolic went round all the certainly ought to be the purpose of every Athenian benches. But on those occa- 330 SIR RICHARD STEELE sions there were also particular places j^reat circumstance in his life, with an air assigned for foreigners. When the good which I thought raised my idea of him man skulked towards the boxes appointed above what I had ever had before ; and for the Lacedaemonians, that honest gave me the picture of that cheerful people, more virtuous than polite, rose 5 mind of his, before it received that up all to a man, and with the greatest stroke which has ever since affected his respect received him among them. The words and actions. But he went on as Athenians being suddenly touched with follows: — a sense of the Spartan virtue and their ' I came to my estate in my twenty- own degeneracy, gave a thunder of ap- lo second year, and resolved to follow the plause ; and the old man cried out, " The steps of the most worthy of my ancestors Athenians understand what is good, but who have inhabited this spot of earth the Lacedaemonians practise it." before me, in all the methods of hos- Wednesday, March 17, 1710-II. pitality and good neighborhood, for the 15 sake of my fame ; and in country sports and recreations, for the sake of my [No. 1 13. J health. In my twenty-third year I was SIR ROGER IN LOVE obliged to serve as sheriff of the county; and m my servants, officers, and whole In my first description of the com- 20 equipage, indulged the pleasure of a pany in which I pass most of my time, young man (who did not think ill of it may be remembered, that I mentioned his own person) in taking that public a great affliction which my friend Sir occasion of showing my figure and be- Roger had met with in his youth ; which havior to advantage. You may easily was no less than a disappointment in 25 imagine to yourself what appearance I love. It happened this evening, that we made, who am pretty tall, ride well, and fell into a very pleasing walk at a dis- was very well dressed, at the head of a tance from his house. As soon as we whole county, with music before me, a came into it, * It is,' quoth the good old feather in my hat, and my horse well man, looking round him with a smile, 30 bitted. I can assure you I was not a ' very hard, that any part of my land little pleased with the kind looks and should be settled upon one who has used glances I had from all the balconies and me so ill as the perverse widow did; windows as I rode to the hall where the and yet I am sure I could not see a sprig assizes were held. But, when I came of any bough of this whole walk of trees, 35 there, a beautiful creature in a widow's but I should reflect upon her and her habit sat in a court to hear the event of severity. She has certainly the finest a cause concerning her dower. This hand of any woman in the world. You commanding creature (who was born for are to know, this was the place wherein the destruction of all who behold her) I used to muse upon her; and by that 40 put on such a resignation in her counte- custom I can never come into it, but the nance, and bore the whispers of all same tender sentiments revive in my around the court with such a pretty un- mind, as if I had actually walked with easiness, I warrant you, and then re- that beautiful creature under these covered herself from one eye to another, shades. I have been fool enough to ^s until she was perfectly confused by carve her name on the bark of several meeting something so wistful in all she of these trees; so unhappy is the condi- encountered, that at last, with a nuirrain tion of men in love, to attempt the re- to her, she cast her bewitching eye upon moving of their passion by the methods me. I no sooner met it but I l)Owcd like which serve only to imprint it deeper. 50a great surprised booby; and knowing She has certainly the finest hand of any her cause to be the first which came on, woman in the world.' I cried, like a captivated calf as I was, Here followed a profound silence ; and " Make way for the defendant's wit- I was not displeased to observe my friend nesses." This sudden partiality made all falling so naturally into a discourse 55 the county immediately see the sheriff which I had ever before taken notice he also was become a slave to the fine industriously avoided. After a very long widow. During the time her cause was pause, he entered upon an account of this upon trial, she behaved herself, I war- rant you, with such a deep attention to and the skill of beauty, she will arm her- her business, took opportunities to have self with her real charms, and strike little billets handed to her counsel, then you with admiration instead of desire, would be in such a pretty confusion, It is certain that if you were to behold occasioned, you must know, by acting be- 5 the whole woman, there is that dignity fore so much company, that not only I in her aspect, that composure in her but the whole court was prejudiced in motion, that complacency in her manner, her favor; and all that the next heir to that if her form makes you hope, her her husband had to urge was thought merit makes you fear. But then again, so groundless and frivolous, that when 10 she is such a desperate scholar that no it came to her counsel to reply, there country gentleman can approach her was not half so much said as every one without being a jest. As I was going besides in the court thought he could to tell you, when I came to her house, have urged to her advantage. You I was admitted to her presence with great must understand, sir, this perverse 15 civility; at the same time she placed her- wonian is one of those unaccountable self to be first seen by me in such an creatures that secretly rejoice in the attitude, as I think you call the posture admiration of men, but indulge them- of a picture, that she discovered new selves in no farther consequences, charms, and I at last came towards her lience it is that she has ever had a train 20 with such an awe as made me speechless, of admirers, and she removes from her This she no sooner observed but she made slaves in town to those in the country, her advantage of it, and began a dis- according to the seasons of the year, course to me concerning love and honor, She is a reading lady, and far gone in as they both are followed by pretenders, the pleasures of friendship. She is al- 2s and the real votaries to them. When she ways accompanied by a confidante, who discussed these points in a discourse is witness to her daily protestations which, I verily believe, was as learned against our sex, and consequently a bar as the best philosopher in Europe could to her first steps towards love, upon the possibly make, she asked me whether strength of her own maxims and declara- 3° she was so happy as to fall in with my tions. sentiments on these important particu- ' However, I must needs say, this ac- lars. Her confidante sat by her, and on complished mistress of mine has dis- my being in the last confusion and tinguished me above the rest, and has silence, this malicious aid of hers turning been known to declare Sir Roger de 35 to her, says, " I am very glad to observe Coverley vv'as the tamest and most humane Sir Roger pauses upon this subject, and of all the brutes in the country. I was seems resolved to deliver all his senti- told she said so by one who thought he ments upon the matter when he pleases rallied me; and upon the strength of this to speak." They both kept their counte- slender encouragement of being thought 40 nances, and after I had sat half an hour least detestable, I made new liveries, meditating how to behave before such new-paired my coach-horses, sent them profound casuists, I rose up and took my all to town to be bitted, and taught to leave. Chance has since that time throw their legs well, and move all to- thrown me very often in her way, and gether, before I pretended to cross the 45 she as often directed a discourse to me country, and wait upon her. As soon which I do not understand. This bar- as I thought my retinue suitable to the barity has kept me ever at a distance character of my fortune and youth, I set from the most beautiful object my eyes out from hence to make my addresses, ever beheld. It is thus also she deals The particular skill of this lady has 50 with all mankind, and you must make love ever been to inflame your wishes, and to her as you would conquer the sphinx, yet command respect. To make her mis- by posing her. But were she like other tress of this art, she has a greater share women, and that there were any talking of knowledge, wit, and good sense than to her, how constant must the pleasure is usual even among men of merit. 5; of that man be, who could converse with Then she is beautiful beyond the race a creature — But, after all, you may be of women. If you will not let her go sure her heart is fixed on some one or on with a certain artifice with her eyes, other: and yet I have been credibly in- 332 SIR RICHARD STEELE formed — but who can believe half that next four-ancl-tvventy hours, till the is said! — They say she sings excellently; many different objects I must needs meet her voice in her onlinary speech has with should tire my imagination, and something in it inexpressibly sweet. give me an inclination to a repose more You must know I dined with her 5 profound than I was at that time ca- at a public table the day after I first saw pable of. I beg people's pardon for an her, and she helped me to some tansy in odd humor I am guilty of, and was often the eye of all the gentlemen in the coun- that day, which is saluting any person try. She has certainly the finest hand of whom I like, whether I know him or not. any woman in the world. I can assure lo This is a particularity would be tolerated you, sir, were you to behold her, you in me, if they considered that the great- would be in the same condition; for as est pleasure I know I receive at my eyes, her speech is music, her form is angelic. and that I am obliged to an agreeable But I find I grow irregular while I am person for coming abroad into my view, talking of her; but indeed it would be 15 as another is for a visit of conversation stupidity to be unconcerned at such per- at their own houses. fection. Oh, the excellent creature ! she The hours of the day and night are is as inimitable to all women, as she is taken up in the cities of London and inaccessible to all men.' Westminster by people as different from I found my friend begin to rave, and 20 each other as those who are born in insensibly led him towards the house, different centuries. Men of six o'clock that we might be joined by some other give way to those of nine, they of nine company; and am convinced that the to the generation of twelve; and they of widow is the secret cause of all that in- twelve disappear, and make room for the consistency which appears in some parts 25 fashionable world, who have made two of my friend's discourse; though he has o'clock the noon of the day. so much command of himself as not When we first put off from shore, we directly to mention her, yet according to soon fell in with a fleet of gardeners, that of Martial, which one knows not how bound for the several market ports of to render into English, diim facet haiic 3o London ; and it was the most pleasing loquitur [even when silent he talks of scene imaginable to see the cheerfulness lier]. with which those industrious people plied Tuesday, July 10, 171 1. their way to a certain sale of their goods. ^ ^ ^ ' The banks on each side are as well peo- 3S pled, and beautified with as agreeable plantations, as any spot on the earth ; [No. 454.] but the Thames itself, loaded with the A DAY IN LONDON product of each shore, added very much to the landscape. It was very easy to It is an expressible pleasure to know 40 observe by their sailing and the counte- a little of the world, and to be of no nances of the ruddy virgins who were character or significancy in it. supercargoes, the parts of the town to To be ever unconcerned, and ever look- which they were bound. There was an ing on new objects with an endless curi- air in the purveyors for Covent Garden, osity, is a delight known only to those 45 who frequently converse with morning who are turned for speculation: nay, rakes, very unlike the seeming sobriety they who enjoy it must value things only of those bound for Stocks Market, as they are the objects of speculation, Nothing remarkable happened in our without drawing any worldly advantage voyage; but I landed with ten sail of to themselves from them, but just as they 50 apricot-boats, at Strand Bridge, after are what contribute to their amusement, having put in at Nine Elms, and taken or the improvement of the mind. I lay in melons, consigned by Mr. Cuft'e, of one night last week at Richmond; and that place, to Sarah Sewell and Company, being restless, not out of dissatisfaction, at their stall in Covent Garden. We but a certain busy inclination one some- 55 arrived at Strand Bridge at six of the times has, I rose at four in the morning, clock, and were unloading, when the and took boat for London, with a resolu- hackney-coachmen of the foregoing night tion to rove by boat and coach for the took their leave of each other at the r\. ujr^L ii\ J_^JiNiJUiN 333 Darkhouse, to go to bed before the day laced shoe on her left foot, with a care- was too far spent. Chimney-sweepers less gesture, just appearing on the passed by us as we made up to the market, opposite cushion, held her both firm and and some raillery happened between one in a proper attitude to receive the next of the fruit-wenches and those black 5 jolt. men about the Devil and Eve, with al- As she was an excellent coach-woman, lusion to their several professions. I many were the glances at each other could not believe any place more enter- which we had for an hour and a half in taining than Covent Garden, where I all parts of the town, by the skill of our strolled from one fruit-shop to another, 10 drivers, till at last my lady was conven- with crowds of agreeable young women, iently lost, with notice from her coach- around me, who were purchasing fruit man to ours to make off, and he should for their respective families. It was hear where she went. This chase was almost eight of the clock before I could now at an end, and the fellow who drove leave that variety of objects. I took 15 her came to us, and discovered that he coach and followed a young lady, who was ordered to come again in an hour, tripped into another just before me, at- for that she was a silk-worm. I was tended by her maid. I saw immediately surprised with this phrase, but found it she was of the family of the Vainloves. was a cant among the hackney fraternity There are a set of these, who, of all 20 for their best customers, women who things, affect the play of blindman's- ramble twice or thrice a week from shop buff, and leading men into love for they to shop, to turn over all the goods in know not whom, who are fled they know town without buying anything. The not where. This sort of woman is usu- silk-worms are, it seems, indulged by the ally a jaunty slattern; she hangs on her 25 tradesmen; for, though they never buy, clothes, plays her head, varies her pos- they are ever talking of new silks, laces, ture, and changes place incessantly, and and ribbons, and serve the owners in all with an appearance of striving at the getting them customers, as their common same time to hide herself, and yet give dunners do in making them pay. you to understand she is in humor to 30 The day of people of fashion began laugh at you. You must have often seen now to break, and carts and hacks were the coachmen make signs with their fin- mingled with equipages of show and gers, as they drive by each other, to in- vanity, when I resolved to walk it, out timate how much they have got that day. of cheapness ; but my unhappy curiosity They can carry on that language to give 35 is such, that I find it always my interest intelligence where they are driving. In to take a coach, for some odd adventure an instant my coachman took the wink to among beggars, ballad-singers, or the pursue, and the lady's driver gave the like, detains and throws me into expense, hint that he was going through Longacre It happened so immediately, for at the toward St. James's ; while he whipped up 40 corner of Warwick Street, as I was lis- James Street, we drove for King Street, tening to a new ballad, a ragged rascal, to save the pass at St. Martin's Lane, a beggar who knew me, came up to me, The coachmen took care to meet, jostle, and began to turn the eyes of the good and threaten each other for way, and company upon me, by telling me he was be entangled at the end of Newport 45 extreme poor, and should die in the street Street and Longacre. The fright, you for want of drink, except I immediately must believe, brought down the lady's would have the charity to give him six- coach-door, and obliged her, with her pence to go into the next ale-house and mask off, to inquire into the bustle, — save his life. He urged with a melan- when she sees the man she would avoid. 5o choly face, that all his family had vlied The tackle of the coach-window is so of thirst. All the mob have humor, and bad she cannot draw it up again, and two or three began to take the jest; by she drives on, sometimes wholly dis- which Mr. Sturdy carried his point, and covered, and sometimes half escaped, ac- let me sneak off to a coach. As I drove cording to the accident of carriages in 55 along, it was a pleasing reflection to see her way. One of these ladies keeps her the world so prettily checkered since I seat in a hackney-coach as well as the left Richmond, and the scene still filling best rider does on a managed horse. The with children of a new hour. This satis- 334 SIR RICHARD STEELE faction increased as 1 moved towards the I went afterward to Robin's, and saw city; and gay signs, well-disposed streets, people who had dined with me at the magnificent pnblic structures, and wealthy five-penny ordinary just before, give shops adorned with contented faces, made bdls for the value of large estates; and the joy still rising till we came into s could not but behold with great pleasure the center of the city, and center of the property lodged in and transferred in a world of trade, ihc Kxchange of London. moment from, such as would never be As other men in the crowds about me masters of half as much as is seemingly were pleased with their hopes and bar- in them, and given from them, every gains, I found my account in observing lo day they live. But before five in the them, in attention to their several in- afternoon I left the city, came to my terests. I, indeed, looked upon myself as common scene of Covent Garden, and the richest man that walked the Exchange passed the evening at Will's in attending that day; for my benevolence made me the discourses of several sets of people, share the gains of every bargain that 15 who relieved each other within my hear- was made. It was not the least of my ing on the subjects of cards, dice, love, satisfaction in my survey, to go up learning, and politics. The last subject stairs and pass the shops' of agreeable kept me till I heard the streets in the females; to observe so many pretty hands possession of the bellman, who had now busy in the folding of ribbons, and the 20 the world to himself, and cried, ' Past utmost eagerness of agreeable faces in two o'clock.' This roused me from my the sale of patches, pins, and wires, on seat; and I went to my lodgings, led by each side of the counters, was an amuse- a light, whom I put into the discourse ment in which I could longer have in- of his private economy, and made him dulged myself, had not the dear creatures 25 crjve me an account of the charge, hazard, called to me, to ask what I wanted, profit, and loss of a family that depended when I could not answer, ' Only to look upon a link, with a design to end my at you.' I went to one of the windows trivial day with the generosity of six- which opened to the area below, where pence, instead of a third part of that all the several voices lost their distinc- 30 sum. When I came to my chambers, 1 tion, and rose up in a confused humming, writ down these minutes, but was at a which created in me a reflection that loss what instruction I should propose could not come into the mind of any but to my reader from the enumeration of so of one a little too studious; for I said many insignificant matters and occur- to myself with a kind of pun in thought, 35 rences ; and I thought it of great use, if ' What nonsense is all the hurry of this they could learn wnth me to keep their world to those who are above it?' In minds open to gratification, and ready these, or not much wiser thoughts, I had to receive it from anything it meets like to have lost my place at the chop- with. This one circumstance will make house, where every man, according to 40 every face you see give you the satisfac- the natural bashfulness or sullenness of tion you now take in beholding that of a our nation, eats in a public room a mess friend; will make every object a pleasing of broth, or chop of meat, in dumb si- one; will make all the good which arrives lence, as if they had no pretense to speak to any man an increase of happiness to to each other on the foot of being men, 45 yourself. except they were of each other's ac- Monday, August 11, 1712. quaintance. i JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719) From a refined clerical home, Addison was sent to Charterhouse School and thence, at fifteen to Oxford, where he distinguished himself as a scholar and rose to a fellowship at Magdalen College (Uil»7-99), By his twenty-second year, he was known as a cultivated writer of English and Latin verses and Drydon had welcomed him to the world of letters. While he was considering the church, the Whig government, desiring to enlist the service of his pen, granted him a pension which enabled him to spend four years in study and travel on the continent. Returning, in 1704, to a mean London lodging, he was directly sought out by the Whig leaders and commissioned to celebrate the recent victory of Marlborough at Blenheim. His poem. The Campaign, proved satisfactory, and he was rewarded with lucrative secretary- ships, one of which took him to Ireland, where he was eminently successful and popular. Meantime, he had become a leader among the coffee-house wits and had won the friendship of Swift. Pie renewed his Charterhouse intimacy with Steele, was responsible for ' many applauded strokes' in the latter's comedy, The Tender Husband (1705), and contributed to The Tutler (1709), 42 of its 271 numbers. With Steele, he started The Speetator (1711-12) which appeared daily and ran to 555 numbers, of which Addison wrote 274. In Hie Spectator, Addison's genius found its aptest expression. No other periodical writing has every combined, in so high a degree, immediate journalistic effectiveness and permanent literary charm. This success was promptly followed by that of his tragedy, Cato (1713), which, though intrinsically undramatic, became immensely famous because of its supposed political sentiments. When the Whigs returned to power, he was made chief secretary for Ireland; carried on, for a time, a party periodical called The Freeholder; became in 1716 commissioner for trade and the colonies, and, in 1717, secretary of state. Ill-health and, possibly, ill-success as a public speaker induced him to resign his post after a few months. In the midst of new literary plans and an unkind political squabble with his old friend Steele, he was cut off by death when only forty-seven years of age. A fine elegy, by his friend Tickell, gives us a good idea of his impressive night burial in Westminster Abbey. Addison's central qualities are discretion and self-possession. He ' always preferred cheer- fulness to mirth,' and those who look for sensational elements, whether in style or behavior, will find him lame. A i)rofane person once pronounced him ' a parson in a tye-wig,' and another vindictively declared, ' One day or other you '11 see that man a bishop.' But the chiefs of a witty and sociable age owned (hat, after the bottle had been round and among friends, he was the most delightful companion alive. As a writer, he profoundly influenced English manners nnd morals by demonstrating that urbanity and good breeding might be associated with learning, and that virtue is not necessarily incompatible with elegance and wit. Of his merit as a prose stylist, no one has spoken more roundly than Dr. Johnson in his measured statement, that ' Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and ele'^ant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison,' From THE SPECTATOR staiiding of an author. To gratify this curiosity, which is so natural to a t^*-*' ^-J reader, I design this paper, and my next, THE SPECTATOR INTRODUCES ^^ prefatory discourses to my following HIMSELF 5 writings, and shall give some account in them of the several persons that are en- I have observed that a reader seldom gaged in this work. As the chief trouble peruses a book with pleasure, till he of compiling, digesting, and correcting, knows whether the writer of it be a black will fall to my share, I must do myself or a fair man, of a mild or choleric dis- lo the justice to open the work with' my position, iTiarried or a bachelor, with own history. other particulars of the like nature, that I was born to a small hereditary es- conduce very much to the right under- tate, which, according to the tradition of 335 330 jusiirn AJjjJisuiN the village where it lies, was bounded osity raised, that having read the con- by the same hedges and ditches in Wil- troversies of some great men concerning liam the Conqueror's time that it is at the antiquities of Egypt, I made a voyage present, and has been delivered down to Grand Cairo, on purpose to take the from father to son whole and entire, 5 measure of a pyramid ; and as soon as I without the loss or accjuisition of a single had set myself right in that particular, field or meadow, during the space of six returned to my native country with great hundred years. There runs a story in satisfaction. the family, that my mother, near the time I have passed my latter years in this of my birth, dreamed that her son was lo city, where I am frequently seen in most become a judge; whether this might pro- public places, though there are not above ceed from a law-suit which was then half-a-dozen of my select friends that depending in the family, or my father's know me ; of whom my next paper shall being a justice of the peace, I cannot de- give a more particular account. There termine ; for I am not so vain as to think is is no place of general resort, wherein I it presaged any dignity that I should ar- do not often make my appearance : some- rive at in my future life, though that times I am seen thrusting my head into was the interpretation which the neigh- a round of politicians, at Will's, and lis- borhood put upon it. The gravity of my tening with great attention to the narra- behavior at my very first appearance in the 20 tives that are made in those little circular world seemed to favor my mother's aiidiences. Sometimes I smoke a pipe at dream: for as she often told me, I threw Child's, and whilst I seem attentive to away my rattle before I was two months nothing but the Postman, overhear the old, and would not make use of my coral conversation of every table in the room, until they had taken away the bells from 25 1 appear on Sunday nights at St. James's it. coffee-house, and sometimes join the little As for the rest of my infancy, there committee of politics in the inner room, being nothing in it remarkable, I shall as one who comes there to hear and im- pass it over in silence. I find, that dur- prove. My face is likewise very well ing my nonage, I had the reputation of 30 known at the Grecian, the Cocoa-tree, a very sullen youth, but was always a and in the theaters both of Drury-Lane favorite of my schoolmaster, who used and the Hay-market. I have been taken to say, that my parts were solid, and for a merchant upon the exchange for would wear well. I had not been long above these ten years, and sometimes at the university, before I distinguished 35 pass for a Jew in the assembly of stock- myself by a most profound silence; for, jobbers at Jonathan's: in short, wher- during the space of eight years, except- ever I see a cluster of people, I always ing in the public exercises of the college, mix with them, though I never open my I scarce uttered the quantity of an hun- lips but in my own club, dred words ; and indeed do not remember 40 Thus I live in the world rather as a that I ever spoke three sentences to- spectator of mankind, than as one of the gether in my whole life. Whilst I was species, by which means I have made my- in this learned body, I applied myself self a speculative statesman, soldier, with so much diligence to my studies, merchant and artisan, without ever med- that there are very few celebrated books, 45 dling with any practical part in life. I either in the learned or the modern am very well versed in the theory of a tongues, which I am not acquainted with, husband or a father, and can discern the Upon the death of my father, I was errors in the economy, business, and di- resolved to travel into foreign countries, version of others, better than those who and therefore left the university, with 50 are engaged in them; as standers-by dis- the character of an odd unaccountable cover blots, which are apt to escape those fellow, that had a great deal of learning, who are in the game. I never espoused if I would but shew it. An insatiable any party with violence, and am resolved thirst after knowledge carried me into to observe an exact neutrality between all the countries of Europe, in which ssthe whigs and tories, unless I shall be there was anything new or strange to be forced to declare myself by the hostilities seen; nay, to such a degree was my curi- of either side. In short, I have acted r^ '^\j \^ i>i ± IN. J. JKJ i\ UrV 1 66^ in all the parts of my life as a looker-on, concerned with me in this work; for, which is the character I intend to pre- as I have before intimated, a plan of it serve in this paper. _ is laid and concerted, as all other matters I have given the reader just so much of importance are, in a club. However, of my history and character, as to let him 5 as my friends have engaged me to stand see I am not altogether unqualified for in the front, those who have a mind to the business I have undertaken. As for correspond with me may direct their let- other particulars in my life and adven- ters to the Spectator, at Mr, Buckley's tures, I shall insert them in following in Little Britain. For I must further papers, as I shall see occasion. In the lo acquaint the reader, that, though our club meantime, when I consider how much I meet, only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, have seen, read, and heard, I begin to we have appointed a committee to sit blame my own taciturnity; and since I every night, for the inspection of all such have neither time nor inclination, to com- papers as may contribute to the advance- municate the fulness of my heart in 15 ment of the public weal, speech, I am resolved to do it in writing, Thursday, March i, 1710-11. and to print myself out, if possible, be- fore I die. I have been often told by my friends, that it is a pity so many L^O* II2.J useful discoveries which I have made 20 ^ COUNTRY SUNDAY should be in the possession of a silent man. For this reason, therefore, I shall I am always very well pleased with a publish a sheet-full of thoughts every country Sunday, and think, if keeping morning, for the benefit of my contem- holy the seventh day were only a human poraries : and if I can any way contribute 25 institution, it would be the best method to the diversion or improvement of the that could have been thought of for the country in which I live, I shall leave it polishing and civilizing of mankind. It when I am summoned out of it, with the is certain the country people would soon secret satisfaction of thinking that I have degenerate into a kind of savages and not lived in vain. 30 barbarians, were there not such frequent There are three very material points returns of a stated time in which the v.'hich I have not spoken to in this paper; whole village meet together with their and which, for several important rea- best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, sons, I must keep to myself, at least for to converse with one another upon indif- some time : I mean, an account of my 35 ferent subjects, hear their duties ex- name, my age, and my lodgings. I must plained to them, and join together in confess, I would gratify my reader in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sun- anything that is reasonable; but as for day clears away the rust of the whole these three particulars, though I am sen- week, not only as it refreshes in their sible they might tend very much to the 40 minds the notions of religion, but as it puts embellishment of my paper, I cannot yet both the sexes upon appearing in their come to a resolution of communicating most agreeable forms, and exerting all them to the public. They would indeed such qualities as are apt to give them a draw me out of that obscurity which I figure in the eye of the village, A coun- have enjoyed for many years, and expose 45 try fellow distinguishes himself as much me in public places to several salutes and in the churchyard, as a citizen does upon civilities, which have been always very the Change, the whole parish-politics be- disagreeable to me; for the greatest pain ing generally discussed in that place I can suffer, is the being talked to, and either after sermon or before the bell being stared at. It is for this reason like- 50 rings. wise, that I keep my complexion and My friend Sir Roger, being a good dress as very great secrets; though it is churchman, has beautified the inside of not impossible that I may make discover- his church with several texts of his own ies of both in the progress of the work choosing: he has likewise given a hand- I have undertaken. 55 some pulpit-cloth, and railed in the com- After havmg been thus particular upon munion table at his own expense. He myself, I shall, in to-morrow's paper, give has often told me, that at his coming to an account of those gentlemen who are his estate he found his parishioners very 338 JOSEPH ADDISON irregular; and that in order to make Ijetvveen a double row of his tenants, that them kneel and join in the responses, stand bowing to him on each side; and he gave every one of them a hassock and every now and then inquires how such a common-prayer book: and at the same a one's wife, or mother, or son, or father time employed an itinerant singing mas- 5 do, whom he docs not see at church; ter, who goes about the country for that which is understood as a secret reprimand purpose, to instruct them rightly in the to the person that is absent, tunes of the i)salms; upon which they now The chaplain has often told me, that very much value themselves, and indeed upon a catechising day, when Sir Roger outdo most of the country churches that lo has been pleased with a boy that answers I have ever heard. well, he has ordered a bible to be given As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole him next day for his encouragement; and congregation, he keeps them in very good sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in bacon to his mother. Sir Roger has like- it besides himself; for if, by chance, he r, wise added five pounds a year to the has been surprised into a short nap at clerk's place ; and that he may encourage sermon, upon recovering out of it he the young fellows to make themselves stands up and looks about him, and if perfect in the church-service, has prom- he sees anybody else nodding, either ised, upon the death of the present in- wakes them himself, or sends his serv- 20 cumbent, who is very old, to bestow it ants to them. Several other of the old according to merit. knight's particularities break out upon The fair understanding between Sir these occasions: sometimes he will be Roger and his chaplain, and their mu- lengthening out a verse in the singing- tual concurrence in doing good, is the psalms, half a minute after the rest of 25 more remarkable, because the very next the congregation have done with it; village is famous for the differences and sometimes, when he is pleased with the contentions that rise between the parson matter of his devotion, he pronounces and the squire, who live in a perpetual ' Amen ' three or four times to the same state of war. The parson is always prayer; and sometimes stands up when 30 preaching at the squire, and the squire to everybody else is upon their knees, to be revenged on the parson never comes count the congregation, or see if any of to church. The squire has made all his his tenants are missing. tenants atheists, and tithe-stealers ; while I was yesterday very much surprised the parson instructs them every Sunday to hear my old friend, in the midst of 35 in the dignity of his order, and insinuates the service, calling out to one John to them in almost every sermon that he Matthews to mind what he was about, is a better man than his patron. In short and not disturb the congregation. This matters have come to such an extremity, John Matthews it seems is remarkable that the squire had not said his prayers for being an idle fellow, and at that time 40 either in public or private this half year: was kicking his heels for his diversion. and that the parson threatens him, if he This authority of the knight, though ex- does not mend his manners, to pray for erted in that odd manner which accom- him in the face of the whole congregation, panics him in all circumstances of life. Feuds of this nature, though too fre- has a very good effect upon the parish, 45 quent in the country, are very fatal to who are not polite enough to see any the ordinary people ; who are so used to thing ridiculous in his behavior; besides be dazzled with riches, that they pay as that the general good sense and worthi- much deference to the understanding of ness of his character makes his friends a man of an estate, as of a man of learn- oljserve these little singularities as foilssoing: and are very hardly brought to re- that rather set off than blemish his good gard any truth, how important soever qualities. it may be, that is preached to them, when As soon as the sermon is finished, no- they know there are several men of five body presumes to stir till Sir Roger is hundred a year who do not believe it. gone out of the church. The knight 55 Monday, July 9, 171 1. walks down from his seat in the chancel [No. 122.] long for a trespass in breaking one of cTr> Tsr^r-T-r, a t^ ^ r- ^'^ hedges, till he was forced to sell the blK KOGh-R AT THE ASSIZES ground it enclosed to defray the charges , of the prosecution: his father left him A mans first care should be to avoid 5 fourscore pounds a year; but he has cast the reproaches of his own heart; his next, and been cast so often, that he is not now to escape the censures of the world: if worth thirty. I suppose he is going upon the last interferes with the former, it the old business of the willow tree ' ought to be entirely neglected; but other- As Sir Roger was giving me this ac- wise there cannot be a greater satisfac- lo count of Tom Touchy, Will Wimble and tion to an honest mind, than to see those, his two companions stopped short till he approbations which it gives itself sec- came up to them. After having paid ondcd by the applauses of the public: a their respects to Sir Roger, Will told him man is more sure of conduct, when the that Mr. Touchy and he must appeal to verdict which he passes upon his own 15 him upon a dispute that arose between behavior is thus warranted and confirmed them. Will it seems had been giving his by the opinion of all that know him. fellow-traveler an account of his angling My worthy friend Sir Roger is one of one day in such a hole; when Tom those who is not only at peace within Touchy, instead of hearing out his story, himself,_but beloved and esteemed by all 20 told him that Mr. such-a-one, if he about him. He receives a suitable trib- pleased, might ' take the law of him ' for ute for his universal benevolence to man- fishing in that part of the river. My kind, in the returns of affection and good- friend Sir Roger heard them both upon will, which are paid him by every one a round trot; and after having paused that lives within his neighborhood. I 2s some time, told them, with the air of a lately met with two or three odd instances man who would not give his judgment of that general respect which is shewn rashly, that ' much might be said on both to the good old knight. He would sides.' They were neither of them dis- needs carry Will Wimble and myself with satisfied with the knight's determination, him to the county assizes : as we were .^- because neither of them found himself in upon the road Will Wimble joined a the wrong by it: upon which we made couple of plain men who rode before us, the best of our way to the assizes. and conversed with them for some time; The court was set before Sir Roger during which my friend Sir Roger ac- came ; but notwithstanding all the justices quainted me with their characters. 35 had taken their places upon the bench, ' The first of them,' says he, ' that has they made room for the old knight at the a spaniel by his side, is a yeoman of head of them ; who, for his reputation in about an hundred pounds a year, an the country, took occasion to whisper in honest man: he is just within the game- the judge's ear, 'that he was glad his act, and qualified to kill an hare or a 4o lordship had met with so much good pheasant : he knocks down his dinner weather in his circuit.' I was listening with his gun twice or thrice a week: and to the proceedings of the court with much by that means lives much cheaper than attention, and infinitely pleased with that those who have not so good an estate as great appearance of solemnity which so himself. He would be a good neighbor 45 properly accompanies such a public ad- if he did not destroy so many partridges : ministration of our laws; when, after in short he is a very sensible man; shoots about an hour's sitting, I observed to my flying; and has been several times fore- great surprise, in the midst of a trial, that man of the petty jury. _ _ my friend Sir Roger was getting up to ' That other that rides along v^^ith him "^^ speak. I was in some pain for him till I is Tom Touchy, a fellow famous for found he had acquitted himself of two or " taking the law " of everybody. There is three sentences, with a look of much not one in the town where he lives that business and great intrepidity. he has not sued at a quarter-sessions. Upon his first rising the court was The rogue had once the impudence to go "~ hushed, and a general whisper ran among to law with the widow. His head is full the country people that Sir Roger ' was of costs, damages, and ejectments: he up.' The speech he made was so little plagued a couple of honest gentlemen so to the purpose, that I shall not trouble 340 JOSEPH ADDISON my readers with an account of it; and I inj^ it was made to frown and stare in believe was not so much designed by the a most extraordinary manner, I could knight himself to inform the court, as to still discover a distant resemblance of my give him a figure in my eye, and keep up old friend. Sir Roger, upon seeing me his credit in the country. 5 laugh, desired me to tell him truly if I I was highly delighted, when the court thought it possible for people to know rose, to see the gentlemen of the country him in that disguise. I at first kept my gathering about my old friend, and striv- usual silence : but upon the knight's con- ing who should compliment him most; at juring me to tell him whether it was not the same time that the ordinary people lo still more like himself than a Saracen, I gazed ui)on him at a distance, not a little composed my countenance in the best admiring his courage, that was not afraid manner I could, and replied ' That much to speak to the judge. might be said on both sides.' In our return home we met with a very These several adventures, with the odd accident ; which I cannot forbear re- 15 knight's behavior in them, gave me as lating, because it shews how desirous all pleasant a day as ever I met with in any who know Sir Roger are of giving him of my travels. marks of their esteem. When we were Friday, July 20, 171 1. arrived upon the verge of his estate, we stopped at a little inn to rest ourselves 20 and our horses. The man of the house L^^°- ^3i-J had, it seems, been formerly a servant TOWN AND COUNTRY in the knight's family; and to do honor to his old master, had some time since. It is usual for a man who loves country unknown to Sir Roger, put him up in a 25 sports to preserve the game on his own sign-post before the door; so that 'the grounds, and divert himself upon those Knight's Head' had hung out upon the that belong to his neighbor. My friend road about a week before he himself Sir Roger generally goes two or three knew anything of the matter. As soon miles from his house, and gets into the as Sir Roger was acquainted with it, 3o frontiers of his estate, before he beats finding that his servant's indiscretion pro- about in search of a hare or partridge, ceeded wholly from affection and good- on purpose to spare his own fields, where will, he only told him that he had made he is always sure of finding diversion him too high a compliment; and when the when the worst comes to the worst. By fellow seemed to think that could hardly be, 35 this means the breed about his house added with a more decisive look, that it has time to increase and multiply besides was too great an honor for any man un- that the sport is the more agreeable where der a duke ; but told him at the same the game is the harder to come at, and time, that it might be altered with a very where it does not lie so thick as to pro- few touches, and that he himself would 40 duce any perplexity or confusion in the be at the charge of it. Accordingly, they pursuit. For these reasons the country got a painter by the knight's directions to gentleman, like the fox, seldom preys add a pair of whiskers to the face, and near his own home. by a little aggravation of the features In the same manner I have made a to change it into the Saracen's Head. I 45 month's excursion out of town, which is should not have known this story, had the great field of game for sportsmen of not the inn-keeper, upon Sir Roger's my species, to try my fortune in the alighting, told him in my hearing, that country, where I have started several his honor's head was brought back last subjects, and hunted them down, with night with the alterations that he had ?o some pleasure to myself, and I hope to ordered to be made in it. Upon this my others. I am here forced to use a great friend with his usual cheerfulness related deal of diligence before I can spring any- the particulars above-mentioned, and thing to my mind, whereas in town, ordered the head to be brought into the whilst I am following one character, it room. I could not forbear discovering ;5 is ten to one but I am crossed in my way greater expressions of mirth than ordi- by another, and put up such a variety nary upon the appearance of this mon- of odd creatures in both sexes, that they strous face, under which, notwithstand- foil the scent of one another, and puzzle I i-> K^\J \J l\ i I\ 1 ^ the chase. My greatest difficulty in the is more in me than he discovers, and that country is to find sport, and in town to I do not hold my tongue for nothing, choose it. In the mean time, as I have For these and other reasons I shall set given a whole month's rest to the cities out for London to-morrow, having found of London and Westminster, I promise 5 by experience that the country is not a myself abundance of new game upon my place for a person of my temper, who return thither. _ does not love jollity, and what they call It is indeed_ high time for me to leave good neighborhood. A man that is out the country, since I find the whole neigh- of humor when an unexpected guest borhood begin to grow very inquisitive 10 breaks in upon him, and does not care after my name and character; my love for sacrificing an afternoon to every of solitude, taciturnity, and particular chance comer, — that will be the master way of life, having raised a great curi- of his own time, and the pursuer of his osity in all these parts. own inclinations, — makes but a very un- The notions which have been framed 15 sociable figure in this kind of life. I of me are various; some look upon me shall therefore retire into the town, if as very proud, some as very modest, and I may make use of that phrase, and get some as very melancholy. Will Wimble, into the crowd again as fast as I can, as my friend the butler tells me, observ- in order to be alone, I can there raise ing me very much alone, and extremely 20 what speculations I please upon others silent when I am in company, is afraid without being observed myself, and at I have killed a man. The country the same time enjoy all the advantages people seem to suspect me for a conjurer; of company with all the privileges of and some of them hearing of the visit solitude. In the meanwhile, to finish the which I made to Moll White, will needs 25 month, and conclude these my rural have it that Sir Roger has brought down speculations, I shall here insert a letter a cunning man with him, to cure the old from my friend Will Honeycomb, who woman, and free the country from her has not lived a month for these forty charms. So that the character which I years out of the smoke of London, and go under in part of the neighborhood, 3o rallies me after his way upon my country is what they here call a ' white w^itch.' life. A justice of peace, who lives about five miles off, and is not of Sir Roger's party, ' Dear Spec, has, it seems, said twice or thrice at his ' I suppose this letter will find thee table, that he wishes Sir Roger does not 35 picking up daisies, or smelling to a lock harbor a Jesuit in his house ; and that he of hay, or passing away thy time in some thinks the gentlemen of the country innocent country diversion of the like would do very well to make me give some nature. I have however orders from the account of myself. club to summon thee up to town, being On the other side, some of Sir Roger's 40 all of us cursedly afraid thou wilt not be friends are afraid the old knight is im- able to relish our company, after thy posed upon by a designing fellow, and as conversations with Moll White and Will they have heard that he converses very Wimble. Pr'ythee don't send up any promiscuously when he is in town, do not more stories of a cock and a bull, nor know but he has brought down with him 45 frighten the town with spirits and some discarded Whig, that is sullen, and witches. Thy speculations begin to smell says nothing because he is out of place. confoundedly of woods and meadows. Such is the variety of opinions which If thou dost not come up quickly, we are here entertained of me, so that I pass shall conclude that thou art in love with among some for a disaffected person, 5o one of Sir Roger's dairy-maids. Service and among others for a popish priest; to the knight. Sir Andrew is grown the among some for a wizard, and among cock of the club since he left us, and if others for a murderer; and all this for no he does not return quickly, will make other reason, that I can imagine, but be- every mother's son of us common- cause I do not hoot, and hollow, and ^5 wealth's men. make a noise. It is true, my friend Sir ' Dear Spec, Roger tells them that it is my wav, and ' Thine eternally, that I am only a philosopher: but this ' WILL 'HONEYCOMB.' will not satisfy them. They think tliere Tuesday, July 31, 171 1. 342 JOSEPH ADDISON [No. 335.] John tells me he has got the fore-wheels mended.' SIR ROGER AT THE PLAY The captain, who did not fail to meet me there at the appointed hour, bid Sir My friend Sir Roger de Coverley, 5 Roger fear nothing, for that he had put when we last met together at the ckil), on the same sword which he made use told me that he had a great mind to see of at the battle of Stccnkirk. Sir the new tragedy with me, assuring me at Roger's servants, and among the rest, the same time, that he had not been at my old friend the butler, had, I found, a play these twenty years. ' The last I 10 provided themselves with good oaken saw,' said Sir Roger, 'was The Com- plants, to attend their master upon this mittee, which I should not have gone to occasion. When we had placed him in neither, had not I been told before-hand his coach, with myself at his left hand, that it was a good Church of England the Captain before him, and his butler comedy.' He then proceeded to inquire 15 at the head of his footmen in the rear, of me who this ' Distressed Mother ' we convoyed him in safety to the play- was ; and upon hearing that she was house, where, having marched up the Hector's widow, he told me that her hus- entry in good order, the Caj)tain and I band was a brave man, and that when went in with him, and seated him be- he was a school-boy he had read his life 2otwixt us in the pit. As soon as the house at the end of the dictionary. My friend was full, and the candles lighted, my old asked me, in the next place, if there friend stood up and looked about him would not be some danger in coming with that pleasure, which a mind sea- home late, in case the Mohocks should soned with humanity naturally feels in be abroad. ' I assure you,* says he, * I 25 itself, at the sight of a multitude of thought I had fallen into their hands last people who seem pleased with one another, night; for I observed two or three lusty and partake of the same common enter- black men that followed me half way up tainment. I could not but fancy myself. Fleet-street, and mended their pace be- as the old man stood up in the middle hind me, in proportion as I put on to get 30 of the pit, that he made a very proper away from them. You must know,' con- center to a tragic audience. Upon the tinned the knight, with a smile, ' I entering of Pyrrhus, the knight told me fancied they had a mind to hunt me; for that he did not believe the king of France I remember an honest gentleman in my himself had a better strut. I was indeed neighborhood, who was served such a 35 very attentive to my old friend's remarks, trick in King Charles IPs time, for because I looked upon them as a piece which reason he has not ventured him- of natural criticism; and was well self in town ever since. I might have pleased to hear him, at the conclusion of shewn them very good sport, had this almost every scene, telling me that he been their design ; for as I am an old 40 could not imagine how the play would fox-hunter, I should have turned and end. One while he appeared much con- dodged, and have played them a thou- cerned for Andromache, and a little sand tricks they had never seen in their while after as much for Hermione ; and lives before.' Sir Roger added, that if was extremely puzzled to think what these gentlemen had any such intention, 45 would become of Pyrrhus. they did not succeed very well in it; When Sir Roger saw Andromache's ' for I threw them out,' says he, ' at the obstinate refusal to her lover's impor- end of Norfolk-street, where I doubled tunities, he whispered me in the ear, the corner, and got shelter in my lodg- that he was sure she would never have ings before they could imagine what was 5- him; to which he added, with a more become of me. However,' says the than ordinary vehemence, ' You can't ini- knight, ' if Captain Sentry will make agine, sir, what it is to have to do with one with us to-morrow night, and if a widow.' Upon Pyrrhus his threaten- you will both of you call upon me about ing afterwards to leave her. the knight four o'clock, that we may be at the house 55 shook his head, and muttered to himself, before it is full, I will have my own ' Ay, do if you can.' This part dwelt coach in readiness to attend you, for so much upon my friend's imagination, that at the close of the third act, as I was afterwards Orestes in his raving fit, he thinking of something else, he whispered grew more than ordinary serious, and me in my ear, 'These widows, sir, are the took occasion to moralize (in his way) most perverse creatures in the world. upon an evil conscience, adding, that But pray,' says he, ' you that are a critic, 5 Orestes, in his madness, looked as if he is this play according to your dramatic saw something. rules, as you call them? Should your As we were the first that came into the people in tragedy always talk to be un- house, so we were the last that went out derstood? Why, there is not a single of it; being resolved to have a clear sentence in this play that I do not know lo passage for our old friend, whom we did the meaning of.' not care to venture among the justling The fourth act very unluckily began of the crowd. Sir Roger went out fully before I had time to give the old gentle- satisfied with his entertainment, and we man an answer : ' Well,' says the knight, guarded him to his lodging in the same sitting down with great satisfaction, ' I 15 manner that we brought him to the play- suppose we are now to see Hector's house ; being highly pleased for my own ghost.' He then renewed his attention, part, not only with the performance of and from time to time fell a-praising the the excellent piece which had been pre- widow. He made, indeed, a little mis- sented, but with the satisfaction which it take as to one of her pages, whom at his 20 had given to the old man. first entering he took for Astyanax : but Tuesday, March 25, 1712. he quickly set himself right in that par- ticular, though, at the same time, he owned he should have been very glad ^. to have seen the little boy. 'Who,' says 2s L^^o. 517.J he, 'must needs be a very fine child by XHE DEATH OF SIR ROGER the account that is given of him.' Upon Hermione's going off with a menace to We last night received a piece of ill Pyrrhus, the audience gave a loud clap ; news at our club, which very sensibly to which Sir Roger added, ' On my word, .^0 afflicted every one of us. I question not a notable young baggage ! ' but my readers themselves will be As there was a very remarkable si- troubled at the hearing of it. To keep lence and stillness in the audience during them no longer in suspense. Sir Roger the whole action, it was natural for them de Coverley is dead. He departed this to take the opportunity of the intervals 3S life at his house in the country, after a between the acts, to express their opinion few weeks' sickness. Sir Andrew Free- of the players, and of their respective port has a letter from one of his cor- parts. Sir Roger hearing a cluster of respondents in those parts, that informs them praise Orestes, struck in with them, him the old man caught a cold at the and told them that he thought his friend 40 county sessions, as he was very warmly Pylades was a very sensible man ; as they promoting an address of his own pen- were afterwards applauding Pyrrhus, Sir ning, in which he succeeded according Roger put in a second time, ' And let me to his wishes. But this particular comes tell you.' says he, ' though he speak but from a whig justice of peace, who was little, I like the old fellow in whiskers as 45 always Sir Roger's enemy and anta^o- well as any of them.' Captain Sentry, nist. I have letters both from the chap- seeing two or three wags who sat near lain and Captain Sentry which mention us, lean with an attentive ear towards nothing of it, but are filled with many Sir Roger, and fearing lest they should particulars to the honor of the good smoke the knight, plucked him by the 5° old man. I have likewise a letter from elbow, and whispered something in his the butler, who took so much care of me ear, that lasted till the opening of the last summer when I was at the knight's fifth act. The knight was wonderfully house. As my friend the butler men- attentive to the account which Orestes tions, in the simplicity of his heart, gives of Pyrrhus his death, and at the 55 several circumstances the others have conclusion of it told me, it was such a passed over in silence, I shall give my bloody piece of work, that he was glad reader a copy of his letter, without any it was not done upon the stage. Seeing alteration or diminution. 344 JUbKFH ADDISON ' Honored Sir, lived two years longer, Coverley church ' Knowing that you was my old mas- should have a steeple to it. The chap- ter's good friend, I could not forbear lain tells everybody that he made a very sending you the melancholy news of his good end, and never speaks of him with- death, which has afflicted the whole 5 out tears. He was buried, according to country as well as his poor servants, his own directions, among the family of who loved him, I may say, better than the Coverleys, on the left hand of his we did our lives. I am afraid he caught father Sir Arthur. The coffin was car- his death the last county sessions, where ried by six of his tenants, and the pall he would go to see justice done to a poor lo held up by six of the quorum: the whole widow woman, and her fatherless chil- parish followed the corpse with heavy dren, that had been wronged by a neigh- hearts, and in their mourning suits, the boring gentleman; for you know, sir, my men in frize, and the women in riding- good master was always the poor man's hoods. Captain Sentry, my master's friend. Upon his coming home, the first 15 nepliew, has taken possession of the hall- complaint he made was, that he had lost house, and the whole estate. When my his roast-beef stomach, not being able old master saw him a little before his to touch a sirloin, which was served up death, he shook him by the hand, and according to custom ; and you know he wished him joy of the estate which was used to take great delight in it. From 20 falling to him, desiring him only to make that time forward he grew worse and a good use of it, and to pay the several worse, but still kept a good heart to the legacies, and the gifts of charity which last. Indeed we were once in great he told him he had left as quit-rents upon hope of his recovery, upon a kind the estate. The captain truly seems a message that was sent him from the 25 courteous man, though he says but little, widow lady whom he had made love to He makes much of those whom my mas- the forty last years of his life, but this ter loved, and shews great kindness to only proved a lightning before death, the old house-dog, that you know my He has bequeathed to this lady, as a poor master was so fond of. It would token of his love, a great pearl necklace, 30 have gone to your heart to have heard and a couple of silver bracelets set with the moans the dumb creature made on jewels, which belonged to my good old the day of my master's death. He has lady his mother: he has bequeathed the never joyed himself since; no more has fine white gelding, that he used to ride any of us. 'T was the melancholiest day a hunting upon, to his chaplain, because 35 for the poor people that ever happened he thought he would be kind to him, in \\'orcestershire. This is all from, and has left you all his books. He has, ' Honored Sir, your most sorrowful moreover, bequeathed to the chaplain a servant, very pretty tenement with good lands ' Edward Biscuit.' about it. It being a very cold day when 40 ' P. S. My master desired, some he made his will, he left for mourn- weeks before he died, that a book which ing, to every man in the parish, a great con:es up to you by the carrier, should frize-coat, and to every woman a black be given to Sir Andrew Freeport, in his riding-hood. It was a moving sight to name.' see him take leave of his poor servants, 45 commending us all for our fidelity, whilst This letter, notwithstanding the poor we were not able to speak a word for butler's manner of writing it, gave us weeping. As we most of us are grown such an idea of our good old friend, that gray-headed in our dear master's service, upon the reading of it there was not a he has left us pensions and legacies, 50 dry eye in the club. Sir Andrew, open- which we may live very comfortably ing the book, found it to be a collection upon the remaining part of our days, of acts of parliament. There was in par- He has bequeathed a great deal more in ticular the act of uniformity, with some charity, which is not yet come to my passages in it marked by Sir Roger's knowledge, and it is peremptorily said 55 own hand. Sir Andrew found that they in the parish, that he has left money to related to two or three points, which he build a steeple to the church ; for he was had disputed with Sir Roger the last heard to say some time ago that if he time he appeared at the club. Sir An- drew, who would have been merry at Patch for the pubhc good so much as such an incident on another occasion, at for their own private advantage, it is the sight of the old man's hand-writing certain, that there are several women of burst into tears, and put the book into honor who Patch out of principle, and his pocket. Captain Sentry informs me, 5 with an eye to the interest of their that the knight has left rings and mourn- country. Nay, I am informed that some ing for every one in the club. of them adhere so steadfastly to their Thursday, October 23, 1712. party, and are so far from sacrificing their zeal for the public to their passion j-^ r, -. 10 for any particular person, that in a late [JNo. 61.J draught of marriage-articles a lady has PARTY PATCHES stipulated with her husband, that what- ever his opinions are, she shall be at About the middle of last winter I went liberty to patch on which sides she to see an opera at the theater in the 15 pleases. Hay-market, where I could not but take I must here take notice that Rosalinda, notice of two parties of very fine women, a famous whig partisan, has most un- that had placed themselves iii the op- fortunately a very beautiful mole on the posite side-boxes, and seemed drawn up tory part of her forehead; which being in a kind of battle-array one against 20 very conspicuous, has occasioned many another. After a short survey of them, mistakes, and given an handle to her I found they were Patched differently; enemies to misrepresent her face, as the faces, on one hand, being spotted on though it had revolted from the whig the right side of the forehead, and those interest. But, whatever this natural upon the other on the left : I quickly 25 patch may seem to insinuate, it is well perceived that they cast hostile glances known that her notions of government upon one another; and that their Patches are still the same. This unlucky mole, were placed in those ditTerent situations, however, has misled several coxcombs; as party-signals to distinguish friends and like the hanging out of false colors, from foes. In the middle-boxes, be- 3° made some of them converse with Rosa- tween these two opposite bodies, were linda in what they thought the spirit several ladies who patched indifferently of her party, when on a sudden she has on both sides of their faces, and seemed given them an unexpected fire, that has to sit there with no other intention but sunk them all at once. If Rosalinda is to see the opera. Upon enquiry I found, 35 unfortunate in her mole, Nigranilla is as that the body of Amazons on my right unhappy in a pimple, which forces her, hand were whigs, and those on my left, against her inclinations, to patch on the tories : and that those who had placed whig side. themselves in the middle-boxes were a I am told that many virtuous mat'ons, neutral party, whose faces had not yet 4° who formerly have been taught tc be- declared themselves. These last, how- lieve that this artificial spotting of the ever, as I afterwards found, diminished face was unlawful, are now reconciled daily, and took their party with one side by a zeal for their cause, to what they or the other; insomuch that I observed could not be prompted by a concern for in several of them, the patches, which 45 their beauty. This way of declaring were before dispersed equally, are now war upon one another, puts me in mind nil gone over to the whig or tory side of what is reported of the tigress, that of the face. The censorious say, that several spots rise in her skin when she the men whose hearts are aimed at, are is angry; or as Mr. Cowley has im- very often the occasions that one part 50 itated the verses that stand as the motto of the face is thus dishonored, and lies of this paper, under a kind of disgrace, while the other is so much set oft' and adorned by the — She swells with angry pride, owner; and that the Patches turn to the And calls forth all her spots on ev'ry side, right or to the left, according to the prin- 55 ciples of the man who is most in favor. When I was in the theater the time But whatever may be the motives of a above-mentioned, I had the curiositv to few fantastical coquettes, who do not count the Patches on both sides, ' and 346 JOSEPH ADDISON found the tory Patches to be about against those who are perhaps of the twenty stronger than the whig; but to same family, or at least of the same reh- make amends for this small inequality, gion or nation, but against those who I the next morning found the whole are the oi)en, professed, undoubted en- puppet-shew filled with faces spotted s emies of their faith, liberty and coun- after the whiggish manner. Whether or try. When the Romans were pressed no the ladies had retreated hither in with a foreign enemy, the ladies volun- order to rally their forces, I cannot tell; tarily contributed all their rings and but the next night they came in so great jewels to assist the government under a body to the opera, that they out-num- lo the public exigence, which appeared so bered the enemy. laudable an action in the eyes of their This account of Party-patches will, I countrymen, that from thenceforth it am afraid, appear improbable to those was permitted by a law to pronounce who live at a distance from the fashion- public orations at the funeral of a woman able world; but as it is a distinction of is in praise of the deceased person, which a very singular nature, and what per- till that time was peculiar to men. haps may never meet with a parallel, I Would our English ladies, instead of think I should not have discharged the sticking on a patch against those of their office of a faithful Spectator, had I not own country, show themselves so truly recorded it. 20 public-spirited as to sacrifice every one I have, in former papers, endeavored her necklace against the common enemy, to expose this party-rage in women, as it what decrees ought not to be made in only serves to aggravate the hatred and favor of them? animosities that reign among men, and Since I am recollecting upon this sub- in a great measure deprives the fair sex 25 ject such passages as occur to my mem- of those peculiar charms with which ory out of ancient authors, I cannot omit nature has endowed them. a sentence in the celebrated funeral When the Romans and Sabines were oration of Pericles, which he made in at war, and just upon the point of giving honor of those brave Athenians that battle, the women who were allied to 3o v/ere slain in a fight with the Lacedce- both of them, interposed with so many monians. After having addressed him- tears and entreaties, that they prevented self to the several ranks and orders of the mutual slaughter which threatened his countrymen, and shown them how both parties, and united them together they should behave themselves in the in a firm and lasting peace. 35 public cause, he turns to the female part I would recommend this noble example of his audience; 'And as for you (says to our British ladies, at a time when their he) I shall advise you in very few country is torn with so many unnatural words : Aspire only to those virtues that divisions, that if they continue, it will are peculiar to your sex ; follow your be a misfortune to be born in it. The 40 natural modesty, and think it your great- Greeks thought it so improper for women est commendation not to be talked of to interest themselves in competitions and one way or other.' contentions, that for this reason, among Saturday, June 2, 171 1. others, they forbad them, under pain of death, to be present at the Olympic 45 games, notwithstanding these were the L-'^O. 253.J public diversions of all Greece. DETRACTION AMONG POETS As our English women excel those of all nations in beauty, they should en- There is nothing which more denotes deavor to outshine them in all other ac- 5o a great mind, than the abhorrence of complishments proper to the sex, and to envy and detraction. This passion distinguish themselves as tender mothers reigns more among bad poets, than and faithful wives, rather than as fu- among any other set of men. rious partisans. Female virtues are of As there are none more ambitious of a domestic turn. The family is the 55 fame, than those who are conversant in proper province for private women to poetry, it is very natural for such as shine in. If they must be showing have not succeeded in it, to depreciate their zeal for the public, let it not be the works of those who have. For since DETRACTION AMONG POETS 347 they cannot raise themselves to the rep- tions follow one another like those in utation of their fellow-writers, they must Horace's Art of Poetry, without that endeavor to sink it to their own pitch, methodical regularity which would have if they would still keep themselves upon a been requisite in a prose author. They level with them. 5 are some of them uncommon, but such as The greatest wits that ever were pro- the reader must assent to, when he sees duced in one age, lived together in so them explained with that elegance and good an understanding, and celebrated perspicuity in which they are deliv- one another with so much generosity, ered. As for those which are the that each of them receives an additional 10 most known, and the most received, they luster from his contemporaries, and is are placed in so beautiful a light, and more famoLis for having lived with illustrated with such apt allusions, that men of so extraordinary a genius, than if they have in them all the graces of nov- he had himself been the sole wonder of elty, and make the reader, who was be- the age. I need not tell my reader, that 15 fore acquainted with them, still more I here point at the reign of Augustus, convinced of their truth and solidity. and I believe he will be of my opinion. And here give me leave to mention what that neither Virgil nor Horace would Monsieur Boileau has so very well en- have gained so great a reputation in the larged upon in the preface to his works, world, had they not been the friends and 20 that wit and fine writing doth not con- admirers of each other. Indeed all the sist so much in advancing things that are great writers of that age, for whom new, as in giving things that are known singly we have so great an esteem, stand an agreeable turn. It is impossible for up together as vouchers for one another's us, who live in the latter ages of the reputation. But at the same time that 25 world, to make observations in criticism, Virgil was celebrated by Gallus, Prop- morality, or in any art or science, which ertius, Horace, Varius, Tucca and Ovid, have not been touched upon by others, we know that Bavins and M?evius were We have little else left us, but to rep- his declared foes and calumniators. resent the common sense of mankind in In our own country a man seldom sets 3o more strong, more beautiful, or more up for a poet, without attacking the uncommon lights. If a reader examines reputation of all his brothers in the art. Horace's Art of Poetry, he will find but The ignorance of the moderns, the very few precepts in it, which he may scribblers of the age, the decay of poetry, not meet with in Aristotle, and which are the topics of detraction, with which 35 were not commonly known by all the he makes his entrance into the world ; poets of the Augustan age. His way but how much more noble is the fame of expressing and applying them, not that is built on candor and ingenuity, his invention of them, is what we are according to those beautiful lines of Sir chiefly to admire. John Denham, in his poem on Fletcher's 40 For this reason I think there is noth- works ! ing in the world so tiresome as the works -of those critics who write in a But whither am I strayed? I need not positive dogmatic way, without either raise language, genius or imagination. If the Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise : 4S reader would see how the best of the Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built, Latin critics writ, he may find their man- Nor needs thy juster title the foul guilt ner very beautifully described in the Of eastern Kings, who to secure their reign characters of Horace, Petronius, Quin- Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred tilian and Longinus, as they are drawn slain. ^0 in the essay of which I am now speak- ing. I am sorry to find that an author, Since I have mentioned Longinus, who who is very justly esteemed among the in his reflections has given us the same best judges, has admitted some strokes kind of sublime, which he observes in of this nature into a very fine poem, I ^; the several passages that occasioned mean The Art of Criticism, which was them ; I cannot but take notice, that our published sorne months since, and is a English author has after the same man- master-piece in its kind. The observa- ner exemplified several of his precepts 348 JOSEPH ADDISON in the very precepts themselves. I sliall piece in its kind; the Essay on Trans- produce two or three instances of this latcd Verse, the Essay on the Art of kind. Speaking of the insipid smooth- Poetry, and the Essay upon Criticism. ness which some readers are so much Thursday, December 20, 171 1. in love Vi^ith, he has the following verses. 5 These equal syllables alone require, [No. 26.] Though oft the ear the OPEN vowels tire, WESTMINSTER ABBEY While expletives then- feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull ,0 When I am in a serious humor, I very line. often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey; where the gloominess of the The gaping of the vowels m the sec- place and the use to which it is applied, ond line, the expletive do in the third, ^^jth the solemnity of the building, and and the ten monosyllables m the fourth, ,5 ^i^^ condition of the people who lie in it, give such a beauty to this passage, as ^^e apt to fill the mind with a kind of would have been very much admired in melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness. an ancient poet. The reader may ob- ^hat is not disagreea])le. I yesterdav serve the followmg lines in the same ^^^^^^ ^ ^i^qI^ afternoon in the church- '^^^^- 20 yard, the cloisters, and the church, amus- . A .u in? myself with the tombstones and A needless alexandrine ends the song, .*'./. ,1 <. t ^ •<-! • u T,, ^ ,., ^ A ^ A -4. 1 inscriptions that 1 met witli in those sev- That like a wounded snake, drags its slow , ' . . ,, 1 , T\r . r .1 , J I ' o ^j.^1 regions of the dead. Most of them eng 1 a o ig recorded nothing ejse of the buried per- And afterwards ^^ ^°"' '^"^ ^^^^* ^^^ ^^^ ^°^" "P^^"* °"^ ^^y- ' and died upon another, the whole history 'T 'is not enough no harshness gives of- of his life being comprehended in those fense two circumstances, that are common to The sound must seem an echo to the sense, all mankind. I could not but look upon Soft is the strain when Zephir gently blows, 3^^ these registers of existence, whether of And the smooth stream in smoother num- brass or marble, as a kind of satire BERs flows; upon the departed persons: who had left But when loud surges lash the sounding no other memorial of them, but that they shore, were born and that they died. They put The HOARSE, rough VERSE should like the 35 me in mind of several persons mentioned torrent roar. in the battles of heroic poems, who have When AjAx strives, some rock's vast weight sounding names given them, for no other to throw, reason but that they may be killed, and The line too labors, and the words move are celebrated for nothing but being SLOW : 40 knocked on the head. Not so, when swift Camilla scours the p]ain^ TXavKOD re MeSovrd re OepaiXoxov re. Horn. Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims Glaucumqiic, Medontaque, Thersilochumque. along the main. Virg. 45 The beautiful distich upon Ajax in the The life of these men is finely described foregoing lines, puts me in mind of a in holy writ by ' the path of an arrow." description in Homer's Odyssey. * * * which is immediately closed up and lost. It would be endless to quote verses out Upon my going into the church, I en- of Virgil which have this particular kind So tertained myself with the digging of a of beauty in the numbers ; but I may take grave ; and saw in every shovel-full of an occasion in a future paper to shew it that was thrown up, the fragment of several of them which have escaped the a bone or skull intermixt with a kind of observation of others. fresh moldering earth, that some time I cannot conclude this paper without S5 or other had a place in the composition taking notice, that we have three poems of an human body. Upon this, I began in our tongue, which are of the same to consider with myself what innumer- nature, and each of them a master- able multitudes of people lay confused WESTMINSTER ABBEY 349 together under the pavement of that an- the many remarkable actions he had cient cathedral ; how men and women, performed in the service of his country, friends and enemies, priests and soldiers, it acquaints us only with the manner of monks and prebendaries, were crumbled his death, in which it was impossible for amongst one another, and blended to- 5 him to reap any honor. The Dutch, gether in the same common mass; how whom we are apt to despise for want of beauty, strength, and youth, with old-age, genius, shew an infinitely greater taste weakness and deformity, lay undistin- of antiquity and politeness in their guished in the same promiscuous heap of buildings and works of this nature, than matter. 10 what we meet with in those of our own After having thus surveyed this great country. The monuments of their ad- magazine of mortality, as it were, in the mirals, which have been erected at the lump; I examined it more particularly by public expense, represent them like the accounts which I found on several of themselves; and are adorned with ros- the monuments which are raised in every 15 tral crowns and naval ornaments, with quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of beautiful festoons of sea-weed, shells, them were covered with such extrava- and coral. gant epitaphs, that, if it were possible But to return to our subject. I have for the dead person to be acquainted left the repository of our English kings with them, he would blush at the praises 20 for the contemplation of another day, which his friends have bestowed upon when I shall find my mind disposed for him. There are others so excessively so serious an amusement. I know that modest, that they deliver the character entertainments of this nature are apt to of the person departed in Greek or raise dark and dismal thoughts in timor- Hebrew, and by that means are not un- 25 ous minds, and gloomy imaginations ; derstood once in a twelvemonth. In the but for my own part, though I am al- poetical quarter, I found there were ways serious, I do not know what it is poets who had no monuments, and mon- to be melancholy; and can therefore take uments which had no poets. I observed a view of nature in her deep and solemn indeed that the present war had filled the 30 scenes, with the same pleasure as in her church with many of these uninhabited most gay and delightful ones. By this monuments, which had been erected to means I can improve myself with those the memory of persons whose bodies objects, which others consider with ter- were perhaps buried in the plains of ror. When I look upon the tombs of Blenheim, or in the bosom of the ocean. 35 the great, every emotion of envy dies in I could not but be very much delighted me ; when I read the epitaphs of the with several modern epitaphs, which are beautiful, every inordinate desire goes written with great elegance of expres- out; when I meet with the grief of sion and justness of thought, and there- parents upon a tomb-stone, my heart fore do honor to the living as well as 40 melts with compassion ; when I see the to the dead. As a foreigner is very apt tomb of the parents themselves, I con- to conceive an idea of the ignorance or sider the vanity of grieving for those politeness of a nation, from the turn of whom we must quickly follow; when I their public monuments and inscriptions, see kings lying by those who deposed they should be submitted to the perusal 4S them, when I consider rival wits placed of men of learning and genius, before side by side, or the holy men that divided they are put in execution. Sir Cloud- the world with their contests and dis- esly Shovel's monument has very often putes, I reflect with sorrow and aston- given me great offense : Instead of the ishment on the little competitions, fac- brave rough English admiral, which was 5° tions and debates of mankind. When I the distinguishing character of that plain read the several dates of the tombs, of gallant man, he is represented on his some that died yesterday, and some six tomb by the figure of a beau, dressed in hundred years ago, I consider that great a long periwig, and reposing himself day when we shall all of us be contem- upon velvet cushions under a canopy of 55 poraries, and make our appearance to- state. The inscription is answerable to gether. the Monument; for instead of celebrating Friday, March 30, 171 1. ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744) Pope was born in London, the year of the protestant revolution. His parents, who were catholics, shortly retired to a country home near Windsor Forest, and there the poet passed most of his boyhood. Deformed and sickly from his birth, he was reared with great tender- ness and compliance and, after his twelfth year, was chiefly self-educated. He read widely and at random among English authors and was an eager, though inexact, student of the ancient classics. At a remarkably early age, he became avid of literary fame and displayed a talent for acquainting himself with the literary personalities of the day. Before he was twelve, he had visited Will's coffee-house in order to have a look at the great Dryden and, while yet a boy, had passed from the courting to the quarreling stage with Wycherley. His precocity as a verse-maker, which he never troubled himself to disparage, is celebrated in the well-known couplet : As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisped in numbers for the numbers came. He claimed to have written his Pastorals at sixteen. They were printed in 1709, and imme- diately attracted attention. His Messiah and his Essay on Criticism won the encomiums of The Spectator and admitted him to Addison's circle. The Rape of the Lock ( 1712-14 1 con- firmed his reputation, and his translation of the Iliad (1715-18) and the Odysscij (com- pleted 1726) procured him a competence. 'Thanks to Homer,' he 'could live and thrive, indebted to no prince or peer alive.' He purchased a villa on the Thames at Twickenham, and there spent the last twenty-five years of his life, improving his ' grotto ' and gardens, entertaining wits and social celebrities, and polishing off his rivals in finished satirical verse of which the monumental example is The Dunciad, published in 1728, but afterward much altered and amplified. His best known attempt at philosophical poetry is the superficial, but eminently quotable. Essay on Man (1732—4). Pope is chiefly valued for the smoothness and sweetness of his versification, and for his gift of turning into brief and memorable phrase ' what oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed.' Though not a great poet in (he highest sense of that term, he is often glowing and sometimes powerful in declamation; while for mischievous innuendo and sustained condensation and point he has no equal in English poetry. His satire, unlike Drydeu's, is usually personal and frequently poisoned by the same envy and malice which impaired his character and conduct. ' Leave Pope as soon as you can ; he is sure to play you some devilish trick else,' Addison wrote to Lady Montagu, — one victim of Pope's shiftiness to another. Pope's physical inferiority made him preternaturally sensitive and distorted his social outlook. He could be pitifully base and treacherous where his vanity was engaged, and his literary career was a tissue of trivial deceits and mean animosities. Yet we cannot but admire the indomitableness of the mind which, in spite of physical suffering and humiliation, fought its way by fair means and foul, to the chief place in the literature of its time. AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM I 'T is hard to say, if greater want of skill Appear in writing or in judging ill ; But, of the two, less dangerous is the of- fense 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. 'T is with our judgments as our watches, none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 'o In poets as true genius is but rare, True taste as seldom is the critic's share; 350 AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM 351 Both must alike from Heaven derive their light, These born to judge, as well as those to write. Let such teach others who tliemselves ex- cel, 'S And censure freely who have written well. Authors are partial to their wit, 't is true, But are not critics to their judgment too? Yet if we look more closely, we shall find Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind : 20 Nature affords at least a glimmering light ; The lines, though touched but faintly, are drawn right. But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced. Is by ill-coloring but the more disgraced, So by false learning is good sense defaced ; Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools. 27 In search of wit these lose their common sense, And then turn critics in their own defense ; Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write. Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite. 31 All fools have still an itching to deride. And fain would be upon the laughing side. If ]\Ia'vius scribble in .A.pollo's spite. There are who judge still worse than he can write. 35 Some have at first for wits, then poets passed. Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at last. Some neither can for wits nor critics pass, As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass. Those half-learned witlings, numerous in our isle, 40 As half-formed insects on the banks of Nile ; Unfinished things, one knows not what to call. Their generation 's so equivocal : To tell 'em, would a hundred tongues re- quire. Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire. 45 But you who seek to give and merit fame, And justly bear a critic's noble name. Be sure yourself and your own reach to know. How far your genius, taste, and learning go; Launch not beyond your depth, but be dis- creet, so And mark that point where sense and dul- ness meet. Nature to all things fixed the limits fit, And wisely curbed proud man's pretending wit. As on the land while here the ocean gains, In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains ; Thus in the soul while memory prevails, 56 The solid power of understanding fails; Where beams of warm imagination play, The memory's soft figures melt away. One science only will one genius fit ; 60 So vast is art, so narrow human wit : Not only bounded to peculiar arts, But oft in those confined to single parts. Like kings we lose the conquests gained before, By vain ambition still to make them more; Each might his several province well com- mand, 66 Would all but stoop to what they under- stand. 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 pro- vides. Works without show, and without pomp presides : 75 In some fair body thus the informing soul With spirits feeds, with vigor fills the whole, Each motion guides, and every nerve sus- tains; Itself unseen, but in the 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, Ihough meant each other's aid, like man and wife. 'T is more to guide than spur the Muse's steed ; 84 Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed; 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 90 By the same laws which first herself or- dained. Hear how learned Greece her useful rules indites. 352 ALEXANDER POPE When to repress, and wlien indulge our flights: High on Parnassus' top lur sons slie showed. And pointed out tliose anhious pallis lliey trod ; ys Held from afar, aloft, the innnortal prixe, And urged the rest by equal steps to rise. Just precepts thus from great examples given. She drew from them what they derived from Heaven. The generous critic fanned the poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to ad- mire. 101 Then criticism the Muses' handmaid proved, To dress her charms, and make her more beloved : But following wits from that intention strayed. Who could not win the mistress, wooed the maid; 105 Against the poets their own arms they turned, Sure to hate most the men from whom they learned. So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part. Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, no Prescribe, apply, and call tlieir masters fools. Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey. Nor time nor moths e'er spoiled so much as they. Some dryly plain, without invention's aid, Write dull receipts, how poems may be made. ns These leave the sense, their learning to dis- play, And those explain the meaning quite away. You, then, whose judgment the right course would steer. Know well each ancient's proper character ; His fable, subject, scope in every page; i^" 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 to outlast immortal Rome designed, I'erliaps he seemed above the critic's law. And but fr(jm nature's fountains scorned to draw; I'.nt wlun to examine every part he came. Nature and llonu'r were, he found, the same. "3.1 Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold de- sign ; And rules as strict his labored work con- fine, -As if the Stagirite o'erlooked each line. Learn hence for ancient rules a just es- teem ; To copy nature is to copy them. "4° 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. '45 If, where the rules not far enough extend, (Since rules were made but to promote their end) Some lucky license answer to the full The 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, /\nd snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, Which without passing through the judg- ment, gains '54 The heart, and all its end at once attains. Li 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 of- fend. And rise to faults true critics dare not mend. '^o But though the ancients thus their rules in- vade, (.\.s kings dispense with laws themselves have made) Moderns, beware! or if you must offend Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end ; Let it be seldom and compelled by need; '65 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 Those freer beauties, even in them, seem faults. 170 AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM 353 Some figures monstrous and mis-shaped 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 '75 His powers in equal ranks, and fair array. But with the occasion and the place com- ply, Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly. Those oft are stratagems which errors seem. Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, i8i Above the reach of sacrilegious hands; Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage. Destructive war, and all-involving age. See, from each clime the learned their in- cense bring! 185 Hear, in all tongues, consenting peans ring! In praise so Just let every voice be joined, And fill the general chorus of mankind. Hail, bards triumphant ! born in happier days ; Immortal heirs of universal praise! 190 Whose honors with increase of ages grow, As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow; Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, \nd worlds applaud that must not yet be found ! Oh, may some spark of your celestial fire, The last, the meanest of your sons in- spire, 19-j (That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights ; Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes) To teach vain wits a science little known, To admire superior sense, and doubt their own ! 200 n Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, What the weak head with strongest bias rules. Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. Whatever nature has in worth denied, 205 She gives in large recruits of needful pride; For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find What wants in blood and spirits, swelled with wind : Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our de- fense, And fills up ail the mighty void of sense. 1 f once right reason drives that cloud away, 211 Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. Trust not yourself; but your defects to know. Make use of every friend — and every foe. A little learning is a dangerous thing; 215 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain. And drinking largely sobers us again. Fired at first sight with what the Muse im- parts. In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, 220 While from the bounded level of our mind, Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind ; But more advanced, behold with strange surprise New distant scenes of endless science rise ! So pleased at first the towering Alps we try, 225 Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky. The eternal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last ; But, those attained, we tremble to survey The growing labors of the lengthened way. The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, 231 Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise ! A perfect judge will read each work of wit With the same spirit that its author writ: Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find 235 Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind; Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight. The generous pleasure to be charmed with wit. But in such lays as neither ebb, nor flow. Correctly cold, and regularly low, 240 That shunning faults, one quiet tenor keep; We cannot blame indeed, but we may sleep. In wit, as nature, what afi'ccts our hearts Is not the exactness of peculiar parts; 'T is not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, 245 But the joint force and full result of all. Thus when we view some well-proportioned dome, 23 354 ALEXANDER POPE (The world's just wonder, and e'en thine, O Rome!) No single parts unequally surprise, All comes united to the admiring eyes; 250 No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear; The whole at once is bold, and regular. Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. In every work regard the writer's end, 255 Since none can compass more than they in- tend ; And if the means be just, the conduct true. Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due ; As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, To avoid great errors, must the less com- mit: ^6° Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, For not to know some trifles, is a praise. Most critics, fond of some subservient art. Still make the whole depend upon a part : They talk of principles, but notions prize. And all to one loved folly sacrifice. 266 Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say, A certain bard encountering on the way. Discoursed in terms as jusf, with looks as sage. As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage; Concluding all were desperate sots and fools, 271 Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. Our author, happy in a judge so nice. Produced his play, and begged the knight's advice; Made him observe the subject, and the plot, 275 The manners, passions, unities, what not? All which, exact to rule, were brought about, Were but a combat in the lists left out. ' What ! leave the combat out ? ' exclaims the knight; Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite. 280 ' Not so, by Heaven ' (he answers in a rage), ' Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage.' So vast a throng the stage can ne'er con- tain. ' Then build a new, or act it in a plain.' Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice, 285 Curious not knowing, not exact but nice. Form short ideas ; and offend in arts (As most in manners) by a love to parts. Some to conceit alone their taste confine. And glittering thoughts struck out at every line ; -90 Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit; One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets like painters, thus unskilled to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover every part, 295 And hide with ornaments their want of art. True wit is nature to advantage dressed, What oft was thought, but ne'er so well ex- pressed; Something, whose truth convinced at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind. As shades more sweetly recommend the light, 301 So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. For works may have more wit than does 'em good. As bodies perish thro' excess of blood. 304 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, 309 Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found; False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, Its gaudy colors spreads on every place; The face of nature we no more survey, All glares alike, without distinction gay: But true expression, like the unchanging sun, 315 Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon, It gilds all objects, but it alters none. 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 For different styles with different subjects sort. As several garbs with country, town, and court. Some by old words to fame have made pretense. Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense ; 325 Such labored nothings, in so strange a style. Amaze the unlearned, and make the learned smile. Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play. These sparks with awkward vanity display What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; 33o And but so mimic ancient wits at best, AN KbSAY ON CRITICISM 355 As apes our grandsires, in their doublets dressed. In words, as fashions, the same rule will 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 thougli tliousand 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, 344 Though oft the ear the open vowels tire ; While expletives their feeble aid do join ; And ten low words oft creep in one dull line : While they ring round the same unvaried chimes. With sure returns of still expected rhymes ; Where'er you find 'the cooling western breeze,' 350 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 unmeaning thing they call a thought, 355 A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know What 's roundly smooth or languishingly slow; And praise the easy vigor of a line, 360 Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness jom. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance. 'T is not enough no harshness gives offense. The sound must seem an echo to the sense : Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 366 And the smooth stream in smoother num- bers flows; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore. The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar : When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 370 The line too labors, and the words move slow; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise. And bid alternate passions fall and rise! While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove 376 Now burns with glory, 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, 380 And the world's victor stood subdued by sound ! The power of music all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such. Who still are pleased too little or too much. At every trifle scorn to take offense, 386 That always shows great pride, or little sense; Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best. Which nauseate all, and nothing can di- gest. Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move; For fools admire, but men of sense ap- prove: 391 As things seem large which we through mists descry, Dulness is ever apt to magnify. Some foreign writers, some our own de- spise; 394 The ancients only, or the moderns prize. Thus wit, like faith, by each man is ap- plied To one small sect, and all are damned be- side. Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, And force that sun but on a part to shine. Which not alone the southern wit sub- limes, 400 But ripens spirits in cold northern climes ; Which from the first has shone on ages past, Enlights the present, and shall warm the last; 356 ALEXANDER POPE Though each may feci increases and decays, And see now clearer and now darker days. Regard not then if wit be old or new, 406 But blame the false, and value still the true. Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, But catch the spreading notion of the town ; They reason and conclude by precedent, 410 And own stale nonsense which they ne'er in- vent. Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. Of all this servile herd the worst is he That in proud dullness joins with quality. 41s A constant critic at the great man's board, To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord. What woeful stuff this madrigal would be. In some starved hackney sonneteer, or, me? But let a lord once own the happy lines, 420 How the wit brightens ; how the style re- fines ! Before his sacred name flies every fault, And each exalted stanza teems with thought ! The vulgar thus through imitation err; As oft the learned by being singular; 4-^5 So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng By chance go right, they purposely go wrong ; So schismatics the plain believers quit, And are but damned for having too much wit. Some praise at morning what they blame at night ; 430 But always think the last opinion right. A Muse by these is like a mistress used, This hour she 's idolized, the next abused ; While their weak heads like towns unforti- fied, 'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side. 435 Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they say ; And still to-morrow 's wiser than to-day. We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow Our wiser sons, no doubt, wili think us so. Once school-divines this zealous isle o'er- spread ; 440 Who knew most Sentences, was deepest read ; Faith, Gospel, all seemed made to be dis- puted : And none had sense enough to be confuted: Scotists and Thomists, now in peace re main. Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck Lane, 445 If faith itself has different dresses worn. What wonder modes in wit should take their turn ? Oft, leaving what is natural and fit. The current folly proves the ready wit ; And authors think their reputation safe. Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh. 451 Some valuing those of their own side of mind, Still make themselves the measure of man- kind: Proudly we think we honor merit then. When we but praise ourselves in other men. 455 Parties in wit attend on those of state, And public faction doubles private hate. Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rose. In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaus; But sense survived, when merry jests were past ; 460 For rising merit will buoy up at last. Might he return, and bless once more our eyes. New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise: Nay, should great Plomer lift his awful head, 464 Zoilus again would start up from the dead. Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue ; But like a shadow, proves the substance true; For envied wit, like Sol eclipsed, makes known The opposing body's grossness, not its own. When first that sun too powerful beams displays, 47° It draws up vapors which obscure its rays ; But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way. Reflect new glories, and augment the day. Be thou the first true merit to defend. His praise is lost, who stays till all com- mend. 475 Short is the date, alas ; of modern rhymes. And 't is but just to let them live betimes. No longer now that golden age appears. When patriarch-wits survived a thousand years : Now length of fame (our second life) is lost, 480 And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast ; Our sons their fathers' failing language see, I /\iN r.:3:3/\i win «^Ki i ici:5ivi 6b/ And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. So when the faithful pencil has designed Some bright idea of the master's mind, 485 Where a new word leaps out at his com- mand. And ready nature waits upon his hand ; When the ripe colors soften and unite. And sweetly melt into just shade and light ; When mellow years their full perfection give, 490 And each bold figure just begins to live. The treacherous colors the fair art betray, And all the bright creation fades away ! Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things. Atones not for that envy which it brings. In youth alone its empty praise we boast. But soon the short-lived vanity is lost : 497 Like some fair flower the early spring supplies, That gaily blooms, but even in blooming dies. What is this wit. which must our cares em- ploy? 500 The owner's wife, that other men enjoy; Then most our trouble still when most admired. And still the more we give, the more re- quired ; Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, S04 Sure some to vex, but never all to please ; 'T is what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun, By fools 't is hated, and by knaves undone ! If wit so much from ignorance undergo, Ah, let not learning too commence its foe ! Of old, those met rewards who could excel, And such were praised who but endeavored well: SI I Though triumphs were to generals only due, Crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too. Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown. Employ their pains to spurn some others down; 515 And while self-love each jealous writer rules, Contending wits become the sport of fools : But still the worst with most regret com- mend, For each ill author is as bad a friend. To what base ends, and by what abject ways, 5-0 Are mortals urged through sacred lust of praise ! Ah, ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, Nor in the critic let the man be lost. Good-nature and good-sense must ever join ; To err is human, to forgive, divine. 525 Rut if m noble minds some dregs remain Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain ; Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes. Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times. No pardon vile obscenity should find, 53o 'Jhough wit and art conspire to move your mind ; But dulness with obscenity must prove As shameful sure as impotence in love. In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease, Sprung the rank weed, and thrived with large increase : 535 When love was all an easy Alonarch's care; Seldom at council, never in a war : Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ; Nay, wits had pensions, and young lords had wit : The fair sat panting at a courtier's play, 54° And not a mask went unimproved away: The modest fan was lifted up no more. And virgins smiled -at what they blushed before. The following license of a foreign reign Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain; 545 Then unbelieving priests reformed the nation, And taught more pleasant methods of salvation ; Where Heaven's free subjects might their rights dispute. Lest God himself should seem too absolute: Pulpits their sacred satire learned to spare And vice admired to find a flatterer there! Encouraged thus, wit's Titans braved the skies, 552 And the press groaned with licensed blasphemies. These monsters, critics ! with your darts engage. Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage ! 555 Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice. Will needs mistake an author into vice; All seems infected that the infected spy. As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye. * * * (1711) 358 ALEXANDER POPE THE RAPE OF THE LOCK CANTO I What dire offense from amorous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things, I sing — This verse to Caryl, Muse! is due: This, even Belinda may vouchsafe to view: Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, I f she inspire, and he approve my lays. 6 Say what strange motive, goddess ! could compel A well-bred lord to assault a gentle belle? Oh, say what stranger cause, yet un- explored. Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? lo In tasks so bold, can little men engage, And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage? Sol through white curtains shot a timor- ous ray, And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day: Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake, 'S And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake : Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the ground. And the pressed watch returned a silver sound. Belinda still her downy pillow pressed. Her guardian sylph prolonged the balmy rest : 20 'Twas he had summoned 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, And thus in whispers said, or seemed to say. 26 ' Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished care Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! If e'er one vision touched thy infant thought. Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught 30 Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, The silver token, and the circled green. Or virgins visited by angel powers, With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly flowers; Hear and believe ! thy own importance know, 35 Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. Some secret truths, from learned pride concealed, To maids alone and children are revealed : What though no credit doubting wits may give? The fair and innocent shall still believe. 4° Know, then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly- The light militia of the lower sky: These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, Hang o'er the box, and hover round the Ring, Think what an equipage thou hast in air, 4S And view with scorn two pages and a chair. 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. 5° 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, SS And love of ombre, after death survive. For when the fair in all their pride expire, To their first elements their souls retire: The sprites of fiery termagants in flame Mount up, and take a salamander's name. Soft yielding minds to water glide away, 61 And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea. The graver prude sinks downward to a gnome. In search of mischief still on earth to roam. The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair, 6s And sport and flutter in the fields of air. ' Know further yet ; whoever fair and chaste Rejects mankind, is by some sylph em- braced: For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. 7° What guards the purity of melting maids, In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades, Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring spark. The glance by day, the whisper in the dark. When kind occasion prompts their warm desires, 75 THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 359 When music softens, and when dancing fires ? 'T is but their sylph, the wise celestials know, Though honor is the word with men below, Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face. For life predestined to the gnomes' em- brace. 80 These swell their prospects and exalt their pride, When offers are disdained, and love denied : Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, While peers, and dukes, and all their sweep- ing train. And garters, stars, and coronets appear, 85 And in soft sounds ' Your Grace ' salutes their ear. 'T is these that early taint the female soul. Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know. And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 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 withstand. If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? With varying vanities, from every part. They shift the moving toyshop of their heart; 100 Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive. Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. This erring mortals levity may call ; Oh, blind to truth ! the sylphs contrive it all. i°4 'Of these am I, who thy protection claim, A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. 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: m Warned by the sylph, O pious maid, beware ! This to disclose is all thy guardian can : Beware of all, but most beware of man ! ' He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long, Leaped up, and waked his mistress with his tongue. 116 'T was then, Belinda, if report say true. Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux ; Wounds, charms, and ardors 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; The inferior priestess, at her altar's side. Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here The various offerings of the world appear; From each she nicely culls with curious toil, 131 And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, .'\nd all Arabia breathes from yonder box. The tortoise here and elephant unite, »3S Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puff.s, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; The fair each moment rises in her charms. Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace. And calls forth all the wonders of her face ; 142 Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, .'\nd keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. The busy sylphs surround their darling care, 14s These set the head, and those divide the hair. Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown ; And Betty's praised for labors not her own. CANTO II Not with more glories, in the 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 well-dressed youths around her shone, ■; But every eye was fixed on her alone. 36o 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; Favors to none, to all she smiles extends ; Oft she rejects, hut never once offends. Rright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, .And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, '5 Might hide her faults, if belles had faults " to hide ; If to her share some female errors fall. Look on her face, and you '11 forget 'em all. This nymph, to the destruction of man- kind. Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind ~° 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, ^s Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey. Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare. And beauty draws us with a single hair. The adventurous baron the bright locks admired ; He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. Resolved to win, he meditates the way, 3i 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 im- plored 35 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; 4o 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 car, 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 ; ALEXANDER POPE While melting music steals upon the sky, And softened sounds along the waters die ; Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, 51 Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. All but the sylph — with careful thoughts oppressed, The 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 zephyrs to the train be- neath. Some to the sun their insect wings unfold, Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold ; 6o. 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, 6s Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, While every beam new transient colors flings, Colors that change whene'er they wave their wings. Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, Superior by the head, was Ariel placed ; 7o 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 assigned 75 By laws eternal to the aerial kind. Some in the fields of purest ether 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. 8o Some less refined, beneath the moon's pale light 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. 9o THE KAFE Ut THE LOCK 301 ' 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 the imprisoned essences exhale ; To draw fresh colors from the vernal flowers ; 95 To steal from rainbows ere they drop in showers, 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. 10° ' This day, black omens threat the bright- est fair That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care ; Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight ; But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in night. Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, 105 Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; Or stain her honor, 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 favorite lock ; Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. ' To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note. We trust the important charge, the petti- coat: Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to fail. 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 re- strain, While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain; 130 Or alum styptics with contractmg power Shrink his thin essence like a rivelled flower : Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel The giddy motion of the whirling mill, 134 In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow. And tremble at the sea that froths below ! ' He spoke; the spirits from the sails 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 ; With beating hearts the dire event they wait, 141 Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate. CANTO HI Close by those meads, for ever crowned with flowers. Where Thames with pride surveys his ris- mg tcwers. There stands a structure of majestic frame. Which from the neighboring Hampton takes its name. Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall fore- doom s Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home; Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey, Doth sometimes counsel take — and some- times tea. Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; 1° In various talk the 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 eyest 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; The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, And wretches hang that jurymen may dine; The merchant from the Exchange returns in peace, And the long labors of the toilet cease. 24 Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, 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. 362 ALEXANDER POPE Each band the number of the sacred nine. 30 Soon as she spreads her hand, the 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, 3S 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 ; 40 Four knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand ; And parti-colored troops, a shining train. Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. The skillful 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. 5° 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 saber next, a chief in years. The hoary majesty of spades appears, 56 Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed. The rest, his many-colored robe concealed. The rebel knave, who dares his prince en- gage, Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 60 Even mighty Pam, that kings and queens o'erthrew. And mowed down armies in the fights of Loo, Sad chance of war ! now destitute of aid. Falls undistinguished by the victor spade! Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; 65 Now to the baron fate inclines the field. His warlike 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 What 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 ])aron now his diamonds pours apace; The embroidered king who shows but half his face, 76 And his refulgent queen, with 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, shameful chance!) the queen of hearts. At this the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look; She sees, and trembles at the approaching ill, 91 Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. And now (as oft in some distempered state) On one nice trick depends the general fate. An ace of hearts steps forth; the king un- seen 95 Lurked in her hand, and mourned his cap- tive queen : 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 wood, and long canals reply. Oh, thoughtless mortals ! ever blind to fate, 101 Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. Sudden, these honors shall be snatched away. And cursed for ever this victorious day. For lo ! the board with cups and spoons is crowned, los The berries crackle, and the mill turns round ; On shining altars of Japan they raise The silver lamp ; the fiery spirits blaze : From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide. While China's earth receives the smoking tide: no At once they gratify their scent and taste, 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, IIS Trembling, and conscious of the rich bro- cade. Coffee (which makes the politician wise. And see through all things with his half- shut eyes) Sent up in vapors to the baron's brain New stratagems the radiant lock to gain, i^o Ah, cease, rash youth ! desist ere 't is 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, 1^5 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, Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. 130 He takes the gift with reverence, and ex- tends The little engine on his finger's 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; 136 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; As on the nosegay in her breast reclined. He watched the 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 for- fex wide, To inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide. Even then, before the fatal engine closed, A wretched sylph too fondly interposed ; Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain, '51 (But airy substance soon unites again) The meeting points the sacred hair dissever 1 X LLll, i^V^V^XS. ^JUJ From the fair head, for ever, and for ever! Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes, 155 And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies. Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are cast. When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last; Or when rich China vessels, fallen from high. In glittering dust and painted fragments lie! 160 ' Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine,' (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, i6s 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 honor, 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 labor of the gods destroy. And strike to dust the imperial towers of Troy; 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 labored in her breast. Not youthful kings in battle seized alive. Not scornful virgins who their charms sur- vive. Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss, 5 Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss. Not tyrants fierce that unrepcnting die, Not Cynthia when her manteau 's pinned awry, E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, 364 ALEXANDER POPE As thou, sad virgin, for thy ravished hair. 1° For, that sad moment, when the sylphs withdrew And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, As ever sullied the fair face of light, Down to the central earth, his proper scene, 'S Repaired to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome. And in a vapor 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 for ever on her pensive bed, Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. Two handmaids wait the throne, alike in place, 25 But differing far in figure and in face. Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid. Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed ; With store of prayers, for mornings, nights, and noons. Her hand is filled ; her bosom with lam- poons. 30 There Affectation, with a sickly mien. Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen. Practiced to lisp, and hang the head aside, Faints into airs, and languishes with pride, On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, Wrapped in a gown, for sickness, and for show. 36 The fair ones feel such maladies as these. When each new night-dress gives a new dis- ease. A constant vapor o'er the palace flies; Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise; Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted shades, 41 Oi bright, as visions of expiring maids. Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires. Pale specters, 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 : 50 A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks; 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 past the gnome through this fantastic band, S5 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 vapors and of female wit, Who give the 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. A nymph there is, that all thy power dis- dains, 65 And thousands more in equal mirth main- tains. But oh ! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace, Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face. Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame. Or change complexions at a losing game; 7° 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: 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 fainting fears, §5 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. 9o iHH KAFU Ut IHE LUCK 3t>5 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 you 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 around ? For this with fillets strained your tender head, '°i And bravely bore the double loads of lead? Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair, While the fops envy, and the ladies stare! Honor forbid! at whose unrivalled shrine >o5 Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. Methinks already I your tears survey, Already hear the horrid things they say. Already see you a degraded toast, And all your honor in a whisper lost! no How shall I, then, your helpless fame de- fend? 'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! And shall this prize, the inestimable prize, Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes, And heightened by the diamond's circling rays, I'S On that rapacious hand for ever blaze? Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus grow. And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow; Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall. Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!' 120 She said ; then raging to Sir Flume re- pairs. And bids her beau demand the precious hairs. (Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain. And the nice conduct of a clouded cane) With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, 1-25 He first the snuff-box opened, then the case. And thus broke out — ' My lord, why, what the devil? Z ds ! 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 honors shall renew, Clipped from the lovely head where late it grew) 136 That while my nostrils draw the vital air, This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear.' He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread The long-contended honors of her head. But Umbriel, hateful gnome ! forbears not so; 141 He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. Then see ! the nymph in beauteous grief ap- pears. Her eyes half languishing, half drowned in tears; On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, 145 Which, with a sigh, she raised; and thus she said : ' For ever cursed be this detested day. Which snatched my best, my favorite curl away ! Happy ! ah, ten times happy had I been. If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen! iso Yet am not I the first mistaken maid. 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. 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? Oh, had I stayed, and said my prayers at home! 160 'T was this, the morning omens seemed to tell, Thrice from my trembling hand the patch- box fell; The tottering china shook without a wind. Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind ! A sylph, too, warned me of the threats of fate, 165 In mystic visions, now believed too late ! 366 ALEXANDER POPE See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs! My 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, '7i And in its fellow's fate foresees its own ; Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands, And tempts once more, thy sacrilegious hands. '74 Oh, hadst thou, cruel ! been content to seize Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these ! ' 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 praised and honored most, The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? '° 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: 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 smallpox, or chased old age away ; ^o Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce. Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint. Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. But since, alas ! frail beauty must decay, -5 Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to gray; 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 humor still whate'er we lose? 30 And trust me, dear ! good humor can pre- vail. When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail. Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll ; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.' So spoke the dame, but no applause en- sued; 35 Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her prude. ' To arms, to arms ! ' the fierce virago cries, And swift as lightning to the combat flies. All side in parties, and begin th' attack; Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whale- bones crack; 40 Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly rise, And bass and treble voices strike the skies. No common weapons in their hands are found. Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. So when bold Homer makes the gods 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 ail around, Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound : so Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives way, And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height Clapped his glad wings, and sat to view the fight : Propped on their bodkin spears, th-e sprites survey 55 The growing combat, or assist the fray. i While through the press enraged Thales- | tris 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 Meander's flowery margin lies ^^5 The expirir.g 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. Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair ; 72 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 the unequal fight to try, Who sought no more than on his foe to die. But this bold lord with manly strength en- dued, She with one finger and a thumb subdued : Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, S^ 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, whose fires Her great great grandsire wore about his neck, 90 In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, Formed a vast buckle for his widow's gown : Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew. The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs. Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) 96 ' Boast not my fall,' he cried, ' insulting foe! Thou by some other shalt be laid as low, Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind: All that I dread is leaving you behind ! 'oo Rather than .so, ah, let me still survive, And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn alive.' ' Restore the lock 1 ' she cries ; and all around ' Restore the lock ! ' the vaulted roofs re- bound. Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain io5 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 guilt, 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? >>2 Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere. Since all things lost on earth are treasured there. There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases, us And beaux' in snufi'-boxes and tweezer cases. There broken vows and death-bed alms are found. And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound, The courtier's promises, and sick man's prayers, "9 The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea. Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. But trust the Muse — she saw it upward rise. Though marked by none but quick, poetic eyes : (So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew, '^S To Proculus alone confessed in view) A sudden star, it shot through liquid air. And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright. The heavens bespangling with dishevelled light. 130 The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies. 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 \'enus 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; 368 ALEXANDER POPE And hence the 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, '45 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, This lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame, And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's I so name. ^ (1712, 1714) From EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT Why did I write? what sin to me un- known Dipped me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade, s No duty broke, no father disobeyed. The Muse but served to ease 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. ... Soft were my numbers ; who could take offense While pure description held the place of sense? Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream. 14 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, I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint. 20 Did some more sober critic come abroad. If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod. Were others angry: I excused them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but theif due. A man's true merit 't is not hard to find ; 25 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. Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year ; 3-' He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nolhiii- left: And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, 3j Means not, but blunders round about a meaning : And he, whose fustian 's so sublimely bad, It is not poetry, but prose run mad: All these, my modest satire bade translate. And owned that nine such poets made a Tate. 40 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, 45 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. View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes. And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; so 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; Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, ss 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; 6° 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 .-\tticus were he! * * * (1735) JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748) Thomson was a Scotchman who, at the height of Pope's reign, went to seek his fortune in literary London, lie arrived in need of a pair of shoes and lost the packet of recommenda- tions which he had tied up in his handkerchief ; but he was kindly received by his brother poets, and enjoyed sufficient patronage from the rich to preserve him from actual want. The four parts of The Seasons which appeared in rapid succession (172O-30) made his reputation, and a series of stifif tragedies in blank verse had a lukewarm success on the stage. Politically, he adhered to the opposition and was one of a group, including the poet Collins, which gathered, around Lord Lyttleton at Hagley, under the ' precarious patronage' of Frederick, Prince of Wales. Thomson was an indolent man 'more fat than bard beseems,' luxurious and procrastinating, and the last fifteen years of his life originated little that was important. The Castle of Indolence, which commemorates the Hagley com- pany, was begun in 1733, though not completed until two years before his death. Dull in unfamiliar society, Thomson was loyally and deeply beloved by those who intimately knew him. His warm and truthful delineations of nature and his resource in the older harmonies of English verse helped to inaugurate a new era in poetry. Notwithstanding these tendencies. Pope regarded him with respect and favor. In the next generation. Dr. Johnson abated his prejudice against blank verse in favor of The Seasons, and forgot his hostility to Spenserisra in commenting on The Castle of Indolence. 'He thinks always as a man of genius; he looks round on Nature and on Life with the eye which Nature bestows only on a poet,' was Johnson's summary of his abilities. From SUMMER Low walks the sun, and broadens by de- grees. Just o'er the verge of day. The shifting clouds Assembled gay, a richly gorgeous train. In all their pomp attend his setting throne. Air, earth, and ocean smile immense. And now, 5 As if his weary chariot sought the bowers Of Amphitrite, and her tending nymphs — So Grecian fable sung — he dips his orb; Now half immersed; and now a golden curve Gives one bright glance, then total disap- pears. * * * 10 Confessed from yonder slow-extinguished clouds, All ether softening, sober evening takes Her wonted station in the middle air; A thousand shadows at her beck. First this She sends on earth ; then that of deeper dye 1 5 Steals soft behind; and then a deeper still. In circle following circle, gathers round. To close the face of things. A fresher gale 24 Begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream. Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn : 20 While the quail clamors for his running mate. Wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells the breeze, A whitening shower of vegetable down Amusive floats. The kind impartial care Of nature nought disdains: thoughtful to feed 25 Her lowest sons, and clothe the coming year. From field to field the feathered seeds she wings. His folded flock secure, the shepherd home Hies merry-hearted ; and by turns relieves The ruddy milkmaid of her brimming pail ; The beauty whom pfthaps his witless heart — 3i Unknowing what the joy-rnixed anguish means — Sincerely loves, by that ttest language shewn Of cordial glances, anc'', obliging deeds. Onward they pass o'er many a panting height, 35 369 370 JAMES THOMSON And valley sunk, and unfrequented; where At fall of eve the fairy people throng, In various game and revelry, to pass The summer night, as village stories tell. But far ahout they wander from the grave 4° Of him whom his ungentle fortune urged Against his own sad breast to lift the hand Of impious violence. The lonely tower Is also shunned; whose mournful chambers hold — So night-struck fancy dreams — the yelling ghost. 45 Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge. The glowworm lights his gem; and through the dark A moving radiance twinkles. Evening yields The world to night ; not in her winter robe Of massy Stygian woof, but loose arrayed 5o In mantle dun. A faint erroneous ray, Glanced from the imperfect surfaces of things, Flings half an image on the straining eye; While wavering woods, and villages, and streams, And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long re- tained 55 The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene. Uncertain if beheld. Sudden to heaven Thence weary vision turns; where, leading soft The silent hours of love, with purest ray Sweet Venus shines; and from her genial rise, 6o When daylight sickens till it springs afresh, Unrivaled reigns, the fairest lamp of night. * * * (1727) From AUTUMN But see the fading many-colored woods. Shade deepening over shade, the country round Imbrown; a crowded umbrage dusk and dun. Of every hue, from wan declining green To sooty dark. These now the lonesome muse, 5 Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strewn walks. And give the season in its latest view. Meantime, light shadowing all, a sober calm Fleeces unbounded ether : whose least wave Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn 'o The gentle current: while illumined wide, The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, And through thdr lucid veil his softened force Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time. For those whom virtue and whom nature charm, is To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, And soar above this little scene of things : To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet; To soothe the throbbing passions into peace ; And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks. 20 Thus solitary, and in pensive guise, Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead. And through the saddened grove, where scarce is heard One dying strain, to cheer the woodman's toil. Haply some widowed songster pours his plaint, 25 Far, in faint warblings, through the tawny copse ; While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks, And each wild throat, whose artless strains so late Swelled all the music of the swarming shades. Robbed of their tuneful souls, now shiver- ing sit 30 On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock: With not a brightness waving o'er their plumes, And naught save chattering discord in their note. O let not, aimed from some inhuman eye, The gun the music of the coming year 35 Destroy; and harmless, unsuspecting harm, Lay the weak tribes a miserable prey In mingled murder, fluttering on the ground! The pale descenduig year, yet pleasing still, A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf 40 Incessant rustles from the mournful grove; Oft startling such as studious walk below, And slowly circles through the waving air. But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams ; Till choked, and matted with the dreary shower, 46 The forest walks, at every rising gale. Roll wide the withered waste, and whistle bleak. Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields ; And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race 50 Their simny robes resign. E'en what re- mained Of stronger fruits falls from the naked tree; And woods, fields, gardens, orchards all around, The desolated prospect thrills the soul. . . . The western sun withdraws the shortened day, 55 And humid evening, gliding o'er the sky, In her chill progress, to the ground con- densed The vapor throws. Where creeping waters ooze, Where marshes stagnate, and where rivers wind, Cluster the rolling fogs, and swim along 60 The dusky-mantled lawn. Meanwhile the moon. Full orbed, and breaking through the scat- tered clouds, Shews her broad visage in the crimsoned east. Turned to the sun direct her spotted disk, Where mountains rise, umbrageous dales de- scend, 65 And caverns deep as optic tube descries, A smaller earth, gives us his blaze again. Void of its flame, and sheds a softer day. Now through the passing clouds she seems to stoop. Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime. 7o Wide the pale deluge floats, and streaming mild O'er the skied mountain to the shadowy vale, While rocks and floods reflect the quivering gleam ; The whole air whitens with a boundless tide Of silver radiance trembling round the world. 75 (1730) From WINTER Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends. At first thin-wavering, till at last the flakes Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow. The cherished fields Put on their winter robe of purest white : 5 'T is 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, 10 ^^^^ ^ Is one wide dazzling waste, that buries wide The works of man. Drooping, the laborer- ox Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around is 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 21 His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights On the warm hearth; then hopping o'er the floor. Eyes all the smiling family askance, 25 And pecks, and 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, 31 And more unpitying men, the garden seeks. Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kine Eye the bleak heaven, and next, the glisten- ing earth. With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dis- persed, 35 Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. * * * As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce All winter drives along the darkened air, In his own loose revolving fields the swain Disastered stands; sees other hills ascend, 40 Of unknown joyless brow, and other scenes. Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid Beneath the formless wild; but wanders on From hill to dale, still more and more astray, 45 Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps. Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth 372 JAMES THOMSON In many a vain attempt. Plow sinks his soul ! What black despair, what horror, fills his heart ! 3" When for the dusky spot which fancy feigned, His tufted cottage rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the track and blessed abode of man ; While round him night resistless closes fast, 55 And every tempest howling o'er his head, Renders the savage wilderness more wild. Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, Of covered pits, unfathomably deep, A dire descent! beyond the power of frost; Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge 6i Smoothed up with snow ; and what is land unknown. What water of the still unfrozen spring, In the loose marsh or solitary lake. Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 65 These check his fearful steps, and down he sinks Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift. Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death. Mixed with the tender anguish nature shoots Through the wrung bosom of the dying man. His wife, his children, and his friends, un- seen. 71 In vain for him the officious wife prepares The fire fair blazing, and the vestment warm ; In vain his little children, peeping out Into the mingling storm, demand their sire With tears of artless innocence. Alas! 76 Nor wife nor children more shall he behold, Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense, And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold, 8° Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse, Stretched out, and bleaching in the northern blast. (1726) A HYMN These, as they change. Almighty Father, these. Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Wide-flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 5 Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; And every sense, and cNcry heart is joy. Then comes thy glory in the summer- months, With light and heart refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year: 10 And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, Ry brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined, And spreads a connnon feast for all that lives. 15 In winter awful thou! with clouds and storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing. Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, And humblest Nature with thy northern blast. 20 Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, Deepfclt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combined : 24 Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; And all so forming an harmonious whole ; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand, That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres ; Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence 31 The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring: Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ; Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; And, as on earth this grateful change re- volves, 35 With transport touches all the springs of life. Nature, attend ! join every living soul. Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join; and ardent raise One general song! To him, ye vocal gales, itiit LAblLH Ut INDULENLE 373 Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes. 4' Oh, talk of him in solitary glooms. Where o'er the rock the scarcely waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 45 Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; And let me catch it as I muse along, Yc headlong torrents, rapid and profound; Ye softer floods, that lead the humid ma.7.e Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, 5^ A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roaring fall. So roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 55 In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts. Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave to him ; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 6o As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams ; Ye constellations, while your angels strike. Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 65 Great source of day ! blest image here be- low Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide. From world to world, the vital ocean round, On nature write with every beam his praise. The thunder rolls : be hushed the prostrate wofld, 70 While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks. Retain the sound ; the broad responsive low, Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns. And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands, all awake; a boundless song Burst from the groves ; and when the rest- less day, 77 Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night his praise. So Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles; At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all, Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast. Assembled men to the deep organ join The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear, 8s At solcnm pauses, through the swelling base; And, as each mingling ilamc increases each, In one united ardor rise to heaven. Or if you rather choose the rural shade. And find a fame in every sacred grove, 9° There let the shepherd's lute, the virgin's lay. The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, Still sing the God of seasons as they roll. For me, when I forget the darling theme. Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray 95 Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams. Or Winter rises in the blackening east — Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more. And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat. Should fate command me to the furthest verge loo Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes. Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on the Atlantic isles, 't is nought to me ; Since God is ever present, ever felt, 'os In the void waste as in the city full ; And where he vital breathes, there must be joy. When even at last the solemn hour shall come. And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey; there with new pow- ers, 110 Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go Where universal love not smiles around. Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; From seeming evil still educing good. And better thence again, and better still, us In mfinite progression. But I lose IMyself in him, in light ineffable! Come, then, expressive silence, muse his praise. (1730) THE CASTLE OF INDOLE^XE, Book I O mortal man, who livest here by toil, Do not complain of this thy hard estate: That like an emmet thou must ever moil, 374 JAMES THOMSON Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; And, certes, there is for it reason great; s For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, Withouten that would come a heavier bale, Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, 'o 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 pranked with spring, with summer half imbrowned, '6 A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, No living wight could work, ne cared ever for play. Was nought around but images of rest : Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between ; ^° And flowery beds that slumberous influ- ence kest, From poppies breathed; and beds of pleas- ant green. Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumbered glittering stream- lets played. And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; ^s That, as they bickered through the sunny glade. Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur 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 these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 36 Full in the passage of the vale above, A sable, silent, solemn forest stood, Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move, As Idlesse 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 murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. 45 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. For ever flushing round a summer sky: There eke the soft delights, that witch- ingly 50 Instill a wanton sweetness through the breast. And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh; But whate'er smacked of noyance or un- rest. Was far, far off' expelled from this delicious nest. The doors, that knew no shrill alarming bell, 55 Ne cursed knocker plied by villain's hand. Self-opened into halls, where, who can tell What elegance and grandeur wide ex- pand. The pride of Turkey and of Persia land? Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread, 60 And couches stretched around in seemly band ; And endless pillows rise to prop the head ; So that each spacious room was one full- swelling bed. And everywhere huge covered tables stood, With wines high flavored and rich viands crowned ; 65 Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food On the green bosom of this earth are found, And all old ocean genders in his round; Some hand unseen these silently displayed, Even undemanded by a sign or sound ; 70 You need but wish, and, mstantly obeyed, Fair ranged the dishes rose, and thick the glasses played. The rooms with costly tapestry were hung, Where was inwoven many a gentle tale ; Such as of old the rural poets sung, 75 Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale : Reclining lovers, in the lonely dale, Poured forth at large the sweetly tortured heart ; Or, sighing tender passion, swelled the gale, And taught charmed echo to resound their smart ; 80 While flocks, woods, streams, around, re- pose and peace impart. Those pleased the most, where, by a cun- ning hand, Depainted w^as the patriarchal age; What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land. And pastured on from verdant stage to stage, 85 Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage. Toil was not then. Of nothing took they heed. But with wild beasts the sylvan war to wage, And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed ; Blest sons of nature they! true golden age indeed ! 90 Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls, Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise. Or autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls ; Now the black tempest strikes the aston- ished eyes, Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies; 95 The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue. And now rude mountains frown amid the skies ; Whate'er Lorraine light-touched with sof- tening hue, Or savage Rosa dashed, or learned Poussin drew. A certain music, never known before, 100 Here lulled the pensive melancholy mind, Full easily obtained. Behoves no more. But sidelong, to the gently waving wind, To lay the well-tuned instrument reclined ; From which with airy flying fingers light, Beyond each mortal touch the most re- fined, 106 The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight ; Whence, with just cause, the harp of ^5iolus it hight. Ah me ! what hand can touch the string so fine ? Who up the lofty diapason roll no Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine. Then let them down again into the soul? Now rising love they fanned; now pleas- ing dole They breathed, in tender musings, through the heart ; And now a graver sacred strain they stole, 115 As when seraphic hands a hymn impart: Wild warbling nature all, above the reach of art! Such the gay splendor, the luxurious state Of Caliphs old, who on the Tigris' shore. In mighty Bagdad, populous and great, i^o Held their bright court, where was of ladies store; And verse, love, music, still the garland wore; When sleep was coy, the bard in waiting there Cheered the lone midnight with the muse's lore; Composing music bade his dreams be fair, 125 And music lent new gladness to the morn- ing air. Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran Soft tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell. And sobbing breezes sighed, and oft be- gan — So worked the wizard — wintry storms to swell, 130 As heaven and earth they would together mell ; At doors and windows threatening seemed to call The demons of the tempest, growling fell, Yet the least entrance found they none at all; Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall. 13s * * * (1748) MINOR POETS — YOUNG TO CHATTERTON Before the 'Augustan age' of wil and cuninion-scnso had (■<)uii)lcl('(l its course a departure from its precepts and fashions iiad begun. Tiie complex of tendencies which gradually transformed literature in the course of the eighteenth century is usually referred to as ' the romantic movement.' Some, however, prefer to conserve this term for a more re- stricted application to the revival of medievalism which was a part of the broader move- ment; while still others prefer to think of these changes as the result of two related tendencies, 'the return to nature' and 'the revival of the past.' The English genius could not long content itself with the equably ironic view of human fate which found expression in the essays of Addison, or with the jaunty commendations of God and the universe which capped Pope's essentially shallow and worldly philosophy. Even Pope's Essay on Man, it is worth while to notice, had been preceded by Thomson's llymn on the treasons. Three-quarters of a century were to elapse before any first-rate mind should survey life with that comprehensive sympnihy and penetrate it with that fresh, imaginative insight which marks the truly great and original poet. In the meantime the useful work of our 'age of prose and reason,' 'our excellent and indispensable eighteenth century,' was being done. Meantime, also, chiefly among men of second-rate and third- rate quality, we may detect evidences, stray and imperfect, of that ' longing to iniiuire into the mystery of this heart which beats so wild, so deep in us ' — which always under- lies literature of the finest power. Now, great literary changes are usually ' accompanied or heralded,' as Stevenson has phrased it, ' by a cast back to earlier and fresher models.' Thus, most of these minor writers were in some degree imitative. Discontented, first of all, with the subject-matter of poetry, its restriction to what they deemed superficial and trivial in town life, they sought the fields and ' the mountain's rugged brow.' And, just as they became interested in the solitudes and the untamed aspects of Nature, so they became interested in wild and primitive, or in simple and rustic society, where the elementary impulses of men have freer play. Discontented, too, with the artificial diction and rhetoric and the restricted couplet verse of the I'ope school, they ' cast back ' to the blank verse of Shakspere and Milton, to Milton's octo-syllabics, to the fluid stanza of Spenser, and to the free modulations of the old ballad stave. Emulating their models in subject, diction, rhythm, — they caught at times something of their spirit. There is hardly one of these men of slighter power, thinly descriptive or heavily didactic as they frequently are, who does not at some point flash for a moment with the loveliness, or mystery, or melancholy, or boldness, or ' fine frenzy,' of the earlier masters, or the wilding songs of the folk. Edward Young, five years Pope's senior, an Oxford scholar of saturnine temper, a disappointed seeker after ' the bubble reputation,' first in the theater and then in the church, produced at three-score the poem for which he is remembered. The Complaint, or jSiight Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortal it ij, a didactic poem in ten thousand lines of blank verse, is still impressive for its nervous aphoristic force and somber mag- nificence of imagery and music. John Gay, the intimate friend of Swift and Pope, was a compliant creature of bis age. His prime gift was for travesty and his greatest success in this kind. The Beggar's Opera. created a type. The Shepherd's Week was intended to burlesque the Pastorals then in vogue. ' But the effect of reality and truth became conspicuous,' says Johnson, ' even when the intention was to show them groveling and degraded.' Robert Blair was a Scotch minister. The Grave, in some eight hundred lines of blank verse, is an early example of the so-called ' grave-yard ' school of poetry. It is somewhat singular among the poems of its time and class, in that its diction and versification suggest the influence of Elizabethan dramatic poets rather than that of Milton. John Dyer, a Welsh landscape painter, was also a landscape poet. His Grongar Hill was published the year of Thomson's Winter. Its likeness to Milton's L'Allegro is sufficiently obvious. The Ruins of Rome (1740) and The Fleece (1757) are didacticn-descriptive poems in blank verse, suggestive of Milton and Thomson. William Shenstone was a somewhat spiritless bachelor and recluse who amused himself with landscape-gardening on a small scale at the Leasowes, a modest estate adjoining Lord 376 Littleton's acres at Hagley. His poetry is tamely elegiac and pastoral. Tlie i:iclioolmistrtiss, his best known poem, is a Spenserian semi-burlesque. Mark Akenside, a physician whom a youthful addiction to poetry did not prevent from rising high in his profession, published his Fleusures of Imagination in his twenty-third year. His Odes and Hymn to the Nois Would prove his own expressive pow'r. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the cliords hewildcr'd laid, And hack recoil'd, he knew not why, Ev'n at the sound himself had made. -<^ 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 with hurried hand the strings. With woeful measures wan Despair ^i Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd ; A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'T was sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delightful measure? 3° 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. And longer had she sung, — but with a frown Revenge impatient rose; 4° He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thun- der down And with a with'ring look The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. 45 And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat ; And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause be- tween. Dejected Pity, at his side. Her soul-subduing voice applied, so Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of diff'ring themes the veering song was mix'd, 55 And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. W^ith eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sate retir'd. And from her wild sequester'd scat. In notes by distance made more sweet, 6° 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 Round an holy calm diffusing. Love of peace and lonely musing. In hollow murmurs died away. But oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone. When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 70 Her bow across her shoulder flung. 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 Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen, j Peeping from forth their alleys green ; I Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, 1 And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial. 8° Lie, with viny crown advancing. First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; But soon he saw the brisk awak'ning viol. Whose 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, i And he, amidst his frolic play. I As if he would the charming air repay, ^ Shook thousand odors 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-connnanding pow'r i Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd. Can well recall what then it heard. Where is thy native simple heart, Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? Arise as in that elder time, i Warm, energic, chaste, sublime ! Thy wonders, in that godlike age, Fill thy recording sister's page. — 'T is said, and I believe the tale. Thy humblest reed could more prevail, ' Had more of strength, diviner rage. Than all which charms this laggard age, Ev'n all at once together found, Cecilia's mingled world of sound. O, bid our vain endeavors, cease, i Revive the just designs of Greece, Return in all thy simple state. Confirm the tales her sons relate! (1746) A SONG FROM SHAKSPERE'S CYMBELINE Sung by Gtiidcrns and Arviragus over Fidclc, 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 wither'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, is 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 : Bclov'd, till life could charm no more; .'\nd mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead. (1744) THOMAS WARTON (1728^1790) THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR Stately the feast, and high the cheer : Girt with many an armed peer. And canopied with golden pall, Amid Cilgarran's castle hall, Sublime in formidable state, 5 And warlike splendor, Henry sate; Prepar'd to stain the briny flood Of Shannon's lakes with rebel blood. Illumining the vaulted roof, A thousand torches flam'd aloof: 10 From massy cups, with golden gleam Sparkled the red metheglin's stream : To grace the gorgeous festival, Along the lofty-window'd hall. The storied tapestry was hung; — i5 With minstrelsy the rafters rung Of harps, that with reflected light From the proud gallery glitter'd bright: While gifted bards, a rival throng ( From distant Mona, nurse of song, 2° From Teivi, fring'd with umbrage brown, From Elvy's vale, and Cader's crown. From many a shaggy precipice That shades lerne's hoarse abyss. And many a sunless solitude 2s Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude), To crown the banquet's solemn close. Themes of British glory chose ; And to the strings of various chime Attcmper'd thus the fabling rhyme. 3° * O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roar'd, High the screaming sea-mew soar'd ; On Tintagell's topmost tower Darksome fell the sleety shower; Round the rough castle shrilly sung 35 The whirling blast, and wildly flung On each tall rampart's thundering side The surges of the tumbling tide : When Arthur rang'd his red-cross ranks On conscious Camlan's crimson'd banks : 40 By Mordred's faithless guile decreed Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed ! Yet in vain a paynim foe Arm'd with fate the mighty blow; For when he fell an elfin queen, 45 All in secret, and unseen. O'er the fainting hero threw Her mantle of ambrosial blue; And bade her spirits bear him far, In Merlin's agate-axled car, 50 To her green isle's enamell'd steep, Far in the navel of the deep. O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew From flowers that in Arabia grew : 390 MINOR POETS — YOUNG TO CIIATTERTON On a rich encliantcd hcd 5'' She pillow'd his majestic head; O'er his brow, with whispers bland, Thrice she wav'd an opiate wand ; And to soft music's airy sound, Her magic curtains clos'd around. 60 There, renew'd tlie vital spring, Again he reigns a mighty king ; And many a fair and fragrant clime, Blooming in immortal prime, By gales of Eden ever fann'd, 65 Owns the monarch's high command : Thence to Britain shall return (If right prophetic rolls I learn), Borne on Victory's spreading plume, His ancient scepter to resume ; 7° Once more, in old heroic pride, His barbed courser to bestride; His knightly table to restore. And brave the tournaments of yore.' *■ * * (1777) SONNETS WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE's MONASTICON Deem not devoid of elegance the sage, By Fancy's genume feelings unbeguiled Of painful pedantry, the poring child. Who turns of these proud tomes the his- toric page. Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage. 5 Think'st thou the warbling muses never smiled On his lone hours? Ingenious views en- gage His thoughts on themes unclassic falsely styled, Intent. While cloistered piety displays Her moldering roll, the piercing eye ex- plores 10 New manners, and the pomp of elder days. Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores. Not rough nor barren are the winding ways Of hoar antiquity, but strewn with flowers. (1777) WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle! Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore, To Amber's fatal plain Pcndragon bore. Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile. T' entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile: 5 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 unhewn shrine, Rear'd the rude heap: or, in thy hallow'd round, 10 Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line; Or here those kings in solenm state were crown'd : Studious to trace thy wondrous origine. We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd. (1777) THOMAS CHATTERTON (I 752-1 770) BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE OR THE DETHE OF SYR CHARLES BAWDIN The featherd 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 daie. 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.' '6 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 wyfe, Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore. For goode Syr Charleses lyfe. 24 ' O, goode Syr Charles ! ' sayd Canterlone, ' Badde tydyiigs I doe brynge.' ' Speke boldlie, manne,' sayd brave Syr Charles, ' Whatte says thie traytor kynge?' 28 'I greeve to telle; before yonne Sonne Does fromnie the welkinn fiye, Hee hathe iippon 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 little space? Thanke Jesu, I'm prcpar'd : 36 ' Butt telle thyc kynge, for niyne 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 Maister 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 friende ; Whatever youre request may bee, Wee wylle to ytte attende. 52 * My noble liege ! alle my request, Ys for a nobile knyghte. Who, though may hap hee has donne wronge, Hee thoughte ytte stylle was ryghte: 56 ' He has a spouse and children twaine, Alle rewyn'd are for aie ; Yff that you are resolved to lett Charles Bawdin die to-dai.' 60 ' Speke not of such a traytour vile,' The kynge ynn f urie sayde ; ' Before the evening starre doth sheene, Bawdin shall loose hys hedde : 64 'Justice does loudlie for hym calle. And hee shalle have hys meede : Speke, maister Canynge ! Whatte thyngc else Att present doe you neede ? ' 68 ' My nobile liege ! ' goode Canynge sayde, 'Leave justice to our Godde, And laye the yronne rule asyde; Be thyme the olyve rodde. 72 'Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines, The best were synners grete ; Christ's vycarr only knowes ne synne, Ynne alle thys mortall state. 76 ' Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne, 'T wylle faste thye crowne fulle sure; From race to race thye familie Alle sov'reigns shall endure: 80 ' But yflf 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 ? ' ^8 ' A'ly nobile liege ! the trulie brave VVylle val'rous actions prize; Respect a brave and nobile mynde, Although ynne enemies.' 92 ' Canynge, awaie ! By Godde ynne Heav'n That dydd mee beinge gyve, I wylle nott taste a bitl 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. ^°° With" herte brymm-full 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 all wee mortall menne. 108 ' 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?' '12 Quod godlie Canynge, ' I doe weepe, i Thatt thou see scone must dye, 392 MINOR POirrS— YOUNG TO CHATTERTON And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe; 'Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye' ii6 ' Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye From godlic fouiitaines sprynge ; Dethe I despise, and alle the power Of Edwarde, traytour kyiige. "^o ' Whan through the tyrant's wclcom means I shall rcsignc my lyfe, The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde For bothe mye soones and wyfe. 124 ' Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne, Thys was appointed mec ; Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge What Godde ordeynes to bee? 128 * Howe oft ynne battaile have I stood Whan thousands dy'd arounde ; Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde: 132 ' Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte, That cutte the airie waie, Myghte nott fynde passage tae my harte, And close myne eyes for aie? 136 ' And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, Looke wanne and bee dysmayde? Ne ! fromm my herte flic childyshe feere, Bee alle the manne display'd. 14° 'Ah! goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende, And guarde thee and thye Sonne, Yff 'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott, Why thenne hys wylle bee donne. '44 ' My honest friende, my faulte has beene To serve Godde and myre 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 ' 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 mce justice and the laws Wyth pitie to unite ; And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe The wronge cause fromm the ryghte : >6o 'Hee taughte mee with a prudent hande To fecde the hungrie poore, Ne lett mye servants dryve awaie The hungrie fromme my doore: 164 'And none can saye bult alle mye lyfe I have hys wordycs kept ; And summ'd the actyonns of the daie Eche nyght before I slept. 168 ' I have a spouse, goe aske of her Yff I defyl'd her bedde? I have a kynge, and none can laie Black treason onne my hedde. '72 ' Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, Fromm fleshe I dydd rcfrayne ; Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd To leave thys worlde of payne? ^7(> ' Ne, hapless Henrie ! I rejoyce, I shall ne see thye dethe ; Moste willynglie 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 wythe bloude wylle flowe. ' Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace, 185 And godlie Henric's reigne, Thatt you dydd choppc your easie daics For those of bloude and peyne? '88 ' 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 ; '92 ' Whatte though, uphoisted onne a pole, Mye lymbcs shall rotte ynne ayre. And ne ryche monument of brasse Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; '96 ■ Yett ynne the holie booke above, Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, There wythe the servants 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 Maie ; 1 ij.vyivi/-vo «^j.i.r\. i ± Jir\. i v-'iN jyj Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve, Wyth my dere wyfe to staie.' 208 Quod Canynge, "T ys a goodlie thynge To bee prepar'd to die ; And from thys world of peync and grefe To Godde ynne heav'n to flic' 212 And nowe the belle began to tolle, 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 dyime. 220 ' Sweet Florence I nowe I praie forbere, Ynn quiet lett mee die ; Praie Godde thatt ev'ry Christian soulc Maye looke onne dethe as 1. -2^4 ' Sweet Florence ! why these brinie teers ? Theye washe my soule awaie, And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe, Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie. ^-^8 "Tys butt a journie I shalle goe Untoe the lande of biysse ; Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love, Receive thys holie kysse.' ^32 Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie, Tremblynge these wordyes spoke, 'Ah, cruele Edwarde ! bloudie kynge ! Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke : 236 Ah, sweete Syr Charles ! why wylt thou goe, Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe? The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thy necke, Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.' 240 And nowe the officers came ynne To brynge Syr Charles awaie, Whoe turnedd 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 anic madde, And dydd her tresses tere ; ' Oh, staie, mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe ! ' Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare. 256 'T yll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude, Shee fellen onne the flore ; Syr Charles exerted alle 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 rol)es 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 homelie russett weedes. Of godlie monkysh plyghte : ^7^ Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt; Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came. Who tun'd the strunge bataunt. 276 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 trappyngcs white, Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde : 284 Behynde hym five-and-twenty nioe 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; 394 MINOR POETS — YOUNG TO CHATTERTON The wyiidowes were alle fuUe of heddes, As hee dydd passe alonge. 3oo And whcnne hec came to the hyghe crosse, Syr Charles dydd tunic and saic, • O, thou, thatt savcst nianne f romme synne, Washe niye soule clean thys daie ! ' 304 Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat The kynge ynne mycle state, To sec Charles Bawdin 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 stande iippe, And thus hys vvordes declare: 312 ' Thou seest me, Edwarde ! traytour vile I Expos'd to infamie; Butt bee assur'd disloyall manne ! I 'm greaterr no we thanne thee. 3' 6 ' Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloudc, Thou wearest nowe a crowne; And hast appoynted mee to die, By power nott thyne owne. 320 ' 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 ' — Fromra out of hearyng of the kynge Departed thenne the sledde. 3i2 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 saie: 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 thcyre 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 blonde to spyllc. 348 Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe. As uppe a gilded carre Of victory, bye val'rous chiefs Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre: 35-2 And to the people hee dyd saie, ' 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 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 bloude 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 parties cutte ; And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedile, Uponne a pole was putte. 380 One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle One onne the mynster-tovver, 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. 388 LV-»l»±r^O «^11/-V1 iJJ^IVA^Ji^ v5yi Thuh was the eiide of Bawdin's fate: Godde prosper loiige oure kynge, And graiite hee inaye, wyth Bawdin's soule, Ynne heav'n Godd's mercie synge ! 392 (1772) From ^LLA : A TRAGYCAL ENTER LUDE MYNSTRELLES SONGE O ! synge untoe mie roundelaie, O ! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, Daunce ne nioe atte hallie daie, Lycke a reynynge ^ ry ver bee ; Mie love ys dedde, S Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the vvyllowe tree. Blacke hys cryne - as the wyntere nyghte, Whyte hys rode ^ as the sommer snowe, Rodde hys face as the morynynge lyghte, Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe ; J' Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, '7 O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys death-bedde, 20 Alle under the wyllowe tree. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, Jn the briered delle belowe; Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe syngg, To the nyghte-mares as heie goe; 25 * Runniniff. » Hair. ' Complexion. Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude; 30 Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. 35 Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Schalle the baren fleurs be layde. Nee one hallie Seyncte to save Al the celness of a mayde. Mie love ys dedde, 40 Gonne to hys death-bedde, Alle under the wyllowe tree. Wythe mie hondes Tile dente the brieres Rounde his hallie corse to gre, Ouphante fairie lyghte youre fyres, 45 Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee. Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Comme, wythe acorne-coppe & thorne, Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; si Lyfe & all yttes goode I scorne, Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie. Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, 55 Al under the wyllowe tree. Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,* Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. 60 fi777) * Water-flags. THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) The life of Gray was siugulaiiy ilovoid of exleinal incident. Tlie records of a few persona! ties, a little travel, and a few scattering and reluctant i)ubli(alions, alone give liveliness to the ' noiseless tenor ' of his sequestered studies. At Eton he was noted for •great delicacy and sometimes a too fastidious behavior,' but found sympathetic companions in Horace VValpole and liichard West. In IT.'U he entered Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, and soon became a pensioner at Peterhouse. lie devoted himself to classical literature, history, and modern languages, taking no degree on account of his dislike to mathematics. In 1739, on Walpole's invitation, Gray accompanied him to the continent and with great pleasure and profit, spent two years in Italy and France. Many of his Latin poems were written abroad and soon after his return he made his first trials in English verse. The death of his friend West, in 1742, deeply affected him and called forth the first sonnet of importance since those of Milton. About the same time, he began ' the far-famed Elcyy,' while visiting his mother at Stoke, near Windsor. None of his poems were published until several years afterward. lie now settled again at Peterhouse and when fifteen years later, he removed to Pembroke Hall, he referred to the incident as 'a sort of era in a life so barren of events as mine.' He graduated as LL.B. in 1744, but never entered the law. He ma Now the rich stream of music winds along Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep amain, >" Headlong, impetuous, see it pour : The rocks, and nodding groves rebellow to the roar. The Antistrophe Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares, is And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War, Has curbed the fury of his car, And dropped his thirsty lance at thy com- mand. Perching on the sceptered hand ^o Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing : Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye. The Epode Thee the voice, the dance, obey, 2S Tempered 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, Frisking light in frolic measures ; 3i Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet : To brisk notes in cadence beating Glance their many-twinkling feet. 3S Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare : Where'er she turns the Graces homage paj 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 40 The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love. II The Strophe Man's feeble race what Ills await, Labor, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate ! 4S The fond complaint, my Song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews. Her Specters wan, and Birds of boding cry. He gives to range the dreary sky; Si Til! down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war. The Antistrophe In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built moun- tains roam. The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom 56 To cheer the shivering Native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the odorous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage Youth re- peat 60 In loose numbers wildly sweet Their feather-cinctured Chiefs, and dusky Loves. Her track, where'er the Goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous Shame, The unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame. 65 The Epode Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep. Isles, that crown the ^gean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Mseander's amber waves In lingering Labyrinths creep, 70 How do your tuneful Echo's languish, Mute, but to the voice of Anguish? Where each old poetic Mountain Inspiration breathed around : Every shade and hallowed Fountain 75 Murmured 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, 81 They sought, O Albion ! next thy sea-en- circled coast. Ill The Strophe Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon strayed, 85 To Him the mighty Mother did unveil Her awful face: The dauntless Child Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled This pencil take (she said) whose colors clear Richly paint the vernal year: 9'> Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy ! This can unlock the gates of Joy; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears. The Antistrophe Nor second He, that rode sublime 9S Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of the Abyss to spy. He passed the flaming bounds of Place and Time: The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze. Where Angels tremble, while they gaze, 100 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 clothed, and long- resounding pace. The Epode Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more m O Lyre divine, what daring Spirit Wakes thee now? though he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear "S Sailing with supreme dominion Through 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, unborrowed of the Sun : Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way 1^' Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate. Beneath the Good how far — but far above the Great. (1757) 402 THOMAS GRAY THE BARD A PINDARIC ODE I The Strophe 'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on tliy banners wait, Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail, 5 Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears ! ' Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side " He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Gloster stood aghast in speechless trance; To arms ! cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance. The Antistrophe On a rock, whose haughty brow '5 Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood. Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air), 20 And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre : ' Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave. Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath I O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, ^5 Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llew- ellyn's lay. The Epode ' Cold is Cadwallo's tongue. That hushed the stormy main ; 3o Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlinnnon bow his cloud- topped head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 35 Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; rhe famished l-'agle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, 4' \'e died amidst your dying country's cries — No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 1 see them sit, they linger yet, 45 -Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join. And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line : — n The Strophe 'Weave the warp, and weave the woof. The winding sheet of Edward's race. 5( Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night. When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roofs that ring, 55 Shrieks of an agonizing King! She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs. That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait ! 6o Amazement in his van, with Flight com- bined. And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude be- hind. The Antistrophe ' Mighty Victor, mighty Lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford 65 A tear to grace his obsequies. ■ Is the sable Warrior lied? ■ Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead. The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born ? Gone to salute the rising Morn. 7° Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows. While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes ; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the hehu; .n. 1 i-\.x^ 0101ILI\.0 4"^ Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, 75 That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening-prey. The Epode Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast. Close by the regal chair 8° Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long Years of havoc urge their destined course, ^5 And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame. With many a foul and midnight murthcr fed, Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame, And spare the meek Usurper's holy head. 9° Above, below, the rose of snow. Twined with her l)lushing foe, we spread : The bristled Boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom 95 Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. Ill The Strophe ' Edward, lo ! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.)' — Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn loi Leave me unblessed, unpiticd, here to mourn 1 In yon bright track, that tires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh ! what solemn scenes on Snow- don's height. 105 Descending slow their glittering skirts un- roll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul ! No more our long-lost Arthur wc bewail. All-hail, ye genuine Kings, Britannia's Issue, hail! >'o The Antistrophe 'Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a Form divine! 115 Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line; Her lion port, her awe-commanding face. Attempered sweet to virgin grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air. What strains of vocal traiwport round her play! 120 Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings. Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-col- ored wings. The Epode ' The verse adorn again 1-25 Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drcst. In buskincd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, Tyrant of the throbbing breast. 130 A Voice, as of the Cherub-Choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear; And distant warblnigs lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon san guine cloud, 135 Raised by thy breath, has quenched the Oil) of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood. And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me : With joy I see The different doom our Fates assign. i4>^^ Be thine Despair, and sceptered Care, To triumph, and lo die, are mine.' — He spoke, and headlong from the moun- tain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged lo end less night. (1757) THE FATAL SISTERS AN ODE FROM THE NORSE TONGUE Now the storm begins to lower, (Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) Iron-slcet of arrowy shower Hurtles in ihe darkened air. 404 THOMAS GRAY Glittering 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 grisly texture grow, ('T is of human entrails made,) 'o 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, is 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, javelins sing. Blade with clattering buckler meet. Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. (Weave the crimson web of war) -S 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 through the ensanguined field : 3° 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 Ijieak domain. Soon their ample sway shall stretch O'er the plenty of the plain. 40 Low the dauntless earl is laid, Gored with many a gaping wound : Fate demands a nobler head ; Soon a king shall bite the ground. Long his loss shall Eirin weep, 45 Ne'er again his likeness see ; Long her strains in sorrow steep. Strains of immortality! Horror covers all the heath, Clouds of carnage blot the sun. so 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 Triumph to the younger king. Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Learn the tenor of our song. Scotland, through each winding 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. (1768) ''Jj>'> SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-84) Few personalities of famous iiieu are so well-known to us as the personality of ' that great Cham of literature, Samuel Johnson.' The son of a poor Lichfield book-seller, Johnson had the advantages of the local grammar-school and a few poverty-stricken months at Pem- broke College, Oxford ; served for a time as usher in a boy's school ; married for true love's sake, a woman much his senior; and set up a private academy near his native city. This enterprise proving neither agreeable nor profitable, in his twenty-eighth year, with little in his uncouth person, his ponderous genius, or in the sturdy independence of his character, to recommend him to the rich and fortunate, Johnson had the hardihood to seek a living among the penurious publishers and starving hack writers of London. For nearly a quarter of a century, he earned a precarious subsistence by huge ' odd jobs ' of literature which now have little interest except as a part of his biography. The greatest of these, his Dictionary of the English Language, was published in 1755, after seven years of continuous labor. During a part of this time he had supported himself by writing The Rambler (175U-52), and, in ensuing years. The Idler (1759-60) and Rasselas (1759) helped to defray expenses while he was preparing his edition of Shakspere (17(>5). He was now famous. A pension of three hundred pounds, granted by government in 17G2, had relieved him from the pressure of necessity. Thereafter he wrote but little, and his social talents expanded. In 17G4, he joined with Sir Joshua Reynolds in founding the renowned Literary Club which had the good fortune to gather to its convivial meetings such men as Burke, Goldsmith, Gibbon, Garrick, Adam Smith, the two Wartons, Bishop Percy of ballad fame, and many others whose names are still remembered. The previous year, Boswell had made his acquaintance and had begun to gather materials for the record of those ' nights and suppers of the gods ' with which we are regaled in his Life. If we may trust Boswell's vivid and, apparently, accurate account, Johnson inspired in his comrades not only unusual affection, but a degree of respect which approximated reverence. His con- versation was witty, powerful, and varied and gives us a higher idea of his genius than anything which he wrote. His eccentricities both of behavior and of opinion were extraor- dinary ; but the prevailing impression left by Boswell's picture of his mind is one of massive common-sense, united with great depth and benignity of soul. Johnson's most important contribution to literatui-e is his Lives of the Poets, which he undertook toward the end of his life (1779-81), when his powers were in their fullness and after years of polite conversation had favorably affected his style. They are the out- pouring of a capacious mind stored by a lifetime of reading, experience, and reflection. His judgments are often marred by bis peculiar crochets of opinion or temper ; but his sayings are almost always invigorating, for they are the abrupt utterances of an honest and strong man who knew much of the world and of letters. THE LIFE OF ADDISON Not to name the school or the masters of men illustrious for literature, is a Joseph Addison was born on the ist kind of historical fraud, by which honest of May, 1672, at Milston, of which his fame is injuriously diminished: I would father, Lancelot Addison, was then rec- s therefore trace him through the whole tor, near Ambrosebury, in Wiltshire, and, process of his education. In 1683, in the appearing weak and unlikely to live, he beginning of his twelfth year, his father, was christened the same day. After the being made Dean of Lichfield, naturally usual domestic education, which from the carried his family to his new residence, character of the father may be reason- 10 and, I believe, placed him for some time, ably supposed to have given him strong probably not long, under Mr. Shaw, then impressions of piety, he was committed to master of the school at Lichfield, father the care of Mr. Naish at Ambrosebury, of the late Dr. Peter Shaw. Of this in- and afterwards of Mr. Taylor at Salis- terval his biographers have given no ac- bury. 'S count, and I know it only from a story 405 4o6 SAMUEL JOHNSON of a ' barring-out,' told me, when I was a much purpose of repayment ; but Addison, boy, by Andrew Corbet, of Shropshire, who seems to have had other notions of who had heard it from Mr. Pigot, his a hundred pounds, grew impatient of uncle. delay, and reclaimed his loan by an ex- The practice of ' barring-out ' was a 5 ecution. Steele felt with great sensibility savage license, practiced in many schools the obduracy of his creditor, but with to the end of the last century, by which emotions of sorrow rather than of anger, the boys, when the periodical vacation In 1687 he was entered into Queen's drew near, growing petulant at the ap- College in Oxford, where, in 1689, the proach of liberty, some days before the 10 accidental perusal of some Latin verses time of regular recess, took possession of gained him the patronage of Dr. Lan- the school, of which they barred the caster, afterwards Provost of Queen's doors, and bade their master defiance College; by whose recommendation he from the windows. It is not easy to was elected into Magdalen College as a suppose that on such occasions the mas- 15 demy, a term by which that society de- ter would do more than laugh; yet, if nominates those who are elsewhere called tradition may be credited, he often Strug- scholars: young men who partake of the gled hard to force or surprise the gar- founder's benefaction, and succeed in rison. The master, when Pigot was a their order to vacant fellowships. Here schoolboy, was ' barred out ' at Lichfield ; 20 he continued to cultivate poetry and and the whole operation, as he said, was criticism, and grew first eminent by his planned and conducted by Addison. Latin compositions, which are indeed en- To judge better of the probability of titled to particular praise. He has not this story, I have inquired when he was confined himself to the imitation of any sent to the Chartreux ; but, as he was ^5 ancient author, but has formed his style not one of those who enjoyed the found- from the general language, such as a er's benefaction, there is no account diligent perusal of the productions of dif- preserved of his admission. At the ferent ages happened to supply. His scliool of the Chartreux, to which he Latin compositions seem to have had was removed either from that of Salis- 30 much of his fondness, for he collected a bury or Lichfield, he pursued his juvenile second volume of the Miisae Anglicanae, studies under the care of Dr. Ellis, and perhaps for a convenient receptacle, in contracted that intimacy with Sir Richard which all his Latin pieces are inserted, Steele which their joint labors have so and where his poem on the Peace has effectually recorded. 35 the first place. He afterwards presented Of this memorable friendship the the collection to Boileau, who from that greater praise must be given to Steele, time ' conceived,* says Tickell, ' an opin- It is not hard to love those from whom ion of the English genius for poetry.' nothing can be feared; and Addison Nothing is better known of Boileau than never considered Steele as a rival; but 40 that he had an injudicious and peevish Steele lived, as he confesses, under an contempt of modern Latin, and therefore habitual subjection to the predominating his profession of regard was probably the genius of Addison, whom he always men- efTect of his civility rather than appro- tioned with reverence, and treated with bation. obsequiousness. 4S Three of his Latin poems are upon sub- Addison, who knew his own dignity, jects on which perhaps he would not have could not always forbear to show it, by ventured to have written in his own Ian- playing a little upon his admirer; but guage: — The Battle of the Pigmies and he was in no danger of retort; his jests Cranes, The Barometer, and A Bozding- were endured without resistance or re- 5° green. When the matter is low or scanty, sentment. But the sneer of jocularity a dead language, in which nothing is was not the worst. Steele, whose impru- mean because nothing is familiar, affords dence of generosity, or vanity of pro- great conveniences ; and by the sonorous fusion, kept him always incurably neces- magnificence of Roman syllables, the sitous, upon some pressing exigence, in 55 writer conceals penury of thought, and an evil hour, borrowed" an hundred want of novelty, often from the reader pounds of his friend probably without and often from himself. In his twenty-second year he first In 1697 appeared his Latin verses on showed his power of English poetry by the Peace of Ryswick, which he dedicated some verses addressed to Dryden ; and to Montague, and which was afterwards soon afterwards published a translation called, by Smith, ' the best Latin poem of the greater part of the Fourth Georgia 5 since the Aeneid.' Praise must not be upon Bees; after which, says Dryden, too rigorously examined; but the per- ' my latter swarm is hardly worth the formance cannot be denied to be vigorous hiving.' About the same time he com- and elegant. Having yet no public em- posed the arguments prefixed to the ployment, he obtained (in 1699) a pen- several books of Dryden's Virgil; and 10 sion of three hundred pounds a year, that produced an Essay on the Gcorgics, ju- he might be enabled to travel. He stayed venile, superficial, and uninstructive, a year at Blois, probably to learn the without much either of the scholar's French language ; and then proceeded in learning or the critic's penetration. His his journey to Italy, which he surveyed next paper of verses contained a char- 15 with the eyes of a poet. While he was acter of the principal English poets, in- traveling at leisure, he was far from be- scribed to Henry Sacheverell, who was ing idle: for he not only collected his ob- then, if not a poet, a writer of verses ; servations on the country, but found as is shown by his version of a small time to write his Dialogues on Medals, part of Virgil's G£'oro;zc.y, published in the 20 and four acts of Cato.' Such, at least, Miscellanies; and a Latin encomium on is the relation of Tickell. Perhaps he Queen Mary, in the Musae Anglicanae. only collected his materials and formed These verses exhiljit all the fondness of his plan. Whatever were his other em- friendship; but, on one side or the other, ployments in Italy, he there wrote the friendship was afterwards too weak for 25 letter to Lord Halifax which is justly the malignity of faction. In this poem considered as the most elegant, if not the is a very confident and discriminative most sublime, of his poetical productions, character of Spenser, whose work he But in about two years he found it nec- had then never read; so little sometimes cssary to hasten home; being, as Swift is criticism the effect of judgment. It is 30 informs us, distressed by indigence, and necessary to inform the reader that about compelled to become the tutor of a trav- this time he was introduced by Congreve eling squire, because his pension was not to Montague, then chancellor of the ex- remitted. chequer: Addison was then learning the At his return he published his Travels, trade of a courtier, and subjoined Mon- 3s with a dedication to Lord Somers. yVs tague as a poetical name to those of Cow- his stay in foreign countries was short, ley and of Dryden. By the influence of his observations are such as might be Mv. Montague, concurring, according to supplied by a hasty view, and consist Tickell, with his natural modesty, he was chiefly in comparisons of the present diverted from his original design of en- 40 face of the country with the descriptions termg into holy orders. Montague al- left us by the Roman poets, from whom leged the corruption of men who engaged he made preparatory collections, though in civil employments without liberal ed- he might have spared the trouble had he ucation ; and declared that, though he was known that such collections had been represented as an enemy to the church, 4s made twice before by Italian authors, he would never do it any injury but by The most amusing passage of his book withholding Addison from it. is his account of the minute republic of Soon after (1695) he wrote a poem San Marino; of many parts it is not a to King William, with a riming intro- very severe censure to say that they duction addressed to Lord Somers. King so might have been written at home. His William had no regard to elegance or elegance of language, and variegation of literature; his study was only war; yet prose and verse, however, gain upon the by a choice of ministers, whose disposi- reader; and the book, though awhile ncg- tion was very different from his own, he lectcd, became in time so much the fa- procured, without intention, a very lib- 55 vorite of the public that before it was eral patronage to poetry. Addison was reprinted it rose to five times its price, caressed both by Somers and Montague. When he returned to England (in 408 SAMUEL JOHNSON 1702), with a meanness of appearance somewhat advanced by The Tender Hus- which gave testimony of the difficulties to band, a comedy which Steele dedicated which he had been reduced, he found to him, with a confession that he owed his old patrons out of power, and was to him several of the most successful therefore, for a time, at full leisure for 5 scenes. To this play Addison supplied the cultivation of his mind ; and a mind a prologue. so cultivated gives reason to believe that When the Marquis of Wharton was little time was lost. But he remained appointed lord lieutenant of Ireland, Ad- not long neglected or useless. The vie- dison attended him as his secretary ; and tory at Blenheim (1704) spread triumph 10 was made keeper of the records, in Bir- and confidence over the nation ; and Lord mingham's tower, with a salary of three Godolphin, lamenting to Lord Halifax hundred pounds a year. The office was that it had not been celebrated in a man- little more than nominal, and the salary ner equal to the subject, desired him to was augmented for his accommodation, propose it to some better poet. Halifax 15 Interest and faction allow little to the told him that there was no encourage- operation of particular dispositions or ment for genius ; that worthless men private opinions. Two men of personal were unprofitably enriched with public characters more opposite than those of money, without any care to find or employ Wharton and Addison could not easily be those whose appearance might do honor 20 brought together. Wharton was impious, to their country. To this Godolphin re- profligate, and shameless; without regard, plied that such abuses should in time be or appearance of regard, to right and rectified; and that, if a man could be wrong. Whatever is contrary to this found capable of the task then proposed, may be said of Addison; but as agents he should not want an ample recom- 25 of a party they were connected, and how pense. Halifax then named Addison, they adjusted their other sentiments we but required that the treasurer should cannot know. apply to him in his own person. Go- Addison, must, however, not be too dolphin sent the message by Mr. Boyle, hastily condemned. It is not necessary afterwards Lord Carlton ; and Addison, 30 to refuse benefits from a bad man when having undertaken the work, com- the acceptance implies no approbation of municated it to the treasury while it was his crimes; nor has the subordinate officer yet advanced no farther than the simile any obligation to examine the opinions of the angel, and was immediately re- or conduct of those under whom he acts, warded by succeeding Mr. Locke in the 35 except that he may not be made the in- place of commissioner of appeals. strument of wickedness. It is reasonable In the following year he was at Han- to suppose that Addison counteracted, as over with Lord Halifax: and the year far as he was able, the malignant and after he was made under secretary of blasting influence of the lieutenant; and state, first to Sir Charles Hedges, and 40 that at least by his intervention some in a few months more to the Earl of good was done, and some mischief pre- Sunderland. About this time the prev- vented. When he was in office he made alent taste for Italian operas inclined him a law to himself, as Swift has recorded, to try what would be the effect of a never to remit his regular fees in civility musical drama in our own language. He 45 to his friends : ' for,' said he, ' I may therefore wrote the opera of Rosamond, have a hundred friends; and if my fee which, when exhibited on the stage, was be two guineas, I shall, by relinquishing either hissed or neglected ; but, trusting my right, lose two hundred guineas, and that the readers would do him more jus- no friend gain more than two; there is tice, he published it with an inscription 50 therefore no proportion between the good to the Duchess of Marlborough — a imparted and the evil suft'ered.' He was woman without skill, or pretensions to in Ireland when Steele, without any com- skill, in poetry or literature. His dedica- munication of his design, began the pub- tion was therefore an instance of servile lication of The Tatlcr; but he was not absurdity, to be exceeded only by Joshua 55 long concealed ; by inserting a remark on Barnes's dedication of a Greek Anacrcon Virgil which Addison had given him he to the Duke. His reputation had been discovered himself. It is, indeed, not easy for any man to write upon literature than criminal, and remove those griev- or common life so as not to make himself ances which, if they produce no lasting known to those with whom he familiarly calamities, impress hourly vexation, was converses, and who are acquainted with first attempted by Casa in his book of his track of study, his favorite topic, his s Manners, and Castiglione in his Courtier; peculiar notions, and his habitual phrases, two books yet celebrated in Italy for If Steele desired to write in secret, he purity and elegance, and which, if they was not lucky; a single month detected are now less read, are neglected only be- him. His first Tatler was published cause they have effected that reforma- April 22 (1709); and Addison's contri- 10 tion which their authors intended, and bution appeared May 26. Tickell ob- their precepts now are no longer wanted, serves that The Tatler began and was Their usefulness to the age in which they concluded without his concurrence. This were written is sufficiently attested by the is doubtless literally true; but the work translations which almost all the nations did not suffer much by his unconscious- is of Europe were in haste to obtain, ness of its commencement, or his absence This species of instruction was con- at its cessation; for he continued his as- tinned, and perhaps advanced, by the sistance to December 2^, and the paper French ; among whom La Bruyere's Maw- stopped on January 2, 1710-11. He did ners of the Age (though, as Boileau re- not distinguish his pieces by any signa- 20 marked, it is written without connection) ture; and I know not whether his name certainly deserves great praise for liveli- was not kept secret till the papers were ness of description and justness of ob- collected into volumes. servation. To The Tatler, in about two months. Before The Tatler and Spectator, if succeeded The Spectator: a series of es- ^5 the writers for the theater are excepted, says of the same kind, but written with England had no masters of common life, less levity, upon a more regular plan, and No writers had yet undertaken to reform published daily. Such an undertaking either the savageness of neglect, or the showed the writers not to distrust their impertinence of civility; to show when to own copiousness of materials or facility 30 speak, or to be silent; how to refuse, or of composition, and their performance how to comply. We had many books to justified their confidence. They found, teach us our more important duties, and however, in their progress many auxil- to settle opinions in philosophy or poli- iaries. To attempt a single paper was tics; but an arbiter elegantiarum, a judge no terrifying labor; many pieces were 35 of propriety, was yet wanting, who should offered, and many were received. survey the track of daily conversation, Addison had enough of the zeal of and free it from thorns and prickles, party ; but Steele had at that time almost which tease the passer, though they do nothing else. Tlie Spectator, in one of not wound him. For this purpose noth- the first papers, showed the political 40 ing is so proper as the frequent publica- tenets of its authors ; but a resolution was tion of short papers, which we read, not soon taken of courting general approba- as study, but amusement. If the subject tion by general topics, and subjects on be slight, the treatise likewise is short, which faction had produced no diversity The busy may find time, and the idle may of sentiments ; such as literature, moral- +5 find patience. This mode of conveying ity, and familiar life. To this practice cheap and easy knowledge began among they adhered with few deviations. The us in the civil war, when it was much ardor of Steele once broke out in praise the interest of either party to raise and of Marlborough ; and when Dr. Fleet- fix the prejudices of the people. At that wood prefixed to some sermons a preface ''° time appeared Mercnriiis Aulicus, Mcr- overflowing with whiggish opinions, that curiiis Rnsticus, and Mercurius Civicus. it might be read by the Queen, it was It is said that when any title grew pop- reprinted in The Spectator. ular, it was stolen by the antagonist, who To teach the minuter decencies and by this stratagem conveyed his notions to inferior duties, to regulate the practice ^'' those who would not have received him of daily conversation, to correct those had he not worn the appearance of a depravities, which are rather ridiculous friend. The tumult of those unhappy 410 SAMUEL JOHNSON days left scarcely any man leisure to and sometimes towered far above their treasure up occasional compositions ; and predecessors ; and taught, with great just- so much were they neglected that a com- ness of argument and dignity of language, olete collection is nowhere to be found. the most important duties and sublime These Mercuries were succeeded by 5 truths. All these topics were happily L'Estrange's Obscrvator ; and that by Les- varied with elegant fictions and refined ley's Rehearsal, and perhaps by others; allegories, and illuminated with different but hitherto nothing had been conveyed changes of style and felicities of inven- lo the people, in this commodious man- tion. ner, but controversy relating to the 'o It is recorded by Budgell, that of the church or state; of which they taught characters feigned or exhibited in The many to talk, whom they could not teach Spectator, the favorite of Addison was to judge. ^ir Roger de Coverley, of whom he had It has been suggested that the Royal formed a very delicate and discriminated Society was instituted soon after the '5 idea, which he would not suffer to be Restoration to divert the attention of the violated; and therefore when Steele had people from public discontent. The Tat- shown him innocently picking up a girl ler and Spectator had the same tendency; in the Temple, and taking her to a tavern, they were published at a time when two he drew upon himself so much of his parties — loud, restless, and violent, each 2° friend's indignation that he was forced to with plausible declarations, and each per- appease him by a promise of forbearing haps without any distinct termination of Sir Roger for the time to come. its views — were agitating the nation; to The reason which induced Cervantes to minds heated with' political contest they bring his hero to the grave, para mi sola supplied cooler and more inoffensive re- ^'> uacio Don Quixote, y yo para el [for me flections; and it is said by Addison, in a alone was Don Quixote born, and I for subsequent work, that they had a per- him], made Addison declare, with undue ceptible influence upon the conversation vehemence of expression, that he would of that time, and taught the frolic and kill Sir Roger; being of opinion that the gay to unite merriment with decency 30 they were born for one another, and that — an effect which they can never wholly any other hand would do him wrong. lose while they continue to be among It may be doubted whether Addison the first books by which both sexes ever filled up his original delineation, are initiated in the elegances of knowl- He describes his knight as having his edge. 35 imagination somewhat warped ; but of The Tatler and Spectator adjusted, like this perversion he has made very little Casa, the unsettled practice of daily in- use. The irregularities in Sir Roger's tercourse by propriety and politeness; conduct seem not so much the effects of and, like La Bruyere, exhibited the char- a mind deviating from the beaten track of acters and manners of the age. The 40 life, by the perpetual pressure of some personages introduced in these papers overwhelming idea, as of habitual rus- were not merely ideal ; they were then ticity, and that negligence which solitary known, and conspicuous in various sta- grandeur naturally generates. The vari- tions. Of The Tatler that is told by able weather of the mind, the flying Steele in his last paper ; and of The 45 vapors of incipient madness, which from Spectator by Budgell in the preface to time to time cloud reason without eclips- Theophrastus, a book which Addison has ing it, it requires so much nicety to ex- recommended, and which he was sus- hibit that Addison seems to have been pected to have revised, if he did not write deterred from prosecuting his own de- it. Of those portraits which may be sup- '>° sign. posed to be sometimes embellished, and To Sir Roger, who. as a country sometimes aggravated, the originals are gentleman, appears to be a tory, or, as it now partly known, and partly forgotten. is gently expressed, an adherent to the But to say that they united the plans of landed interest, is opposed Sir Andrew two or three eminent writers, is to ^ive 55 Freeport, a new man, a wealthy mer- them but a small part of their due praise ; chant, zealous for the moneyed interest, they superadded literature and criticism. and a whig. Of this contrariety of LIFE OF ADDISON 411 opinions, it is probable more coiise- courage and his zeal by finishing his de- quences were at first intended than could sign. be produced when the resolution was To resume his work he seemed per- taken to exclude party from the paper. versely and unaccountably unwilling; and Sir Andrew does but little, and that little 5 by a request, which perhaps he wished to seems not to have pleased Addison, who, be denied, desired Mr. Hughes to add a when he dismissed him from the club, fifth act. Hughes supposed him serious; changed his opinions. Steele had made and, undertaking the supplement, brought him, in the true spirit of unfeeling com- in a few days some scenes for his ex- merce, declare that he 'would not build loamination; but he had in the meantime an hospital for idle people'; but at last gone to work himself, and produced half he buys land, settles in the country, and an act, which he afterwards completed, builds, not a manufactory, but an hospital but with brevity irregularly dispropor- for twelve old husbandmen — for men tionate to the foregoing parts, like a task with whom a merchant has little ac- 15 performed with reluctance and hurried to quaintance, and whom he commonly con- its conclusion, siders with little kindness. It may yet be doubted whether Cato Of essays thus elegant, thus instructive, was made public by any change of the and thus commodiously distributed, it is author's purpose ; for Dennis charged him natural to suppose the approbation gen- 20 with raising prejudices in his own favor eral, and the sale numerous. I once by false positions of preparatory criti- heard it observed that the sale may be cism, and with ' poisoning the town ' by calculated by the product of the tax, re- contradicting in The Spectator the estab- lated in the last number to produce more lished rule of poetical justice, because his than twenty pounds a week, and there- ^5 own hero, with all his virtues, was to fall fore stated at one-and-twenty pounds, or before a tyrant. The fact is certain ; the three pounds ten shillings a day : this, at motives we mvist guess. a halfpenny a paper, will give sixteen Addison was, I believe, sufificiently dis- hundred and eighty for the daily number, posed to bar all avenues against all dan- This sale is not great; yet this, if Swift 30 ger. When Pope brought him the pro- be credited, was likely to grow less; for logue, which is properly accommodated he declares that The Spectator, whom he to the play, there were these words, ridicules for his endless mention of the ' Britains, arise ! be worth like this ap- fair sex, had before his recess wearied proved ' ; meaning nothing more than his readers. 35 — Britons, erect and exalt yourselves to The next year (1713), in which Cato the approbation of public virtue. Ad- came upon the stage, was the grand dison was frighted, lest he should be climacteric of Addison's reputation, thought a promoter of insurrection, and Upon the death of Cato he had, as is said, the line was liquidated to ' Britons, at- planned a tragedy in the time of his 40 tend.' travels, and had for several years the Now ' heavily in clouds came on the four first acts finished, which were shown day, the great, the important day,' when to such as were likely to spread their Addison was to stand the hazard of the admiration. They were seen by Pope theater. That there might, however, be and by Gibber, who relates that Steele, 45 left as little hazard as was possible, on when he took back the copy, told him, the first night Steele, as himself relates, in the despicable cant of literary modesty, undertook to pack an audience. ' This,' that, whatever spirit his friend had shown says Pope, ' had been tried for the first in the composition, he doubted whether time in favor of The Distressed Mother; he would have courage sufficient to ex- So and was now, with more efficacy, prac- pose it to the censure of a British audi- tised for Cato.' The danger was soon ence. The time, however, was now come over. The whole nation was at that time when those who affected to think liberty on fire with faction. The whigs ap- in danger affected likewise to think that plauded every line in which liberty was a stage'-play might preserve it; and Addi- 55 mentioned, as a satire on the tories ; son was importuned, in the name of the and the tories echoed every clap, to tutelarv deities of Britain, to show his show that the satire was unfelt. The 412 SAMUEL JOHNSON story of Bolingbroke is well known; he officiousness to himself, informed Dennis called Booth to his box, and gave him by Steele that he was sorry for the insult ; fifty guineas for defending the cause of and that, whenever he should think fit liberty so well against a perpetual die- to answer his remarks, he would do it tator. ' The whigs,' says Pope, ' design ■; in a manner to which nothing could be a second present, when they can accom- objected. pany it with as good a sentence.' The greatest weakness of the play is The play, supported thus by the emula- in the scenes of love, which are said by tion of factious praise, was acted night Pope to have been added to the original after night for a longer time than, I be- lo plan upon a subsequent review, in com- lieve, the public had allowed to any pliance with the popular practice of the drama before; and the author, as Mrs. stage. Such an authority it is hard to Porter long afterwards related, wandered reject; yet the love is so intimately through the whole exhibition behind the mingled with the whole action that it scenes with restless and unappeasable is cannot easily be thought extrinsic and solicitude. When it was printed, notice adventitious; for if it were taken away, was given that the Queen would be what would be left? Or how were the pleased if it was dedicated to her; 'but four acts filled in the first draft? At as he had designed that compliment else- the publication the wits seemed proud where, he found himself obliged,' says 20 to pay their attendance with encomiastic Tickell, ' by his duty on the one hand, verses. The best are from an unknown and his honor on the other, to send it hand, which will perhaps lose somewhat into the world without any dedication.' of their praise when the author is known Human happiness has always its abate- to be Jeffreys, ments; the brightest sunshine of success ^^ Cato had yet other honors. It was is not without a cloud. No sooner was censured as a party-play by a scholar of Cato offered to the reader than it was Oxford; and defended in a favorable ex- attacked by the acute malignity of Den- amination by Dr. Sewel. It was trans- nis with all the violence of angry criti- lated by Salvini into Italian, and acted cism. Dennis, though equally zealous, 30 at Florence ; and by the Jesuits of St. and probably by his temper more furious Omer's into Latin, and played by their than Addison, for what they called pupils. Of this version a copy was sent liberty, and though a flatterer of the to Mr. Addison : it is to be wished that Whig Ministry, could not sit quiet at a it could be found, for the sake of com- successful play; but was eager to tell 35 paring their version of the soliloquy with friends and enemies that they had mis- that of Bland. placed their admirations. The world was A tragedy was written on the same too stubborn for instruction; with the subject by Des Champs, a French poet, fate of the censurer of Corneille's Cid, which was translated with a criticism on his animadversions showed his anger 40 the English play. But the translator and without effect, and Cato continued to be the critic are now forgotten, praised. Dennis lived on unanswered, and there- Pope had now an opportunity of court- fore little read. Addison knew the policy ing the friendship of Addison by vilify- of literature too well to make his enemy ing his old enemy, and could give resent- ^^ important by drawing the attention of the ment its full play without appearing to public upon a criticism which, though revenge himself. He therefore published sometimes intemperate, was often irref- A Narrative of the Madness of John Den- ragable. nis: a performance which left the ob- While Cato was upon the stage, an- jections to the play in their full force, 5° other daily paper, called The Guardian, and therefore discovered more desire of was published by Steele. To this Addi- vexing the critic than of defending the son gave great assistance, whether occa- poet. sionally or by previous engagement is not Addison, who was no stranger to the known. The character of Guardian was world, probably saw the selfishness of 55 too narrow and too serious: it might Pope's friendship; and, resolving that properly enough admit both the duties he should have the consequences of his and the decencies of life, but seemed not LIFE OF ADDISON 413 to include literary speculations, and was moted. That it should have been ill in some degree violated by merriment received would raise wonder, did we not and burlesque. What had the Guardian daily see the capricious distribution of of the Lizards to do with clubs of tall or theatrical praise. of little men, with nests of ants, or with 5 He was not all this time an indifferent Strada's prolusions? Of this paper noth- spectator of public affairs. He wrote, as ing is necessary to be said but that it different exigences required (in 1707). found many contributors, and that it was The present State of the War, and the a continuation of The Spectator, with the Necessity of an Augmentation; which, same elegance and the same variety, till 10 however judicious, being written on some unlucky sparkle from a tory paper temporary topics, and exhibiting no pe- set Steele's politics on fire, and wit at culiar powers, laid hold on no attention, once blazed into faction. He was soon and has naturally sunk by its own weight too hot for neutral topics, and quitted into neglect. This cannot be said of the The Guardian to write The Englishman, is few papers entitled The Whig Examiner, The papers of Addison are marked in in which is employed all the force of gay The Spectator by one of the letters in malevolence and humorous satire. Of the name of Clio, and in The Guardian this paper, which just appeared and ex- by a hand; whether it was, as Tickell pired. Swift remarks, with exultation, that pretends to think, that he was unwilling 20 ' it is now down among the dead men.' to usurp the praise of others, or as He might well rejoice at the death of that Steele, with far greater likelihood, in- which he could not have killed. Every sinuates, that he could not without dis- reader of every party, since personal content impart to Others any of his own. malice is past, and the papers which once I have heard that his avidity did not ^5 inflamed the nation are read only as satisfy itself with the air of renown, but effusions of wit, must wish for more of that with great eagerness he laid hold on the Whig Examiners ; for on no occa- his proportion of the profits. sion was the genius of Addison more Many of these papers were written vigorously exerted, and on none did the with powers truly comic, with nice dis- 3° superiority of his powers more evidently crimination of characters, and accurate appear. His Trial of Count Tariff, writ- observation of natural or accidental devi- ten to expose the treaty of commerce with ations from propriety; but it was not France, lived no longer than the question supposed that he had tried a comedy on that produced it. the stage, till Steele after his death de- 35 Not long afterwards an attempt was clared him the author of The Drummer, made to revive The Spectator, at a time This, however, Steele did not know to be indeed by no means favorable to litera- true by any direct testimony, for when ture, when the succession of a new family Addison put the play into his hands, he to the throne filled the nation with an- only told him it was the work of a 40 xiety, discord, and confusion ; and either ' gentleman in the company,' and when the turbulence of the times, or the satiety it was received, as is confessed, with cold of the readers, put a stop to the publica- disapprobation, he was probably less tion after an experiment of eighty num- willing to claim it. Tickell omitted it bers, which were afterwards collected in his collection ; but the testimony of 'fi into an eighth volume, perhaps more Steele, and the total silence of any other valuable than any of those that went be- claimant, has determined the public to fore it. Addison produced more than a assign it to Addison, and it is now printed fourth part; and the other contributors with his other poetry. Steele carried The are by no means unworthy of appearing Drummer to the play-house, and after- 5o as his associates. The time that had wards to the press, and sold the copy for passed during the suspension of The fifty guineas. Spectator, though it had not lessened his To the opinion of Steele may be added power of humor, seems to have increased the proof supplied by the play itself, of his disposition to seriousness: the pro- which the characters are such as Addi- 55 portion of his religious to his comic son would have delineated, and the tend- papers is greater than in the former ency such as Addison would have pro- series. 414 SAMUEL JOHNSON The Spectator, from its re-commence- And Oldmixon delights to tell of some meat, was published only three times a alderman of London that he had more week; and no discriminative marks were money than the exiled princes; but that added to the papers. To Addison, Tickell which might be expected from Milton's has ascribed twenty-three. The Specta- s savageness, or Oldmixon's meanness, was tor had many contributors; and Steele, not suitable to the delicacy of Addison, whose negligence kept him always in a Steele thought the humor of The Frcc- hurry, when it was his turn to furnish holder too nice and gentle for such noisy a ])aper, called loudly for the letters, of times, and is reported to have said that which Addison, whose materials were lo the ministry made use of a lute, when more, made little use — having recourse they should have called for a trumpet, to sketches and hints, the product of his This year (1716) he married the former studies, which he now reviewed Countess Dowager of Warwick, whom he and completed: among these are named had solicited by a very long and anxious by Tickell the Essays on Wit, those on is courtship, perhaps with behavior not very the Pleasures of the Imagination, and the unlike that of Sir Roger to his disdain- Criticism on Milton. ful widow; and who, I am afraid, di- When the House of Hanover took verted herself often by playing with his possession of the throne, it was reason- passion. He is said to have first known able to expect that the zeal of Addison 20 her by becoming tutor to her son. ' He would be suitably rewarded. Before the formed,' said Tonson, ' the design of arrival of King George, he was made getting that lady from the time when secretary to the Regency, and was re- he was first recommended into the fam- quired by his office to send notice to Han- ily.' In what part of his life he obtained over that the Queen was dead, and that 23 the recommendation, or how long, and in the throne was vacant. To do this would what manner he lived in the family, I not have been difficult to any man but know not. His advances at first were Addison, who was so overwhelmed with certainly timorous, but grew bolder as the greatness of the event, and so dis- his reputation and influence increased ; tracted by choice of expression, that the v till at last the lady was persuaded to lords, who could not wait for the niceties marry him, on terms much like those of criticism, called Mr. Southwell, a clerk on which a Turkish princess is espoused, in the House, and ordered him to de- to whom the Sultan is reported to pro- spatch the message. Southwell readily nounce, ' Daughter, I give thee this man told what was necessary in the common 35 for thy slave.' The marriage, if uncon- style of business, and valued himself upon tradicted report can be credited, made no having done what was too hard for Addi- addition to his happiness ; it neither found son. He was better qualified for The them nor made them equal. She always Freeholder, a paper which he published remembered her own rank, and thought twice a week, from December 23, 1715, to 40 herself entitled to treat with very little the middle of the next year. This was ceremony the tutor of her son. Rowe's undertaken in defense of the established ballad of The Despairing Shepherd is Government, sometimes with argument, said to have been written, either before and sometimes with mirth. In argument or after marriage, upon this memorable he had many equals; but his humor was 45 pair; and it is certain that Addison has singular and matchless. Bigotry itself left behind him no encouragement for must be delighted with the Tory Fox- ambitious love. hunter. There are, however, some The year after (1717) he rose to his strokes less elegant and less decent ; such highest elevation, being made secretary as the Pretender's Journal, in which one ^o of state. For this employment he might topic of ridicule is his poverty. This be justly supposed qualified by long mode of abuse had been employed by practice of business, and by his regular Milton against King Charles II. ascent through other offices; but expecta- Tacoboei tion is often disappointed; it is univer- Centum exulantis viscera marsuppi regis. ^^ sally confessed that he was unequal to [A hundred Jacobuses, dregs of the the duties of his place. In the House purse of an exiled king.] of Commons he could not speak, and LIFE OF ADDISON 415 therefore was useless to the defense of son. It came too late to be of use, so I the government. ' In the office,' says inspected it but slightly, and remember Pope, ' he could not issue an order with- it indistinctly. I thought the passages too out losing his time in quest of fine ex- short. Addison, however, did not con- pressions.' What he gained in rank he 5 elude his life in peaceful studies, but re- lost in credit; and finding by experience lapsed, when he was near his end, to a his own inability, was forced to solicit political dispute. his dismission, with a pension of fifteen It so happened that (1718-19) a con- hundred pounds a year. His friends pal- troversy was agitated with great vehe- liated this relinquishment, of which both 10 mence between those friends of long con- friends and enemies knew the true rea- tinuance, Addison and Steele. It may be son, with an account of declining health, asked, in the language of Homer, what and the necessity of recess and quiet, power or what cause could set them at He now returned to his vocation, and variance. The subject of their dispute began to plan literary occupations for his 15 was of great importance. The Earl of future life. He purposed a tragedy on Sunderland proposed an act called The the death of Socrates, a story of which, Peerage Bill ; by which the number of as Tickell remarks, the basis is narrow, peers should be fixed, and the king re- and to which I know not how love could strained from any new creation of have been appended. There would, how- 20 nobility, unless when an old family ever, have been no want either of virtue should be extinct. To this the lords in the sentiments, or elegance in the would naturally agree; and the king, who language. He engaged in a nobler work, was yet little acquainted with his own a Defense of the Christian Religion, of prerogative, and, as is now well known, which part was published after his death ; ^'' almost indifferent to the possessions of the and he designed to have made a new crown, had been persuaded to consent, poetical version of the Psalms. The only difficulty was found among the These pious compositions Pope imputed commons, who were not likely to ap- to a selfish motive, upon the credit, as 'prove the perpetual exclusion of them- he owns, of Tonson ; who, having quar- 3o selves and their posterity. The bill, reled with Addison, and not loving him, therefore, was eagerly opposed, and, said that when he laid down the secre- among others, by Sir Robert Walpole, tary's office he intended to take orders whose speech was published. and obtain a bishopric; 'for,' said he. The lords might think their dignity ' I always thought him a priest in his 35 diminished by improper advancements, heart.' and particularly by the introduction of That Pope should have thought this twelve new peers at once, to produce a conjecture of Tonson worth remcni- majority of tories in the last reign : an brance, is a proof — but indeed, so far act of authority violent enough, yet cer- as I have found, the only proof — that -i^tainly legal, and by no means to be com- he retained some malignity from their pared with that contempt of national ancient rivalry. Tonson pretended but to right with which some time afterwards, guess it ; no other mortal ever suspected by the instigation of whiggism, the corn- it ; and Pope might have reflected that a mons. chosen by the people for three man who had been secretary of state in 45 years, chose themselves for seven. But, the ministry of Sunderland knew a nearer whatever might be the disposition of the way to a bishopric than by defending re- lords, the people had no wish to increase ligion or translating the Psalms. their power. The tendency of the bill, as It is related that he had once a design Steele observed in a letter to the Earl of to make an English Dictionary, and that ^° Oxford, was to introduce an aristocracy: he considered Dr. Tillotson as" the writer for a majority in the House of Lords, so of highest authority. There was for- limited, would have been despotic and merly sent to me by Mr. Locker, clerk irresistible. of the Leathersellers' Company, who was To prevent this subversion of the an- eminent for curiosity and literature, a ^'^ cicnt establishment, Steele, whose pen collection of examples selected from Til- readily seconded his political passions, lotson's works, as Locker said, by Addi- endeavored to alarm the nation by a 4i6 SAMUEL JOHNSON pamphlet called The Plebeian. To this The delicate features of the mind, the an answer was published by Addison, nice discriminations of character, and the under the title of 7'lie Old PVhig, in minute peculiarities of conduct, are soon which it is not discovered that Steele ol)litcratcd; and it is surely better that was then known to be the advocate for 5 caprice, obstinacy, frolic, and folly, how- the commons. Steele replied by a second ever they mis'lit delight in the description. Plebeian; and, whether by ignorance or should be silently forgotten, than that, by l)y courtesy, confined himself to his ques- wanton merriment and unseasonable de- tion, without any personal notice of his tcction, a pang should be given to a opponent. Nothing hitherto was com- 10 widow, a daughter, a brother, or a friend, niitted against the laws of friendship or As the process of these narratives is now proprieties of decency; but controvertists bringing me among my contemporaries, I caimot long retain their kindness for each begin to feel myself ' walking upon ashes other. The Old Whig answered The under which the fire is not extinguished,' Plebeian, and could not forbear some is and coming to the time of which it will contempt of ' little Dicky, whose trade be proper rather to say ' nothing that is it was to write pamphlets.' Dicky, how- false, than all that is true.' ever, did not lose his settled veneration The end of this useful life was now ap- for his friend, but contented himself with proaching. Addison had for some time quoting some lines of Cato, which were 20 been oppressed by shortness of breath, at once detection and reproof. The bill which was now aggravated by a dropsy; was laid aside during that session, and and, finding his danger pressing, he pre- Addison died before the next, in which pared to die comformably to his own its commitment was rejected by two hun- precepts and professions. During this dred and sixty-five to one hundred and ^^ lingering decay, he sent, as Pope relates, seventy-seven. a message by the Earl of Warwick to Every reader surely must regret that Mr. Gay, desiring to see him. Gay, who these two illustrious friends, after so had not visited him for some time before, many years passed in confidence and en- obeyed the summons, and found himself dearment, in unity of interest, conform- 30 received with great kindness. The pur- ity of opinion, and fellowship of study, pose for which the interview had been should finally part in acrimonious opposi- solicited was then discovered. Addison tion. Such a controversy was belluni told him that he had injured him; but plusquam civile [worse than civil war], that, if he recovered, he would recom- as Lucan expresses it. Why could not 35 pense him. What the injury was he did faction find other advocates? But among not explain, nor did Gay ever know; but the uncertainties of the human state, we supposed that some preferment designed are doomed to number the instability of for him had, by Addison's intervention, friendship. Of this dispute I have little been withheld. knowledge but from the Biographia Bri- 40 Lord Warwick was a young man, of tannica. The Old Whig is not inserted very irregular life, and perhaps of loose in Addison's works; nor is it mentioned opinions. Addison, for whom he did not by Tickell in his Life; why it was want respect, had very diligently en- omitted, the biographers doubtless give deavored to reclaim him, but his argu- the true reason: the fact was too recent, 45 mcnts and expostulations had no effect, and those who had been heated in the One experiment, however, remained to I^e contention were not yet cool. tried; when he found his life near its end. The necessity of complying with times, he directed the young lord to be called, and of sparing persons, is the great im- and when he desired with great tender- pediment of biography. History may be 50 ncss to hear his last injunctions, told him, formed from permanent monuments and ' I have sent for you that you may see records; but lives can only be written how a Christian can die.' What effect from personal knowledge, which is grow- this awful scene had on the earl, I know- ing every day less, and in a short time not; he likewise died himself in a short is lost for ever. What is known can ss time. seldom be immediately told; and when it In Tickell's excellent Elegy on his might be told, it is no longer known. friend are these lines: — LIFE OF ADDISON 417 He taught us how to live; and, oh! too died at forty-seven, after having not only high stood long in the highest rank of wit and "The price of knowledge, taught us how to literature, but filled one of the most im- die — portant ofifices of state. 5 The time in w^hich he lived had reason in which he alludes, as he told Dr. to lament his obstinacy of silence; 'for Young, to this moving interview. he was,' says Steele, ' above all men in Having given directions to Mr. Tickell that talent called humor, and enjoyed it for the publication of his works, and in such perfection that I have often re- dedicated them on his death-bed to his 10 fleeted, after a night spent with him apart friend Mr. Craggs, he died June 17, 1719, from all the world, that I had had the at Holland House, leaving no child but pleasure of conversing with an intimate a daughter. acquaintance of Terence and Catullus, Of his virtue it is a sufificient testimony who had all their wit and nature, height- that the resentment of party has trans- 15 cned with humor more exquisite and mitted no charge of any crime. He was delightful than any other man ever pos- not one of those who are praised only sessed.' This is the fondness of a friend ; after death; for his merit was so gen- let us hear what is told us by a rival, erally acknowledged that Swift, ha\ing 'Addison's conversation,' says Pope, 'had observed that his election passed without 20 something in it more charming than I a contest, adds that if he had proposed have found in any other man. But this himself for king he would hardly have was only when familiar: before strangers, been refused. His zeal for his party did or perhaps a single stranger, he preserved not extinguish his kindness for the merit his dignity by a stiff silence.' This of his opponents; when he was secretary 25 niodesty was by no means inconsistent in Ireland, he refused to intermit his ac- with a very high opinion of his own quaintance with Swift. Of his habits or merit. He demanded to be the first name external manners, nothing is so often in modern wit; and, with Steele to echo mentioned as that timorous or sullen him, used to depreciate Dryden, whom taciturnity, which his friends called 3° Pope and Congreve defended against modesty by too mild a name. Steele them. There is no reason to doubt that mentions with great tenderness ' that re- he suffered too much pain from the prev- markable bashfulness which is a cloak alence of Pope's poetical reputation ; nor that hides and muffles merit ' ; and tells is it without strong reason suspected that us that his abilities were covered only 3S Ijy some disingenuous acts he endeavored by modesty, which doubles the beauties to obstruct it ; Pope was not the only man which are seen, and gives credit and whom he insidiously injured, though the esteem to all that are concealed.' Ches- only man of whom he could be afraid, terfield affirms that ' Addison was the His own powers were such as might have most timorous and awkward man that he 4° satisfied him with conscious excellence, ever saw.' And Addison, speaking of his Of very extensive learning he has indeed own deficience in conversation used to say given no proofs. He seems to have had of himself that, with respect to intellec- small acquaintance with the sciences, and tual wealth, ' he could draw bills for a to have read little except Latin and thousand pounds, though he had not a 45 French ; but of the Latin poets his Dia- guinea in his pocket.' That he wanted logiies on Medals show that he had current coin for ready payment, and by perused the works with great diligence that want was often obstructed and dis- and skill. The abundance of his own tressed; that he was oppressed by an im- mind left him little need of adventitious proper and ungraceful timidity, every 5° sentiments ; his wit always could suggest testimony concurs to prove; but Chester- what the occasion demanded. He had field's representation is doubtless hyper- read with critical eyes the important bolical. That man cannot be supposed volume of human life, and knew the heart very unexpert in the arts of conversation of man, from the depths of stratagem to and practice of life who, without fortune ^5 the surface of affectation. What he or alliance, by his usefulness and dex- knew he could easily communicate, terity became secretary of state, and who ' This,' says Steele, ' was particular in 27 4i8 SAMUEL JOHNSON this writer — that when he had taken his and l)ashfuhiess for confidence. It is not resolution, or made his plan for what he unlikely that Addison was first seduced designed to write, he would walk aI)out a to excess l)y the manumission which he room and dictate it into language with as obtained from the servile timidity of his much freedom and ease as any one could s sober hours. He that feels oppression write it down, and attend to the coher- from the presence of those to whom he ence and grammar of what he dictated.' knows himself superior will desire to set Pope, who can be less suspected of loose his powers of conversation ; and favoring his memory, declares that he who that ever asked succors from Bac- wrote very fluently, but was slow and lo cluis was able to preserve himself from scrupulous in correcting; that many of being enslaved by his auxiliary? his Spectators were written very fast, and Among those friends it was that Ad- sent immediately to the press; and that it dison displayed the elegance of his col- seemed to be for his advantage not to loquial accomplishments, which may have time for much revisal. ' He would is easily be supposed such as Pope repre- altcr,' says Pope, ' anything to please his sents them. The remark of Mandeville, friends before publication, but would not who, when he had passed an evening in re-touch his pieces afterwards; and I be- his company, declared that he was a par- lieve not one word in Goto to which I son in a tye-wig, can detract little from made an objection was suffered to stand.' 20 his character; he was always reserved to The last line of Cato is Pope's, having strangers, and was not incited to uncom- been originally written — mon freedom by a character like that of Alandeville. And oh! 'twas this that ended Cato's life. From any minute knowledge of his 2S familiar manners the intervention of sixty Pope might have made more oljjections years has now debarred us. Steele once to the six concluding lines. In the first promised Congreve and the public a couplet the words 'from hence' are im- comj^lete description of his character; but proper; and the second line is taken from the ])romises of authors are like the vows Dryden's Virgil. Of the next couplet, 30 of lovers. Steele thought no more on the first verse, being included in the sec- his design, or thought on it with anxiety ond, is therefore useless; and in the third that at last disgusted him, and left his Discord is made to produce Strife. friend in the hands of Tickell. Of the course of Addison's familiar One slight lineament of his character day, before his marriage. Pope has given 3s Swift has preserved. It was his practice, a detail. He had in the house with him when he found any man invincibly wrong, Budgell, and perhaps Philips. Plis chief to flatter his opinions by acquiescence, companions were Steele, Budgell, Phil- and sink him yet deeper in absurdity, ips, Carey, Davenant, and Colonel Brett. This artifice of mischief was admired by With one or other of these he always 40 Stella ; and Swift seems to approve her breakfasted. He studied all morning; admiration. His works will supply some then dined at a tavern; and went after- information. It appears from his va- wards to Button's. rious pictures of tiie world, that, with Button had been a servant in the all his bashfulness, he had conversed with Countess of Warwick's family, who, un- 4S many distinct classes of men, had sur- der the patronage of Addison, kept a veyed their ways with very diligent ob- coffee-house on the south side of Rus- servation, and marked with great acute- sell Street, about two doors from Covent ness the effects of different modes of Garden. Here it was that the wits of life. He was a man in whose presence that time used to assemble. It is said ^o nothing reprehensible was out of danger; when Addison had suffered any vexation quick in discerning whatever was wrong from the countess, he withdrew the com- or ridiculous, and not unwilling to expose pany from Button's house. P'rom the it. ' There are,' says Steele, ' in his writ- coffee-house he went again to a tavern, ings many oblique strokes upon some of where he often sat late, and drank too -'-, the wittiest men of the age.' His de- much wine. In the bottle discontent light was more to excite merriment than seeks for comfort, cowardice for courage, detestation; and he detects follies rather LIFE OF ADDISON 419 than crimes. If any judgment be made copies life with so much fidelity that he from his books of his moral character, can be hardly said to invent ; yet his nothing will be found but purity and ex- exhibitions have an air so much original, cellence. Knowledge of mankind, in- that it is difficult to suppose them not deed, less extensive than that of Addison, 5 merely the product of imagination, will show that to write, and to live, are As a teacher of wisdom, he may be very different. Many who praise virtue, confidently followed. His religion has do no more than praise it. Yet it is rea- nothing in it enthusiastic or superstitious : sonable to believe that Addison's profes- he appears neither weakly credulous nor sions and practice were at no great va- 10 wantonly sceptical; his morality is riance, since amidst that storm of faction neither dangerously lax nor impracticably in which most of his life was passed, rigid. All the enchantment of fancy, though his station made him conspicu- and all the cogency of argument, are ous, and his activity made him formid- employed to recommend to the reader his able, the character given him by his 15 real interest, the care of pleasing the friends was never contradicted by his author of his being. Truth is shown enemies. Of those with whom interest sometimes as the phantom of a vision ; or opinion united him he had not only sometimes appears half-veiled in an alle- the esteem, but the kindness; and of gory; sometimes attracts regard in the others whom the violence of opposition 20 robes of fancy ; and sometimes steps forth drove against him, though he might lose in the confidence of reason. She wears the love, he retained the reverence. a thousand dresses, and in all is pleasing. It is justly observed by Tickell that he employed wit on the side of virtue and Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet. religion. He not only made the proper ^5 use of wit himself, but taught it to His prose is the model of the middle others; and from his time it has been style; on grave subjects not formal, on generally subservient to the cause of rea- light occasions not groveling; pure with- son and of truth. He has dissipated the out scrupulosity, and exact without ap- prejudice that had long connected gaiety 30 parent elaboration ; always equable, and with vice, and easiness of manners with always easy, without glowing words or laxity of principles. He has restored pointed sentences. Addison never devi- virtue to its dignity, and taught innocence ates from his track to snatch a grace ; not to be ashamed. This is an elevation he seeks no ambitious ornaments, and of literary character ' above all Greek, 35 tries no hazardous innovations. His above all Roman fame.' No greater fe- page is always luminous, but never licity can genius attain than that of hav- blazes in unexpected splendor, ing purified intellectual pleasure, sep- It was apparently his principal en- arated mirth from ind cency, and wit deavor to avoid all harshness and severity from licentiousness ; of having taught a 40 of diction ; he is therefore sometimes succession of writers to bring elegance verbose in his transitions and connec- and gaiety to the aid of goodness; and, tions, and sometimes descends too much if I may use expressions yet more to the language of conversation; yet if awful, of having ' turned many to right- his language had been less idiomatical eousness.' 45 it might have lost somewhat of its gen- * * * nine Anglicism. What he attempted, he As a describer of life and manners, performed; he is never feeble, and he did he must be allowed to stand perhaps the not wish to be energetic ; he is never first of the first rank. His humor, which, rapid, and he never stagnates. His sen- as Steele observes, is peculiar to him- 5o tences have neither studied amplitude nor self, is so happily diffused as to give the afifected brevity; his periods, though not grace of novelty to domestic scenes and diligently rounded, are voluble and easy, daily occurrences. He never ' outsteps Whoever wishes to attain an English the modesty of nature,' nor raises mer- style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant riment or wonder by the violation of ^"^ but not ostentatious, must give his days truth. His figures never divert by dis- and nights to the volumes of Addison. tortion nor amaze by aggravation. He (178O 420 SAMUEL JOHNSON LETTERS impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical as- To the Right Honorable the Earl of perity not to confess obligations where no Chesterfield benefit has been received, or to be un- February 7, 1755. 5 willing that the public should consider My Lord: me as owing that to a patron, which I have lately been informed by the Providence has enabled me to do for proprietor of Tlic World, that two papers, myself. in which my Dictionary is recommended Having carried on my w^ork thus far to the public, were written by your lord- 10 with so little obligation to any favorer of ship. To be so distinguished is an honor learning, I shall not be disappointed which, being very little accustomed to though I should conclude it, if less be favors from the great, I know not well possible, with less; for I have been long how to receive, or in what terms to ac- wakened from that dream of hope, in knowledge. 15 which I once boasted myself with so When, upon some slight encourage- much exultation, ment, I first visited your lordship, I was My Lord, overpowered, like the rest of mankind. Your Lordship's most humble, by the enchantment of your address; and Most obedient servant, I could not forbear to wish that 1 might 20 Sam. Johnson. boast myself ' Le vainqucur dii vainqiicur dc la tcrre' [conqueror of the conqueror Mr. James Macpherson : of the earth] ; that I might obtain that I received your foolish and impudent regard for which I saw the world con- letter. Any violence offered me 1 shall tending; but I found my attendance so ^5 do my best to repel; and what I cannot little encouraged, that neither pride nor do for myself the law shall do for me. modesty would suffer me to continue it. 1 hope I shall never be deterred from When I had once addressed your lordship detecting what I think a cheat, by the in public, I had exhausted all the art menaces of a ruffian, of pleasing which a retired and un- 30 What would you have me retract ?_ I courtly scholar can possess. I had done thought your book an imposture; I think all that I could; and no man is well it an imposture still. For this opinion pleased to have his all neglected, be it I have given my reasons to the public, ever so little. which I here dare you to refute. Your Seven years, my lord, have now passed, 35 rage I defy. Your abilities, since your since I waited in your outward rooms, Homer, are not so formidable ; and what I or was repulsed from your door; during hear of your morals, inclines me to pay re- which time I have been pushing on my gard not to what you shall say, but to work through difficulties, of which it is what you shall prove. You may prmt useless to complain, and have brought it ^o this if you will. at last to the verge of publication, with- Sam. Johnson. out one act of assistance, one word of (i775) encouragement, or one smile of favor. Such treatment I did not expect, for I To the Reverend Dr. Taylor, Ashbourne, never had a patron before. 4S Derbyshire The shepherd in Virgil grew at last Dear Sir: acquainted with Love, and found him a What can be the reason that I hear native of the rocks. nothing from you? I hope nothing dis- Is not a patron, my lord, one who ables you from writing. What I have looks with unconcern on a man strug- 50 seen, and what I have felt, gives me rea- gling for life in the water, and, when son to fear everything. Do not omit he has reached ground, encumbers him giving me the comfort of knowing, that with help? The notice which you have after all my losses I have yet a friend been pleased to take of mv labors, had it left. been early, had been kind; but it has been S5 I want every comfort. My life is very delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot solitary and very cheerless. Though it enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot has pleased God wonderfully to deliver I THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES 421 me from the dropsy, I am yet very weak, and have not passed the door since the 13th of December. I hope for some help from warm weather, which will surely come in time. I could not have the consent of physicians to go to church yesterday ; I therefore received the holy sacrament at home, in the room where I conmumi- cated with dear Mrs. Williams, a little before her death. O ! my friend, the ap- proach of death is very dreadful. I am afraid to think on that which I know I cannot avoid. It is vain to look round and round for that help which cannot be had. Yet we hope and hope, and fancy that he who has lived to-day may live to-morrow. But let us learn to derive our hope only from God. In the meantime let us be kind to one another. I have no friend now living but you and Mr. Hector, that was the friend of my youth. Do not neglect, dear Sir, Yours affectionately, Sam. Johnson. London, Easter Monday, April 12, 1784. 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 wavering man, betrayed by venturous pride, 'J'o tread the dreary paths without a guide; As treacherous phantoms 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 sup- pliant voice. How nations sink, by darling schemes op- pressed, When vengeance listens to the fool's re- quest. Fate wings with every wish the afflictive dart, IS Each gift of nature, and each grace of art. With fatal heat impetuous courage glows, With fatal sweetness elucution flows. Impeachment stops the speaker's powerful breath. And restless fire precipitates on death. 2° But scarce observed, the knowing and the bold. Fall in the general massacre of gold ; Wide-wasting pest ! that rages nnconfined. And crowds with crimes the records of man- kind ; For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws, 25 For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws ; Wealth heaped on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys. The dangers gather as the treasures rise. Let history tell where rival kings com- mand. And dubious title shakes the maddened land ; 30 When statutes glean the refuse of the sword. How much more safe the vassal than the lord; Low skulks the hind beneath the rage of power. And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower, Untouched his cottage, and his slumbers sound, 35 Though confiscation's vultures hover round. * * * In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand, Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand : To him the church, the realm, their powers consign ; Through him the rays of regal bounty shine : Turned by his nod the stream of honor flows, 41 His smile alone security bestows : Still to new heights his restless wishes tower ; Claim leads to claim, and power advances power ; Till conquest unresisted ceased to please. 4.=; And rights submitted, left him none 10 seize. At length his sovereign frowns — the train of state Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate: Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye. His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; 50 Now drops at once the pride of awful state, The golden canopy, the glittering plate, The regal palace, the luxurious board. The liveried army, and the menial lord. 422 SAMUEL JOHNSON With age, with cares, with maladies op- pressed, 5 5 He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings, And his last sighs reproach the failh of kings. Speak thou, whose thoughts at huml)le peace repine, Shall Wolsey's wealth, with Wolsey's end be thine ? 60 Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride con- tent, The wisest Justice on the banks of Trent? For why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate, On weak foundations raise the enormous weight ? 64 Why, but to sink beneath misfortune's blow. With louder ruin to the gulfs below. On what foundations stands the warrior's pride. How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles de- cide; A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, No dangers fright him, and no Tabors tire; O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide do- main, 71 Unconquercd lord of pleasure and of pain. No joys to him pacific scepters yield. War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; Behold surrounding kings their power com- bine, 75 And one capitulate, and one resign ; Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain ; ' Think nothing gained,' he cries, ' till nought remain. On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly. And all be mine beneath the polar sky.' 80 The march begins in military state. 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 ; 85 Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day : The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands. And shews his miseries in distant lands; Condemned a needy supplicant to wait. While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 9^ But did not Chance at length the error mend ? Did no subverted empire mark his end? Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound? Or hostile millions press him to the ground? His fall was destined to a barren strand, A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 96 He left the name at which the world grew pale. To point a moral, or adorn a tale. Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find ? Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? "'o Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate. Roll 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 105 Which Fleaven may hear, nor deem Religion vain. Still raise for good the supplicating voice. But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice. Safe m his power whose eyes discern afar The secret ambush of a specious prayer; Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, "i 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 fervors for a healthful mind, Obedient passions, and a will resign'd ; i "5 For love, which scarce collective man can fill; For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill ; For faith, that, panting for a happier seat. Counts death kind Nature's signal of re- treat, i-o These goods for man the laws of Ifeav'n or- dain. These goods he grants, who grants the power to gain ; With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind, And makes the happiness she does not find. (1749) JAMES BOSWELL (1740-1795) James Boswell was the son of a Scotch hiird at Auchinleck, in Ayrshire, and was pre- pared for the bar at Edinburgh and Glasgow, lie also studied at Utrecht, later, entered the Middle Temple in Loudon, and, in 1786, was admitted to the English bar. He traveled widely, cultivated assiduously the society of famous men, and made literary stock of their conversation and correspondence. During one of his tours he ' gratified his curiosity much in dining with Jean Jacques Kousseau,' then an exile ' in the wilds of Neufchatel.' At another time, he got as far as Corsica, published an Account on his return, and, when Paoli, the Corsican patriot, took refuge in London in 177G, became his constant guest. But the acquaintance which was particularly fruitful for English literature was that with Dr. Samuel Johnson, begun in 17(33 and lasting until Johnson's death. Boswell was gifted with a high degree of curiosity, acute perception and a retentive memory, and he early formed the habit of keeping an exact journal. It is reported of him that he would ' lay down his knife and fork, and take out his tablets to record a good anecdote.' In spite of toadyism and vanity and his habit of taking notes, he had the faculty of making himself agreeable as a companion and, in 1773, Johnson got him elected to the Literary Club, thus vastly extending his opportunities for observation. The same year, the two toured the Hebrides together. During this journey Boswell allowed Johnson to read portions of his journal, and the great man acknowledged that it was 'a very exact picture of a portion of his life.' The year after Johnson's death Boswell published his Journal of a 'Tour to the Hebrides uith Dr. Johnson, and during the next few years, he brought to completion the Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. (1791). lliis remarkable hook is as vital and intimate as a masterpiece of fiction and has the additional interest that it is an authentic transcript from the life of a great and influential man of peculiar social qualities. ' the whole exhibiting,' as the title page has it, 'a view of literature and literary men in Great Britain for near half a cen- tury, during which he flourished.' From THE LIFE OF JOHNSON avowed principles, and become the tool of a government which he held to be The accession of George the Third to founded in usurpation. I have taken the throne of these kingdoms, opened care to have it in my power to refute a new and brighter prospect to men of 5 them from the most authentic informa- literary merit, who had been honored tion. Lord Bute told me that Mr. Wed- with no mark of royal favor in the pre- derburne, now Lord Loughborough, was ceding reign. His present Majesty's ed- the person who first mentioned this sub- ucation in this country, as well as his ject to him. Lord Loughborough told me taste and beneficence, proinpted him to lo that the pension was granted to Johnson be the patron of science and the arts; solely as the reward of his literary merit, and early this year, Johnson having been without any stipulation whatever, or represented to him as a very learned and even tacit understanding that he should good man, without any certain provision, write for the administration. His lord- his Majesty was pleased to grant him a i5 ship added, that he was confident the pension of three hundred pounds a year. political tracts which Johnson afterwards The Earl of Bute, who was then prime did write, as they were entirely con- minister, had the honor to announce this sonant with his own opinions, would instance of his sovereign's bounty, con- have been written by him though no pen- cerning which, many and various stories, 2° sion had been granted to him. all equally erroneous, have been propa- Mr. Thomas Sheridan and Mr. gated; maliciously representing it as a Murphy, who then lived a good deal both political bribe to Johnson, to desert his with him and Mr. W'edderburne, told me 423 424 JAMES BOSWELL that they previously talked with John- enforce obligation. You have conferred son upon this matter, and that it was favors on a man who has neither alliance perfectly understood by all parties that nor interest, who has not merited them by the pension was merely honorary. Sir services, nor courted them by officiousness ; Joshua Reynolds told me, that Johnson 5 you have spared him the shame of solicita- called on him after his Majesty's inten- lion, and the anxiety of suspense, tion had been notified to him, and said he ' What has been thus elegantly given, will, wished to consult his friends as to the I hope, be not reproachfully enjoyed; I shall propriety of his accepting this mark of endeavor to give your Lordship the only rcc- the royal favor, after the definitions lo ompcnse which generosity desires,— the which he had given in his Dictionary of gratification of finding that your benefits are 'pension' and 'pensioners.' He said "Ot improperly- bestowed. I am, my Lord, he should not have Sir Joshua's answer 'Your Lordship's most obliged, (ill next day, when he would call again, 'Most obedient, and most humble servant, and desired he might think of it. Sir 15 ' Sam Johnson.' foshua answered that he was clear to give his opinion then, that there could This year his friend. Sir Joshua Rey- be no objection to his receiving from "olds, paid a visit of some weeks to his the king a reward for literary merit; native county, Devonshire, m which he and that certainly the definitions in his 20 was accompanied by Johnson, who was Dictionary were not applicable to him. much pleased with this jaunt, and declared Johnson, it should seem, was satisfied, for he had derived from it a great accession he did not call again till he had accepted of new ideas. He was entertained at the the pension, and had waited on Lord seats of several noblemen and gentle- Bute to thank him. He then told Sir ^5 men in the west of England,^ but the Joshua that Lord Bute said to him ex- greatest part of this time was passed at pressly, ' It is not given you for any- Plymouth, where the magnificence of the thing you are to do, but what you have navy, the ship-building and all its cir- done.' His lordship, he said, behaved in cumstances, afforded him a grand the handsomest manner. He repeated the 30 subject for contemplation. The commis- words twice, that he might be sure John- sioner of the dockyard paid him the corn- son heard them, and thus set his mind phment of ordering the yacht to convey perfectly at ease. * * * him and his friend to the Eddystone, to But I shall not detain my readers which they accordingly sailed. But the longer by any words of my own, on a 35 weather was so tempestuous that they subject on which I am happily enabled, could not land. * * * by the favor of the Earl of Bute, to Sir Joshua Reynolds, to whom I was present them with what Johnson himself obliged for my information concerning wrote; his lordship having been pleased this excursion, mentions a very char- to communicate to me a copy of the fol- 40 acteristical anecdote of Johnson while at lowing letter to his father, which does Plymouth. Having observed that, in great honor both to the writer and to the consequence of the dock-yard, a new noble person to whom it is addressed: town had arisen about two miles off as a rival to the old ; and knowing, from his ' To the Right Honorable the Earl of 45 sagacity and just observation of human gyj-g nature, that it is certain, if a man hates 'July 20 1762 at all, he will hate his next neighbor, 'My Lord -When the bills were yes- ^'^ concluded that this new and rising terday delivered to me by Mr. Wedderburne. ,^^ ^^^ ^^ ^,^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^ p^^^.^.^^ .^ I was informed by him of the future favors ^° London, told me he happened to meet him. In or- which his Majesty has, by your Lordship's der to amuse him till dinner should be ready, he was recommendation, been induced to intend for taken out to walk in the garden. The master of the house, thinking it proper to introduce some- •n"' _ thing scientific into the conversation, addressed him 'Bounty always receives part of its value thus: 'Are you a botanist. Dr. Johnson?' 'No, from the manner in which it is bestowed ; 55 sir,' answered Johnson, 'I am not a botanist; your Lordship's kindness includes every cir- ^"d (alluding no doubt to his near-sightedness) •' , . ^ , ,. ■' should I wish to become a botanist, I must first cumstance that can gratify delicacy, or .y^.^^ ^lyself into a reptile.' LIFE OF JOHNSON 425 I town could not but excite the envy and him to Hve in the immense metropolis of jealousy of the old, in which conjecture London. Mr. Gentleman, a native of he was very soon confirmed ; he, there- Ireland, who passed some years in Scot- fore, set himself resolutely on the side of land as a player, and as an instructor the old town, the established town, in 5 in the English language, a man whose which his lot was cast, considering it talents and worth were depressed by as a kind of duty to stand by it. He ac- misfortunes, had given me a representa- cordingly entered warmly into its in- tion of the figure and manner of Dic- terests, and upon every occasion talked tignary Johnson ! as he was then gen- of the dockers, as the inhabitants of the "o erally called ; and during my first visit new town were called, as upstarts and to London, which was for three months aliens. Plymouth is very plentifully in 1760, Mr. Derrick, the poet, who was supplied with water by a river brought Gentleman's friend and countryman, fiat- into it from a great distance, which is tered me with hopes that he would in- so abundant that it runs to waste in the 15 troduce me to Johnson, an honor of which town. The Dock, or New-town, being I was very ambitious. But he never totally destitute of water, petitioned found an opportunity, which made me Plymouth that a small portion of the doubt that he had promised to do what conduit might be permitted to go to them, was not in his power; till Johnson, some and this was now under consideration. 20 years afterwards, told me, ' Derrick, sir, Johnson, affecting to entertain the pas- might very well have introduced you. sions of the place, was violent in oppo- I had a kindness for Derrick, and am sition; and half-laughing at himself for sorry he is dead.' his pretended zeal, where he had no con- In the summer of 1761 Mr. Thomas cern, exclaimed, ' No, no ; I am against ^5 Sheridan was at Edinburgh, and delivered the dockers; I am a Plymouth man. lectures upon the English language and Rogues ! let them die of thirst. They public speaking to large and respectable shall not have a drop ! ' audiences. I was often in his company, * * * and heard him frequently expatiate upon 1763: Aetat. 54. In 1763, he furnished 30 Johnson's extraordinary knowledge, tal- to The Poetical Calendar, published by ents, and virtues, repeat his pointed say- Fawkes and Woty, a character of Collins, ings, describe his particularities, and which he afterwards ingrafted into his en- boast of his being his guest sometimes tire life of that admirable poet, in the till two or three in the morning. At his collection of lives which he wrote for 35 house I hoped to have many opportunities the body of English poetry, formed and of seeing the sage, as Mr. Sheridan published by the booksellers of London, obligingly assured me I should not be His account of the melancholy depression disappointed. with which Collins was severely afflicted, When I returned to London in the end and which brought him to his grave, is, 40 of 1762, to my surprise and regret I I think, one of the most tender and in- found an irreconcilable difference had teresting passages in the whole series of taken place between Johnson and Sheri- his writings. * * * dan. A pension of two hundred pounds This is to me a memorable year; for a year had been given to Sheridan, in it I had the happiness to obtain the 45 Johnson, who thought slightingly of acquaintance of that extraordinary man Sheridan's art, upon hearing that he was wliose memoirs I am now writing: an also pensioned, exclaimed, 'What! have acquaintance which I shall ever esteem they given him a pension? Then it is as one of the most fortunate circum- time for me to give up mine.' Whether stances in my life. Though then but two- 50 this proceeded from a momentary indig- and-twenty, I had for several years read nation, as if it were an affront to his his works with delight and instruction, exalted merit that a player should be re- and had the highest reverence for their warded in the same manner with him, or author, which had grown up in my fancy was the sudden effect of a fit of peevish- into a kind of mysterious veneration, bySSness, it was unluckily said, and indeed figuring to myself a state of solemn, ele- cannot be justified. Mr. Sheridan's pen- vated abstraction in which I supposed sion was granted to him not as a player, 426 JAMES BOSWELL but as a sufferer in the cause of govern- Her novel, entitled Memoirs of Miss nient, when he was manager of the Sydney Biddulph, contains an excellent Theater Royal in Ireland, when parties moral while it inculcates a future state ran high in 1753. And it must also be of retribution; and what it teaches is allowed that he' was a man of literature, 5 impressed upon the mind by a scries of as and had considerably improved the arts deep distress as can affect humanity, in of reading and speaking with distinctness the amiable and pious heroine who goes and propriety. * * * to her grave unrelieved, but resigned, and lohnson complained that a man who full of hope of ' heaven's mercy.' John- disliked him repeated his sarcasm to Mr. 10 son paid her this high compliment upon Sheridan, without telling him what fol- it: 'I know not, Madam, that you have lowed, which was, that after a pause he a right, upon moral principles, to make added, ' However, I am glad that Mr. your readers suffer so much.' Sheridan has a pension, for he is a very Mr. Thomas Davies, the actor, who then good man.' Sheridan could never for- 15 kept a bookseller's shop in Russell Street, give this hasty contemptuous expression. Covent Garden, told me that Johnson was It rankled in his mind; and though I in- very much his friend, and came fre- formed him of all that Johnson said, and quently to his house, where he more than that he would be very glad to meet him once invited me to meet him; but by amicably, he positively declined repeated 2° some unlucky accident or other he was offers which I made, and once went off prevented from coming to us. Mr. abruptly from a house where he and I Thomas Davies was a man of good un- were engaged to dine, because he was derstanding and talents, with the advan- told that Dr. Johnson was to be there. tage of a liberal education. Though I have no sympathetic feeling with ^5 somewhat pompous, he was an entertain- such persevering resentment. It is pain- ing companion ; and his literary perform- ful when there is a breach between those ances have no inconsiderable share of who have lived together socially and cor- merit. He was a friendly and very hos- dially; and I wonder that there is not, pitable man. Both he and his wife, (who in all such cases, a mutual wish that it 30 has been celebrated for her beauty), should be healed. I could perceive that though upon the stage for many years, Mr. Sheridan was by no means satisfied maintained an uniform decency of char- with Johnson's acknowledging him to be acter; and Johnson esteemed them, and a good man. That could not soothe his lived in as easy an intimacy with them, injured vanity. I could not but smile, at 35 as with any family which he used to the same time that I was offended, to visit. Mr. Davies recollected several of observe Sheridan in The Life of Szvift, Johnson's remarkable sayings, and was which he afterwards published, attempt- one of the best of the many imitators of ing, in the writhings of his resentment, his voice and manner, while relating to depreciate Johnson, by characterizing 40 them. He increased my impatience more him as ' A writer of gigantic fame in and more to see the extraordinary man these days of little men ' ; that very whose works I highly valued, and whose Johnson whom he once so highly ad- conversation was reported to be so pecul- mired and venerated. This rupture with iarly excellent. Sheridan deprived Johnson of one of 4S At last, on Monday, the i6th of May, his most agreeable resources for amuse- when I was sitting in Mr. Davies's back- ment in his lonely evenings; for Sheri- parlor, after having drunk tea with him dian's well-informed, animated, and and Mrs. Davies, Johnson unexpectedly bustling mind never suffered conversation came into the shop; and Mr. Davies hav- to stagnate ; and Mrs. Sheridan was a 5o ing perceived him, through the glass- most agreeable companion to an intel- door in the room in which we were sitting, lectual man. She was sensible, ingen- advancing towards us, — he announced ious, unassuming, yet communicative. his awful approach to me, some- I recollect, with satisfaction, many what in the manner of an actor in the pleasing hours which I passed with her 55 part of Horatio, when, he addresses under the hospitable roof of her bus- Hamlet on the appearance of his father's band, who was to me a very kind friend. ghost, ' Look, my lord, it comes ! ' I LIFE OF JOHNSON 427 found that 1 had a very perfect idea of myself much mortified, and began to Johnson's figure, from the portrait of think that the hope which I had long him painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds soon indulged of obtaining his acquaintance after he had published his Dictionary, in was blasted. And, in truth, had not my the attitude of sitting in his easy chair 5 ardor been uncommonly strong, and my in deep meditation. Mr. Davies men- resolution uncommonly persevering, bO tioned my name, and respectfully intro- rough a reception might have deterred duced me to him. I was much agitated; me from ever making any further at- and recollecting his prejudice against the tempts. Fortunately, however, I re- Scotch, of which I had heard much, I 10 mained upon the field not wholly said to Davies, 'Don't tell where I come discomfited; and was soon rewarded by from.' — 'From Scotland,' cried Davies, hearing some of his conversation, of roguishly. ' Mr. Johnson,' said I, 'I do which I preserved the following short indeed come from Scotland, but I cannot minute, without remarking the questions help it.' I am willing to flatter myself 15 and observations by which it was pro- that I meant this as light pleasantry to duced. soothe and conciliate him, and not as ' People,' he remarked, ' may be taken an humiliating abasement at the expense in once, who imagine that an author is of my country. But however that might greater in private life than other men. be, this speech was somewhat unlucky ; 20 Uncommon parts require uncommon op- for with that quickness of wit for which portunities, for their exertion, he was so remarkable, he seized the ex- ' In barbarous society, superiority of pression, ' come from Scotland,' which I parts is of real consequence. Great used in the sense of being of that coun- strength or great wisdom is of much try; and, as if I had said that I had come 25 value to an individual. But in more away from it, or left it, retorted, ' That, polished times there are people to do sir, I find, is what a very great many of everything for money; and then there your countrymen cannot help.' This are a number of other superiorities, such stroke stunned me a good deal ; and when as those of birth, and fortune, and rank, we had sat down, I felt myself not a little 30 that dissipate men's attention, and leave embarrassed, and apprehensive of what no extraordinary share of respect for might come next. He then addressed personal and intellectual superiority, himself to Davies: 'What do you think This is wisely ordered by Providence, to of Garrick? He has refused me an or- preserve some equality among mankind.' der for the play for Miss Williams, be- 35 * * * cause he knows the house will be full, I was highly pleased with the ex- and that an order would be worth three traordinary vigor of his conversation, shillings.' Eager to take any opening to and regretted that I was drawn away get into conversation with him, I ven- from it by an engagement at another tured to say, ' O sir, I cannot think Mr. 40 place. I had, for a part of the evening, Garrick would grudge such a trifle to been left alone with him, and had ven- you.' ' Sir,' said he, with a stern look, tured to make an observation now and 'I have known David Garrick longer than then, which he received very civilly; so you have done ; and I know no right you that I was satisfied that, though there have to talk to me on the subject.' Per- 45 was a roughness in his manner, there haps I deserved this check ; for it was was no ill-nature in his disposition, rather presumptuous in me, an entire Davies followed me to the door, and when stranger, to express any doubt of the I complained to him a little of the hard justice of his animadversion upon his old blows which the great man had given acquaintance and pupil. ^ I now felt 50 me, he kindly took upon him to console me by saying, ' Don't be uneasy, I can 1 That this was a momentary sally against Gar- ggg ^[e likeS yOU very well.' rick there can be no doubt; for at Johnson's \ r j r. i't iij desire he had. some years before, given a benefit- A few dayS afterwards I Called On night at his theater to this very person, by which DavieS, and asked him if he thought I she had got two hundred pounds. Johnson, in- 55 deed, upon all other occasions, when I was in his Sir, tnar you attack Garrick yourself, but will suf- company, praised the very liberal charity of Car- (er nobody else to do i'^ ' Johnson (smiling), rick. I once mentioned to him, 'It is observed, ' ^V hy, Sir, that is true.' 428 JAMES BOS WELL might take the liberty of waiting on Mr. chawii up; and he had a pair of un- Johnson at his chambers in the Temple. buckled shoes by way of slippers. But He said I certainly might, and that Mr. all these slovenly particularities were for- Johnson would take it as a compliment. gotten the moment that he began to talk. So, on Tuesday, the 24th day of May, ^ Some gentlemen, whom I do not recollect, after having been enlivened by the witty were sitting with him; and when they sallies of Messieurs Thornton, Wilkes, went away, I also rose ; but he said to me, Churchill, and Lloyd, with whom I had ' Nay, don't go.' ' Sir,' said I, 'I am passed the morning, I boldly repaired to afraid that I intrude upon you. It is be- fohnson. His chambers were on the first ^° nevolent to allow me to sit and hear you.' "floor of No. I, Inner Temple-lane, and I He seemed pleased with this compliment, entered them with an impression given which I sincerely paid him, and answered, me by the Reverend Dr. Blair, of Edin- ' Sir, I am obliged to any man who visits burgh, who had been introduced to him me.' I have preserved the following not long before, and described his having i5 short minute of what passed this day: — 'found the Giant in his den'; an expres- 'Madness frequently discovers itself sion which, when I came to be pretty merely by unnecessary deviation from the well acquainted with Johnson, I repeated usual modes of the world. My poor to him, and he was diverted at this pic- friend Smart showed the disturbance of turesque account of himself. Dr. Blair 20 his mind, by falling upon his knees, and' had been presented to him by Dr. James saying his prayers in the street, or in any Fordyce. At this time the controversy other unusual place. Now although, ra- concerning the pieces published by Mr. tionally speaking, it is greater madness James Macpherson, as translations of not to pray at all, than to pray as Smart Ossian, was at its height. Johnson had ^^5 did, I am afraid there are so many who all along denied their authenticity; and, do not pray, that their understanding is what was still more provoking to their not called in question.' admirers, maintained that they had no Concerning this unfortunate poet, merit. The subject having been intro- Christopher Smart, who was confined in duced by Dr. Fordyce, Dr. Blair, relying 30 a madhouse, he had, at another time, the on the internal evidence of their antiq- following conversation with Dr. Burney. uity, asked Dr. Johnson whether he Burney: ' How does poor Smart do, sir ; thought any man of a modern age could is he likely to recover?' — Johnson: 'It have written such poems? Johnson re- seems as if his mind had ceased to strug- plied, ' Yes, sir, many men, many women, 35 gle with the disease : for he grows fat and many children.' Johnson, at this upon it.' — Burney: 'Perhaps, sir, that time, did not know that Dr. Blair had may be from want of exercise.' — John- just published a Dissertation, not only son: 'No, sir; he has partly as much defending their authenticity, but seriously exercise as he used to have, for he digs ranking them with the poems of Homer 40 in the garden. Indeed, before his con- and Virgil ; and when he was afterwards finement, he used for exercise to walk to informed of this circumstance, he ex- the ale-house; but he was. carried back pressed some displeasure at Dr. Fordyce's again, I did not think he ought to be having suggested the topic, and said, ' I shut up. His infirmities were not nox- am not sorry that they got thus much for 45 ious to society. He insisted on people their pains. Sir, it was like leading one praying with him, and I 'd as lief pray to talk of a book, when the author is con- with Kit Smart as any one else. An- cealed behind the door.' other charge was, that he did not love He received me very courteously; but clean linen; and I have no passion for it must be confessed that his apartment, 5o it.' Johnson continued : ' Mankind have and furniture, and morning dress, were a great aversion to intellectual labor; sufficiently uncouth. His brown suit of but even supposing knowledge to be clothes looked very rusty; he had on a easily attainable, more people would be little old shriveled unpowdered wig, content to be ignorant than would take which was too small for his head, his 55 even a little trouble to acquire it.' shirt-neck and knees of his breeches were ' The morality of an action depends on loose; his black worsted stockings ill the motive from which we act. If I fling LIFE OF JOHNSON 42Q half-a-crown to a beggar, with intention when I told him I had been to see John- to break his head, and he picks it up and son ride upon three horses, he said, buys victuals with it, the physical effect * Such a man, sir, should be encouraged ; is good; but, with respect to me, the ac- for his performances show the extent of tion is very wrong. So religious exer- 5 the human powers in one instance, and cises, if not performed with an intention thus tend to raise our opinion of the to please God, avail us nothing. As our faculties of man. He shows what may Saviour says of those who perform them be attained by persevering application; so from other motives, " Verily they have that every man may hope, that by giving their reward." 10 as much application, although, perhaps, ' The Christian religion has very strong he may never ride three horses at a time, evidences. It, indeed, appears in some or dance upon a wire, yet he may be degree strange to reason ; but in History equally expert in whatever profession he we have undoubted facts, against which, has chosen to pursue.' reasoning a priori, we have more argu- 15 He again shook me by the hand at ments than we have for them ; but then, parting, and asked me why I did not testimony has great weight, and casts the come oftener to him. Trusting that I balance. I would recommend to every was now in his good graces, I answered, man whose faith is yet unsettled, Grotius, that he had not given me much encour- — Dr. Pearson. — and Dr. Clarke.' 20 agement, and reminded him of the check Talking of Garrick, he said, ' He is the I had received from him at our first in- first man in the world for sprightly con- terview. ' Poh, poh ! ' said he, with a versation.' complacent smile, ' never mind these When I rose a second time, he again things. Come to me as often as you pressed me to stay, which I did. 25 can. I shall be glad to see you.' He told me, that he generally went I had learnt that his place of frequent abroad at four in the afternoon, and sel- resort was the Mitre tavern in Fleet- dom came home till two in the morning, street, where he loved to sit up late, and I took the liberty to ask if he did not I begged I might be allowed to pass an think it wrong to live thus, and not make 30 evening with him there soon, which he more use of his great talents. He owned promised I should. A few days after- it was a bad habit. On reviewing, at wards, I met him near Temple-bar about the distance of many years, my journal one o'clock in the morning, and asked of this period, I wonder how, at my first if he would then go to the Mitre. ' Sir.' visit, I ventured to talk to him so freely, 35 said he, "it is too late, they won't let and that he bore it with so much in- us in. But I '11 go with you another dulgence. night, with all my heart.' Before we parted, he was so good as A revolution of some importance in to promise to favor me with his company my plan of life had just taken place: for one evening at my lodgings; and, as 1 40 instead of procuring a commission in the took my leave, shook me cordially by the foot guards, which was my own inclina- hand. It is almost needless to add, that tion, I had, in compliance with my I felt no little elation at having now so father's wishes, agreed to study the law. happily established an acquaintance of and was soon to set out for Utrecht, to which I had been so long ambitious. 45 hear the lectures of an excellent civilian My readers will, I trust, excuse me for in that University, and then to proceed on being thus minutely circumstantial, when my travels. Though very_ desirous of ob- it is considered that the acquaintance of taining Dr. Johnson's advice and instruc- Dr. Johnson was to me a most valuable tions on the mode of pursuing my studies, acquisition, and laid the foundation of 50 I was at this time so occupied, shall I whatever instruction and entertainment call it? or so dissipated by the amuse- they may receive from my collections con- ments of London, that our next meeting cerning the great subject of the work was not till Saturday, June 25, when which they are now perusing. happening to dine at Clifton's eating- I did not visit him again till ;Monday, 55 house, in Butcher-row, I was surprised June 13, at which tinie I recollect no to perceive Johnson come in and take his part of his conversation, except, that scat at another table. The mode of i 430 JAMES BOSWELL dining, or rather being fed, at such too much, he was in danger of losing that houses in London, is well known to many degree of estimation to which he was en- to be particularly unsocial, as there is titled. His friends gave out that he in- no ordinary, or united company, but each tended his Birthday Odes should be person has his own mess, and is under 5 bad ; but that was not the case, sir; for no obligation to hold any intercourse he kept them many montlis by him, and a with any one. A liberal and full-minded few years before he died he showed me man, however, who loves to talk, will one of them, with great solicitude to break through this churlish and unsocial render it as perfect as might be, and I restraint. Johnson and an Irish gentle- 1° made some corrections, to which he was man got into a dispute concerning the not very willing to submit. I remember cause of some part of mankind being the following couplet in allusion to the black. 'Why, sir,' said Johnson, 'it has King and himself: — been accounted for in three ways : either by supposing that they are the posterity '5 Perched on the eagle's soaring wing, of Ham, who was cursed, or that God The lowly linnet loves to sing, at first created two kinds of men, one black, and another white, or that, by the Sir, he had heard something of the fab- heat of the sun, the skin is scorched, and ulous tale of the wren sitting upon the so acquires a sooty hue. This matter has ^° eagle's wing, and he had applied it to a been much canvassed among naturalists, linnet. Gibber's familiar style, however, but has never been brought to any cer- was better than that which Whitehead tain issue.' What the Irishman said is has assumed. Grand nonsense is insup- totally obliterated from my mind; but portable. Whitehead is but a little man I remember that he became very warm 25 to inscribe verses to players.' and intemperate in his expressions ; upon I did not presume to controvert this which Johnson rose, and quietly walked censure, which was tinctured with his away. When he had retired, his antago- prejudice against players; but I could nist took his revenge, as he thought by not help thinking that a dramatic poet saying, ' He has a most ungainly figure, 30 might with propriety pay a compliment and an affectation of pomposity, unworthy to an eminent performer, as Whitehead of a man of genius.' has very happily done in his verses to Johnson had not observed that I was Mr. Garrick. in the room I followed him, however, ' Sir, I do not think Gray a first-rate and he agreed to meet me in the evening 35 poet. He has not a bold imagination, at the Mitre. I called on him, and we nor much command of words. The ob- went thither at nine. We had a good scurity in which he has involved himself supper, and port wine, of which he then will not persuade us that he is sublime, sometimes drank a bottle. The orthodox His Elegy in a Churchyard has a happy high-church sound of the Mitre, — the 40 selection of images, but I don't like what figure and manner of the celebrated are called his great things. His Ode Samuel Johnson, — the extraordinary which begins power and precision of his conversation, and the pride, arising from finding myself J"'" ^eize thee ruthless Kmg, admitted as his companion, produced a 45 Confusion on thy banners wait ! variety of sensations, and a pleasing ele- vation of mind beyond what I had ever before experienced. I find in my Journal has been celebrated for its abruptness, and plunging into the subject all at once. the following minute of our conversa- But such arts as these have no merit, un- tion, which, though it will give but a 50 ^f ^ ^^e" they are origmal We admire very faint notion of what passed, is, in them only once; and this abruptness has some degree, a valuable record; and it "° ^ing new in it. We have had it often will be curious in this view, as showing before. Nay, we have it in the old song how habitual to his mind were some of Johnny Armstrong: opinions which appear in his works. 55 Is there ever a man in all Scotland, ' Colley Gibber, sir, was by no means From the highest estate to the lowest de- a blockhead, but by arrogating to himself gree, LIFE OF JOHNSON 431 And then, sir, my part, sir, I think all christians, whether papists or protestants, agree in Yes, there is a man in Westmoreland, the essential articles, and that their differ- And Johnny Armstrong they do him call, ences are trivial, and rather political than 5 religious.' There, now, you plunge at once into the We talked of belief in ghosts. He subject. You have no previous narra- said, 'Sir, I make a distinction between tion to lead you to it. The two next what a man may experience by the mere lines in that Ode are, I think, very good : strength of his imagination, ' and what , '0 imagination cannot possibly produce. Though fanned by Conquests crimson Thus, suppose I should think that I saw ~, ^'"S'' ,..,.,, „, a form, and heard a voice cry, " John- They mock the air with idle state." ^^^^ you are a very wicked fellow, and * * * unless you repent you ■ will certainly be 15 punished"; my own unworthiness is so Finding him in a placid humor, and deeply impressed upon my mind, that 1 wishing to avail myself of the opportunity might imagine I thus saw and heard, and which I fortunately had of consulting a therefore I should not believe that an ex- sage, to hear whose wisdom, I conceived, ternal communication had been made to in the ardor of youthful imagination, that 20 me. But if a form should appear, and men filled with a noble enthusiasm for a voice should tell me that a particular intellectual improvement would gladly man had died at a particular place, and have resorted from distant lands, — I a particular hour, a fact which I had opened my mind to him ingenuously, and no apprehension of, nor any means of gave him a little sketch of my life, to 25 knowing, and this fact, with all its which he was pleased to listen with great circumstances, should afterwards be un- attention. questionably proved, I should in that case I acknowledged that though educated be persuaded that I had supernatural in- very strictly in the principles of religion, telligence imparted to me.' I had for some time been misled into a 30 Here it is proper, once for all, to give certain degree of infidelity; but that I a true and fair statement of Johnson's was come now to a better way of think- way of thinking upon the question, ing, and was fully satisfied of the truth whether departed spirits are ever per- of the christian revelation, though I was mitted to appear in this world, or in any not clear as to every point considered to 3S way to operate upon human life. He has be orthodox. Being at all times a cu- been ignorantly misrepresented as weakly rious examiner of the human mind, and credulous upon that subject; and, there- pleased with an undisguised display of fore, though I feel an inclination to dis- what had passed in it, he called to me dain and treat with silent contempt so with warmth, ' Give me your hand, I 40 foolish a notion concerning my illustrious have taken a liking to you.' He then friend, yet, as I find it has gained ground, began to descant upon the force of testi- it is necessary to refute it. The real fact mony, and the little we could know of then is, that Johnson had a very philo- final causes ; so that the objections of, sophical mind, and such a rational respect 'Why was it so?' or 'Why was it not 45 for testimony, as to make him submit his so?' ought not to disturb us: adding, understanding to what was authentically that he himself had at one period been proved, though he could not comprehend guilty of a temporary neglect of religion, why it was so. Being thus disposed, he but that it was not the result of argu- was willing to inquire into the truth of ment, but mere absence of thought. 50 any relation of supernatural agency, a After having given credit to reports of general belief of which has prevailed in his bigotry, I was agreeably surprised all nations and ages. But so far was he when he expressed the following very lib- from being the dupe of implicit faith, eral sentiment, which has the additional that he examined the matter with a jeal- value of obviating an objection to our 55 ous attention, and no man was more holy religion, founded upon the discord- ready to refute its falsehood when he ant tenets of christians themselves: 'For liad discovered it. tluircliill. in his 432 JAMES BOS WELL poem entitled The Ghost, availed him- let me tell you, that to be a Scotch land- self of the absurd credulity imputed to lord, where you have a number of fanii- Johnson, and drev\^ a caricature of him lies dependent upon you, and attached to under the name of ' Poniposo,' represent- you, is, perhaps, as high a situation as ing him as one of the believers of the 5 humanity can arrive at. A merchant upon story of a ghost in Cock-lane, which, in the 'Change of London, with a hundred the year 1762, had gained very general thousand pounds, is nothing; an English credit in London. Many of my readers, Duke, with an immense fortune, is noth- I am convinced, are to this hour under ing; he has no tenants who consider them- an impression that Johnson was thus w selves as under his patriarchal care, and foolishly deceived. It will therefore sur- who will follow him to the field upon an prise them a good deal when they are in- emergency.' formed upon undoubted authority, that * * * Johnson was one of those by whom the I complained to him tliat I had not yet imposture was detected. The story had '5 acquired much knowledge, and asked his become so popular, that he thought it advice as to my studies. He said, ' Don't should be investigated; and in this re- talk of study, now. I will give you a search he was assisted by the Rev. Dr. plan; but it will require some time to Douglas, now bishop of Salisbury, the consider of it.' ' It is very good in you,' great detector of impostures ; who in- 20 I replied, ' to allow me to be with you forms me that after the gentlemen who thus. Had it been foretold to me some went and examined into the evidence years ago that I should pass an evening were satisfied of its falsity, Johnson wrote with the author of the Rambler, how in their presence an account of it, which should I have exulted ! ' What I then was published in the newspapers and 25 expressed was sincerely from my heart. Gentleman's Magazine, and undeceived He was satisfied that it was, and cordially the world. answered, ' Sir, I am glad we have met. Our conversation proceeded. ' Sir,' I hope we shall pass many evenings, and said he, ' I am a friend to subordination mornings too, together.' We finished a as most conducive to the happiness of 3o couple of bottles of port, and sat till be- society. There is a reciprocal pleasure in tw^een one and two in the morning, governing and being governed.' He wrote this year, in the Critical Re- ' Dr. Goldsmith is one of the first men view, the account of Telemachus, a we now have as an author, and he is a Mask, by the Rev. George Graham, of very worthy man too. He has been loose 35 Eton College. The subject of this beau- in his principles, but he is coming right.' tiful poem was particularly interesting I mentioned Mallet's tragedy of to Johnson, who had much experience Elvira, which had been acted the pre- of ' the conflict of opposite principles,' ceding winter at Drury-lane, and that which he describes as ' the contention be- the Honorable Andrew Erskine, Mr. 4° tween pleasure and virtue, a struggle Dempster, and myself, had joined in which will always be continued while the writing a pamphlet, entitled Critical present system of nature shall subsist; Strictures, against it. That the mildness nor can history or poetry exhibit more of Dempster's disposition had, however, than pleasure triumphing over virtue, and relented; and he had candidly said, 'We 45 virtue subjugating pleasure.' have hardly a right to abuse this tragedy, As Dr. Oliver Goldsmith will fre- for, bad as it is, how vain should either quently appear in this narrative, I shall of us be to write one not near so good ! ' endeavor to make my readers in some Johnson: 'Why, no sir; this is not just degree acquainted with his singular char- reasoning. You may abuse a tragedy, 5o acter. He was a native of Ireland, and though you cannot write one. You may a contemporary with Mr. Burke, at scold a carpenter who has made you a Trinity College, Dublin, but did not then bad table, though you cannot make a give much promise of future celebrity, table. It is not your trade to make He, however, observed to Mr. Malone, tables.' 55 that ' though he made no great figure in When I talked to him of the paternal mathematics, which was a study in much estate to which I was heir, he said, ' Sir, repute there, he could turn an Ode of LIFE OF JOHNSON 433 Horace into English better than any of wherever he was, he frequently talked them.' He afterwards studied physic in carelessly without knowledge of the sub- Edinburgh, and upon the Continent: and, ject, or even without thought. His per- I have been informed, was enabled to son was short, his countenance coarse and pursue his travels on foot, partly by de- 5 vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar manding, at Universities, to enter the lists awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman, as a disputant, by which, according to the Those who were in any way distin- custom of many of them, he was entitled guished, excited envy in him to so ridicu- to the premium of a crown, when, luckily lous an excess, that the instances of it for him, his challenge was not accepted ; 10 are hardly credible. When accompany- so that, as I once observed to Johnson, ing two beautiful young ladies,- with he disputed his passage through Europe. their mother, on a tour in France, he was He then came to England, and was em- seriously angry that more attention was ployed successively in the capacities of paid to them than to him ; and once at an usher to an academy, a corrector of 15 the exhibition of the Fantoccini in Lon- the press, a reviewer, and a writer for a don, when those who sat next to him ob- newspaper. He had sagacity enough to served with what dexterity a puppet was cultivate assiduously the acquaintance of made to toss a pike, he could not bear Johnson, and his faculties were gradually that it should have such praise, and ex- enlarged by the contemplation of such a 20 claimed, with some warmth, 'Pshaw! I model. To me and many others it ap- can do it better myself.' ^ peared that he studiously copied the man- He, I am afraid, had no settled system ner of Johnson, though, indeed, upon a of any sort, so that his conduct must not smaller scale. be strictly scrutinized ; but his affections At this time I think he had published 25 were social and generous, and when he nothing with his name, though it was had money he gave it away very liberally, pretty generally known that one Dr. His desire of imaginary consequence Goldsmith was the author of An Inquiry predominated over his attention to truth. into the present State of Polite Learning When he began to rise into notice, he in Europe, and of The Citizen of f/z^30said he had a brother who was dean of World, a series of letters supposed to be Durham, a fiction so easily detected, that written from London by a Chinese. No it is wonderful how he should have been man had the art of displaying with more so inconsiderate as to hazard it. He advantage, as a writer, whatever literary boasted to me at this time of the power acquisitions he made. Nihil quod tetigit 35 of his pen in commanding money, which non ornavit ^ [There was nothing he I believe was true in a certain degree, touched he did not adorn]. His mind re- though in the instance he gave he was sembled a fertile but thin soil. There by no means correct. He told me that was a quick, but not a strong, vegeta- he had sold a novel for four hundred tion, of whatever chanced to be thrown 40 pounds. This was his Vicar of Wake- upon it. No deep root could be struck, field. But Johnson informed me that he The oak of the forest did not grow there; had made the bargain for Goldsmith, and but the elegant shrubbery and the fra- the price was sixty pounds. ' And, sir," grant parterre appeared in gay succession, said he, ' a sufficient price too, when it It has been generally circulated and be- 45 was sold ; for then the fame of Goldsmith lieved that he was a mere fool in con- had not been elevated, as it afterwards versation ; but, in truth, this has been was, by his Traveller; and the bookseller greatly exaggerated. He had, no doubt, had such faint hopes of profit by his bar- a more than common share of that hurry gain, that he kept the manuscript by him of ideas which we often find in his 5o a long time, and did not publish it till countrymen, and which sometimes pro- after The Traveller had appeared. Then, duces a laughable confusion in express- ing them. He was very much what the ^ Miss Hornecks, one of w hom is now married to French call Un CtOUrdi. and from vanity ^^^^y Bunbury, Esq., and the other to Colonel and an eager desire of being conspicuous 55 ""He went home with Mr. Burke to supper; and broke his shin liy attemptina; to exhibit to the com- ' See his epitaph in Westminster .Abbey, written pany how imicli l)etter he could jump over a stick by Dr. Inhnson. than the puppets. 28 434 JAMES BOSWELL to be sure, it was accidentally worth more be sure, he is a tree that cannot produce money.' , fjood fruit : he only bears crabs. E5ut, sir, Mrs. Piozzi and Sir John Hawkins a tree that produces a great many crabs, have strangely misstated the history of is better than a tree which produces only Goldsmith's situation and Johnson's s a few.' friendly interference, when this novel was * * * sold. 1 shall give it authentically from Let me here apologize for the imper- Johnson's own exact narration: — 'I re- feet manner in which I am obliged to ex- ceived one morning a message from poor hibit Johnson's conversation at this Goldsmith that he was in great distress, lo period. In the early part of my acquaint- and, as it was not in his power to come to ance with him, 1 was so wrapt in adnu- me, begging that I would come to him as ration of his extraordinary colloquial soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and talents, and so little accustomed to his promised to come to him directly. I ac- peculiar mode of expression, that I found cordingly went as soon as I was dressed, is it extremely difficult to recollect and re- and found that his landlady had arrested cord his conversation with its genuine him for his rent, at which he was in a vigor and vivacity. In progress of time, violent passion. I perceived that he had when my mind was, as it were, strongly already changed my guinea, and had got a impregnated with the Johnsonian aether, bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. 20 I could with much more facilitv and ex- I put the cork into the bottle, desired he actness, carry in my memory and commit would be calm, and began to talk to him to paper the exuberant variety of his of the means by which he might be ex- wisdom and wit. tricated. He then told me that he had a At this time Miss Williams, as she was novel ready for the press, which he pro- ^s then called, though she did not reside duced to me. I looked into it, and saw wifh him in the Temple under his roof, its merits ; told the landlady I should re- but had lodgings in Bolt-court, Fleet- turn ; and, having gone to a bookseller, street, had so much of his attention, that sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Gold- he every night drank tea with her before smith the money, and he discharged his 3° he went home, however late it might be, rent, not without rating his landlady in and she always sat up for him. This it a high tone for having used him so ill.' may be conjectured, was not alone a My next meeting with Johnson was on proof of his regard for her, but of his own Friday, the ist of July, when he and I unwillingness to go into solitude, before and Dr. Goldsmith supped at the 35 that unseasonable hour at which he had Mitre. habituated himself to expect the oblivion * * * of repose. Dr. Goldsmith, being a privi- He talked very contemptuously of leged man, went with him this night, Churchill's poetry, observing, that ' it had strutting away, and calling to me with an a temporary currency, only from its 40 air of superiority, like that of an esoteric audacity of abuse, and being filled with over an exoteric disciple of a sage of living names, and that it would sink into antiquity, 'I go to Miss Williams.' I oblivion.' I ventured to hint that he was confess, I then envied him this mighty not quite a fair judge, as Churchill had privilege, of which he seemed 'so proud; attacked him violently. Johnson : ' Nay 45 but it was not long before I obtained the sir, I am a very fair judge. He did not same mark of distinction, attack me violently till he found I did * * * not like his poetry; and his attack on me On Wednesday, July 6, he was en- shall not prevent me from continuing to gaged to sup with me at my lodgings in say what I think of him, from an appre- 5o Downing-street, Westminster. But on hension that it may be ascribed to re- the preceding night my landlord having sentment. No, sir, I called the fellow a behaved very rudely to me and some com- blockhead at first, and I will call him a pany who were with me, I had resolved blockhead still. However, I will ac- not to remain another night in his house, knowledge that I have a better opinion of ^'-^ I was exceedingly uneasy at the awkward him now than I once had ; for he has appearance I supposed I should make to shown more fertility than I expected. To Johnson and the other gentlemen whom LIFE OF JOHNSON 435 I had invited, not being able to receive could not be politically true; and as the them at home, and being obliged to order king might, in the exercise of his regal supper at the Mitre. I went to Johnson power, command and cause the doing of in the morning, and talked of it as a seri- what was wrong, it certainly might be ous distress. He laughed and said, ' Con- S said, in sense and in reason, that he sider, sir, how insignificant this will ap- could do wrong.' Johnson: 'Sir, you pear a twelvemonth hence.' Were this are to consider that in our constitution, consideration to be applied to most of the according to its true principles, the king little vexatious incidents of life, by is the head, he is supreme; he is above which our quiet is too often disturbed, lo everything, and there is no power by it would prevent many painful sensa- which he can be tried. Therefore, it is, tions. I have tried it frequently with sir, that we hold the king can do no good effect. 'There is nothing,' con- wrong; that whatever may happen to be tinued he, ' in this mighty misfortune ; wrong in government, may not be above nay, we shall be better at the Mitre.' I JS our reach by being ascribed to majesty, told him that I had been at Sir John Redress is always to be had against op- Fielding's office, complaining of my land- pression by punishing the immediate lord, and had been informed that though agents. The king, though he should I had taken my lodgings for a year, I command, cannot force a judge to con- might, upon proof of his bad behavior, 20 demn a man unjustly; therefore it is quit them when I pleased, without being the judge whom we prosecute and pun- under an obligation to pay rent for any ish. Political institutions are formed longer time than while I possessed them, upon the consideration of what will most The fertility of Johnson's mind could frequently tend to the good of the whole, show itself even upon so small a matter ^^ although now and then exceptions may as this. ' Why, sir,' said he, ' I suppose occur. Thus it is better in general that this must be the law, since you have been a nation should have a supreme legisla- told so in Bow-street. But if your land- tive power, although it may at times be lord could hold you to your bargain, and abused. And then, sir, there is this the lodgings should be yours for a year, 30 consideration, that if the abuse be enor- you may certainly use them as you think mous, nature ivill rise up, and claiming^ fit. So, sir, you may quarter two life- her original rights, overturn a corrupt guardsmen upon him; or you may send political system.' I mark this animated the greatest scoundrel you can find into sentence with peculiar pleasure, as a your apartments; or you may say that 3^ noble instance of that truly dignified you want to make some experiments in spirit of freedom which ever glowed in natural philosophy, and may burn a his heart, though he was charged with large quantity of assafoetida in his slavish tenets by superficial observers: house.' because he was at all times indignant I had as my guests this evening at the 40 against that false patriotism, that pre- Mitre Tavern, Dr. Johnson, Dr. Gold- tended love of freedom, that unruly rest- smith, Mr. Thomas Davies. Mr. Eccles, lessness, which is inconsistent with the an Irish gentleman for whose agreeable stable authority of any good government, company I was obliged to Mr. Davies, This generous sentiment, which he ut- and the Rev. Mr. John Ogilvie, who was 45 tered with great fervor, struck me ex- desirous of being in company with my ceedingly, and stirred my blood to that illustrious friend, while I, in my turn, pitch of fancied resistance, the possibility was proud to have the honor of showing of which I am glad to keep in mind, but one of my countrymen upon what easy to which I trust I never shall be forced, terms Johnson permitted me to live with 5o ' Great abilities,' said he, ' are not him. requisite for an historian, for in histori- Goldsmith, as usual, endeavored with cal composition all the greatest powers of too much eagerness to shine, and dis- the human mind are quiescent. He has puted very warmly with Johnson against facts ready to his hand, so there is no the well-known maxim of the British 55 exercise of invention. Imagination is constitution, ' the king can do no wrong '; not required in any high degree; only affirming that ' what was morally false about as much as is used in the lower 436 JAMES BOSWELL kinds of poetry. Some penetration, ac- vegetables, and for the animals who eat curacy, and coloring, will fit a man for those vegetables, and for the animals who the task, if he can give the application eat those animals.' This observation of which is necessary.' his, aptly enough introduced a good sup- ' Bayle's Dictionary is a very useful 5 per; and I soon forgot, in Johnson's com- work for those to consult who love the pany, the influence of a moist atmosphere, biographical part of literature, which is Feeling myself now quite at ease as his what I love most.' companion, though I had all possible Talking of the eminent writers in reverence for him, I expressed a regret Queen Anne's reign, he observed, ' I lo that I could not be so easy with my think Dr. Arbuthnot the first man among father, though he was not much older them. He was the most universal genius, than Johnson, and certainly, however re- being an excellent physician, a man of spectable, had not more learning and deep learning, and a man of much humor, greater abilities to depress me. I asked Mr. Addison, was to be sure, a great is him the reason of this. Johnson: 'Why man ; his learning was not profound, but sir, I am a man of the world. I live in his morality, his humor, and his elegance the world, and I take, in some degree, of writing set him very high.' the color of the world as it moves along. Mr. Ogilvie was unlucky enough to Your father is a judge in a remote part choose for the topic of his conversation, 20 of the island, and all his notions are taken the praises of his native country. He from the old world. Besides, sir, there began with saying, that there was very must always be a struggle between a rich land around Edinburgh. Goldsmith, father and a son, while one aims at power who had studied physic there, contra- and the other at independence.' I said, dieted this, very untruly, with a sneering 25 I was afraid my father would force me laugh. Disconcerted a little by this, Mr. to be a lawyer. Johnson: 'Sir, you Ogilvie then took a new ground, where, need not be afraid of his forcing you to I suppose, he thought himself perfectly be a laborious practising lawyer; that is safe ; for he observed, that Scotland had not in his power. For, as the proverb a great many noble wild prospects. 30 says, " One man may lead a horse to the Johnson: 'I believe, sir, you have a water, but twenty cannot make him great many. Norway, too, has noble drink." He may be displeased that you wild prospects; and Lapland is remark- are not what he wishes you to be; but able for prodigious noble wild prospects. that displeasure will not go far. H he But, sir, let me tell you, the noblest pros- 35 insists only on your having as much law pect which a Scotchman ever sees is the as is necessary for a man of property, high-road that leads him to England 1 ' and then endeavors to get you into par- This unexpected and pointed sally pro- liament, he is quite in the right.' duced a roar of applause. After all. He enlarged very convincingly upon however, those, who admire the rude 40 the excellence of rime over blank verse grandeur of nature, cannot deny it to in English poetry. I mentioned to hnn Caledonia. that Dr. Adam Smith, in his lectures On Saturday, July 9, I found Johnson upon composition, when I studied under surrounded with a numerous levee, but him in the College of Glasgow, had main- have not preserved any part of his 45 tained the same opinion strenuously, and conversation. On the 14th we had an- I repeated some of his arguments. Joun- other evening by ourselves at the Mitre. son : ' Sir, I was once in company with It happening to be a very rainy night, I Smith, and we did not take to each other; made some commonplace observations on but had I l:nown that he loved rime as the relaxation of nerves and depression 5° much as you tell me he does, I should of spirits which such weather occasioned; have hugged him.' adding, however, that it was good for the Talking of those who denied the truth vegetable creation. Johnson, who, as we of Christianity, he said: 'It is always have already seen, denied that the tern- easy to be on the negative side. If a perature of the air had any influence on 55 man were now to deny that there is salt the human frame, answered, with a smile upon the table, you could not reduce him of ridicule, ' Why, yes, sir, it is good for to an absurdity. Come, let us try this a LIFE OF JOHNSON 437 little further. I deny that Canada is It is true, that I cannot now curse (smil- taken, and I can support my denial by ing) the house of Hanover; nor would it pretty good arguments. The French are be decent for me to drink King James's a much more numerous people than we; health in the wine that King George gives and it is not likely that they would allow 5 me money to pay for. But, sir, I think us to take it. " But the ministry have that the pleasure of cursing the house of assured us, in all the formality of The Hanover, and drinking King James's Gazette, that it is taken. "-^ Very health, are amply overbalanced by three true. But the ministry have put us to hundred pounds a year.' an enormous expense by the war in 10 * * * America, and it is their interest to pur- He recommended to me to keep a suade us that we have got something for journal of my life, full and unreserved, our money. " But the fact is confirmed He said it would be a very good exercise, by thousands of men who were at the and would yield me great satisfaction taking of it." Ay, but these men have 15 when the particulars were faded from my still more interest in deceiving us. They remembrance. I was uncommonly fortu- don't want that you should think the nate in having had a previous coincidence French have beat them, but that they of opinion with him upon this subject, for have beat the French. Now suppose you I had kept such a journal for some time; should go over and find that it really is 20 and it was no small pleasure to me to taken, that would only satisfy yourself; have this to tell him, and to receive his for when you come home we will not be- approbation. He counseled me to keep it lieve you. We will say, you have been private, and said I might surely have a bribed. Yet, sir, notwithstanding all friend who would burn it in case of my these plausible objections, we have no 25 death. From this habit I have been en- doubt that Canada is really ours. Such abled to give the world so many anecdotes, is the weight of common testimony, which would otherwise have been lost to How much stronger are the evidences of posterity. I mentioned that I was afraid the Christian religion ! ' I put into my journal too many little in- ' Idleness is a disease which must be 30 cidents. Johnson: 'There is nothing combated; but I would not advise a sir, too little for so little a creature as rigid adherence to a particular plan of man. It is by studying little things that study. I myself have never persisted in we attain the great art of having as little any plan for two days together. A man misery, and as much happiness as pos- ought to read just as inclination leads 35 sible.' him; for what he reads as a task will do Next morning Mr. Dempster happened him little good. A young man should to call on me, and was so much struck read five hours in a day, and so may ac- even with the imperfect account which I quire a great deal of knowledge.' gave him of Dr. Johnson's conversation. To such a degree of unrestrained frank- 40 that to his honor be it recorded, when I ness had he now accustomed me that in complained of drinking port and sitting the course of this evening I talked of the up late with him, affected my nerves for numerous reflections which had been some time after, he said, ' One had better thrown out against him, on account of his be palsied at eighteen, than not keep com- having accepted a pension from his pres- 45 pany with such a man.' ent Majesty. ' Why, sir,' said he, with a On Tuesday, July i8th, I found tall Sir hearty laugh, ' it is a mighty foolish noise Thomas Robinson sitting with Johnson, that they make.^ I have accepted of a Sir Thomas said, that the king of Prus- pension as a reward which has been sia valued himself upon three things; thought due to my literary merit; and 50 upon being a hero, a musician, and an now that I have this pension, I am the author. Johnson : ' Pretty well, sir. for same man in every respect that I have one man. As to his being an author, I ever been; I retain the same principles. have not looked at his poetry; but his prose is poor stuff. He writes just as vou nVhen I mentioned the same idle clamor to him „ suppOSe Voltaire's footbov tO do, who several years afterwards, he said, with a smile, I ,-,'', . • tt i wish my pension were twice as large, that they has been hlS amaUUCnSlS. He has SUCh might make twice as much noise.' parts as the valet might have, and about 438 JyVMKS IJOSWKLL as much of the coloring of the style as of knowledge is the natural feeling of might be got by transcribing his works.' mankind; and every human being whose When I was at Ferney, I repeated this to mind is not debauched, will be willing to Voltaire, in order to reconcile him some- give all that he has to get knowledge.' what to Johnson, whom he, in affecting 5 We landed at the Old Swan, and the English mode of expression, had pre- walked to Billingsgate, where we took viously characterized as ' a superstitious oars and moved smoothly along the silver dog;' but after hearing such a criticism Thames. It was a very fine day. We on Frederick the Great, with whom he were entertained with the immense was then on bad terms, he exclaimed, ' An 10 number and variety of ships that were honest fellow ! ' lying at anchor, and with the beautiful * * * country on each side of the river. I again begged his advice as to my I talked of preaching, and of the great method of study at Utrecht. ' Come,' success which those called Methodists said he, 'let us make a day of it. Let us 15 have. Johnson: 'Sir, it is owing to go down to Greenwich and dine, and talk their expressing themselves in a plain and of it there.' The following Saturday was familiar manner, which is the only way fixed for this excursion. to do good to the common people, and As we walked along the Strand to- which clergymen of genius and learning night, arm in arm, a woman of the town 20 ought to do from a principle of duty, when accosted us, in the usual enticing manner. it is suited to their congregations; a prac- ' No, no, my girl,' said Johnson, ' it won't tice, for which they will be praised by do.' He, however, did not treat her with men of sense. To insist against drunk- harshness; and we talked of the wretched enness as a crime, because it debases rea- life of such women, and agreed that much 25 son : the noblest faculty of man, would more misery than happiness, upon the be of no service to the common people, whole, is produced by illicit commerce but to tell them that they may die in a between the sexes. fit of drunkenness and show them how On Saturday, July 30, Dr. Johnson and dreadful that would be, cannot fail to I took a sculler at the Temple-stairs, and 30 make a deep impression. Sir, when your set out for Greenwich. I asked him if Scotch clergy give up their homely man- he really thought a knowledge of the ner, religion will soon decay in that Greek and Latin languages an essential country.' requisite to a good education. Johnson: I vvas much pleased to find myself with ' Most certainly, sir ; for those who know 35 Johnson at Greenwich, which he cele- them have a very great advantage over brates in his London as a favorite scene, those who do not. Nay, sir, it is won- I had the poem in my pocket, and read derful what a difference learning makes the lines aloud with enthusiasm : upon people even in the common inter- course of life, which does not appear to 40 ' On Thames's banks in silent thought we be much connected with it.' ' And yet,' stood : said I, ' people go through the world very Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver well and carry on the business of life, flood: to good advantage without learning.' Pleased with the seat which gave Eliza Johnson: 'Why, sir, that may be true 45 birth, in cases where learning cannot possibly We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth.' be of any use ; for instance, this boy rows us as well without learning, as if he He remarked that the structure of could sing the song of Orpheus to the Greenwich hospital was too magnificent Argonauts, who were the first sailors.' 50 for a place of charity, and that its parts He then called to the boy, ' What would were too much detached, to make one you give, my lad, to know about the Ar- great whole. gonauts?' 'Sir,' said the boy, 'I would Buchanan, he said, was a very fine give what I have.' Johnson was much poet ; and observed, that he was the first pleased with his answer, and we gave 55 who complimented a lady, by ascribing him a double fare. Dr. Johnson then to her the different perfections of the turning to me, 'Sir,' said he, 'a desire heathen goddesses; but that Johnstone LIFE OF JOHNSON 439 improved upon this, by making his lady, our sail up the river, in our return to at the same time, free from their de- London, was by no means so pleasant as fects. in the morning; for the night air was so He dwelt upon Buchanan's elegant cold that it made me shiver. I was the verses to Mary Queen of Scots, Nympha 5 more sensible of it from having sat up Caledoniae, [Nymph of Scotland] etc., all the night before recollecting and writ- and spoke with enthusiasm of the beauty ing in my journal what I thought worthy of Latin verse. ' All the modern Ian- of preservation ; an exertion which dur- guages,' said he, ' cannot furnish so me- ing the first part of my acquaintance with lodious a line as 10 Johnson, I frequently made. I remember having sat up four nights in one week, Formosam resonare doccs Amarillida silvas. without being much incommoded in the [You teach the woods to re-echo beauteous daytime. Amarillis.] Johnson, whose robust frame was not 15 in the least affected by the cold, scolded Afterwards he entered upon the busi- me, as if my shivering had been a paltry ness of the day, which was to give me his effeminacy, saying, ' Why .do you shiver? ' advice as to a course of study. And Sir William Scott, of the Commons, told here I am to mention with much regret me that when he complained of a head- that my record of what he said is mis- 20 ache in the post-chaise, as they were erably scanty. I recollect with admira- traveling together to Scotland, Johnson tion an animating blaze of eloquence, treated him in the same manner : ' At which roused every intellectual power in your age, sir, I had no headache.' It is me to the highest pitch, but must have not easy to make allowance for sensations dazzled me so much that my memory ^5 in others, which we ourselves have not could not preserve the substance of his at the time. discourse ; for the note which I find of We concluded the day at the Turk's it is no more than this : — ' He ran over Head coffee-house very socially. He was the grand scale of human knowledge; ad- pleased to listen to a particular account vised me to select some particular branch 30 which I gave him of my family, and of to excel in, but to acquire a little of every its hereditary estate, as to the extent and kind.' The defect of my minutes will be population of which he asked questions, fully supplied by a long letter upon the and made calculations ; recommending, at subject, which he favored me with after the same time, a liberal kindness to the I had been some time at Utrecht, and 35 tenantry, as people over whom the pro- which my readers will have the pleasure prietor was placed by Providence. He to peruse in its proper place. took delight in hearing my description of We walked in the evening, in Green- the romantic seat of my ancestors. ' I wich Park. He asked me, I suppose, by must be there, sir,' said he, ' and we will way of trying my disposition, ' Is not this 40 live in the old castle; and if there is not very fine? ' Having no exquisite relish of a room in it remaining, we will build one.' the beauties of nature, and being more I was highly flattered, but could scarcely delighted with ' the busy hum of men,' indulge a hope that Auchinleck would in- I answered, ' Yes, sir, but not equal to deed be honored by his presence, and cele- Fleet-street.' Johnson : * You are right, 45 brated by a description, as it afterward sir.' was, in his Journey to the Western I am aware that many of my readers Islands. may censure my want of taste. Let me. After we had again talked of my set- however, shelter myself under the author- ting out for Holland, he said, ' I must ity of a very fashionable baronet in the 5° see thee out of England ; I will accom- brilliant world, who, on his attention pany you to Harwich.' I could not find being called to the fragrance of a May words to express what I felt upon this evening in the country, observed. ' This unexpected and very great mark of his may be very well ; but, for my part, I affectionate regard. prefer the smell of a flambeau at the 55 Next day, Sunday. July 31, I told him play-house.' I had been that morning at a meeting of We stayed so long at Greenwich, that the people called Quakers, where I had 440 JAMES BOSWELL heard a woman preach. Johnson: 'Sir, stories of him, and to ascribe to him a woman's preaching is hke a dog's walk- very strange sayings. Johnson : * What ing on his hind legs. It is not done well; do they make me say, sir?' Boswell: but you are surprised to find it done at ' Why, sir, as an instance very strange all.' 5 indeed,' laughing heartily as I spoke. On Tuesday, August 2 (the day of my ' David Hume told me, you said that you departure from London having been fixed would stand before a battery of cannon for the 5th), Dr. Johnson did me the to restore the Convocation to its full honor to pass a part of the morning with powers.' Little did I apprehend that he me at my chambers. He said, ' that he 10 had actually said this : but I was soon always felt an inclination to do nothing.' convinced of my error; for, with a deter- I observed, that it was strange to think mined look he thundered out, ' And that the most indolent man in Britain had would I not, sir? Shall the Presbyterian written the most laborious work, The Kirk of Scotland have its General As- EngUsh Dictionary. 15 sembly, and the Church of England be I mentioned an imprudent publication, denied its Convocation ? ' He was walk- by a certain friend of his, at an early ing up and down the room while I told period of life, and asked him if he thought him the anecdote; but, when he uttered it would hurt him. Johnson: 'No, sir; this explosion of high-church zeal he had not much. It may, perhaps, be mentioned 20 come close to my chair, and his eyes at an election.' flashed with indignation. I bowed to the I had now made good my title to be a storm, and diverted the force of it, by privileged man, and was carried by him leading him to expatiate on the influence in the evening to drink tea with Miss Wil- which religion derived from maintaining Hams, whom, though under the misfor- 25 the church with great external respec- tune of having lost her sight, I found to tability. be agreeable in conversation, for she had I must not omit to mention that he this a variety of literature, and expressed her- year wrote The Life of Ascham, and the self well; but her peculiar value was the Dedication to the Earl of Shaftesbury, nitimacy in which she had long lived with 30 prefixed to the edition of that writer's Johnson, by which she was well ac- English works, published by Mr. Bennet. quainted with his habits, and knew how On Friday, August 5, we set out early to lead him on to talk. in the morning in the Harwich stage- After tea he carried me to what he coach. A fat elderly gentlewoman, and called his walk, which was a long nar- 35 a young Dutchman, seemed the most in- row paved court in the neighborhood, clined among us to conversation. At the overshadowed by some trees. There we inn where we dined, the gentlewoman sauntered a considerable time, and I com- said that she had done her best to edu- plained to him that my love of London cate her children ; and particularly, that and of his company was such, that I 4° she had never suffered them to be a shrunk almost from the thought of going moment idle. Johnson: 'I wish, ma- away even to travel, which is generally dam, you would educate me too; for I so much desired by young men. He have been an idle fellow all my life.' ' I roused me by manly and spirited con- am sure, sir,' said she, ' you have not versation. He advised me, when settled 45 been idle.' Johnson: 'Nay, madam, it in any place abroad, to study with an is very true : and that gentleman there, eagerness after knowledge, and to apply pointing to me, has been idle. He was to Greek an hour every day; and when idle at Edinburgh. His father sent him to I was moving about, to read diligently Glasgow, where he continued to be idle, the great book of mankind. 50 He then came to London, where he has On Wednesday, August 3, we had our been very idle ; and now he is going to last social evening at the Turk's Head Utrecht, where he will be as idle as ever.' coffee-house, before my setting out for I asked him privately how he could ex- foreign parts. I had the misfortune, be- pose me so. Johnson : ' Poh, poh ! ' said fore we parted, to irritate him uninten- 55 he, ' they knew nothing about you, and tionally. I mentioned to him how com- will think of it no more.' In the after- mon it was in the world to tell absurd noon the gentlewoman talked violently LIFE OF JOHNSON 441 against the Roman Catholics, and of the does not mind his belly will hardly mind horrors of the inquisition. To the utter anything else.' He now appeared to me astonishment of all the passengers but Jean Bull philosophc, and he was for the myself, who knew that he could talk upon moment not only serious, but vehement, any side of a question, he defended the 5 yet I have heard him, upon other occa- inquisition, and maintained that ' false sions, talk with great contempt of peo- doctrine should be checked on its first ap- pie who were anxious to gratify their pearance ; that the civil power should palates: and the 206th number of his unite with the church in punishing those Rambler is a masterly essay against gu- who dare to attack the established re- 10 losity. His practice, indeed, I must ac- ligion, and that such only were punished knowledge, may be considered as casting by the inquisition.' He had in his the balance of his different opinions upon pocket, Pomponius Mela de Situ Orhis, this subject; for I never knew any man in which he read occasionally, and who relished good eating more than he seemed very intent upon ancient geogra- 15 did. When at table he was totally ab- phy. Though by no means niggardly, his sorbed in the business of the moment : attention to what was generally right was his looks seemed riveted to his plate; nor so minute, that having observed at one of would he, unless when in very high com- the stages that I ostentatiously gave a pany, say one word, or even pay the least shilling to the coachman, when the custom 20 attention to what was said by others, till was for each passenger to give only six- he had satisfied his appetite, which was pence, he took me aside and scolded me, so fierce, and indulged with such intense- saying that what I had done would make ness, that while in the act of eating, the the coachman dissatisfied with all the rest veins of his forehead swelled, and gener- of the passengers, who gave him no more 25 ally a strong perspiration was visible, than his due. To those whose sensations were delicate, * * * this could not but be disgusting; and it Having stopped a night at Colchester, was doubtless not very suitable to the Johnson talked of that town with venera- 30 character of a philosopher, who should tion, for having stood a siege for Charles be distinguished by self-command. But the First. The Dutchman alone now re- it must be owned that Johnson, though he mained with us. He spoke English toler- could be rigidly abstemious, was not a ably well; and thinking to recommend temperate man either in eating or drink- himself to us by expatiating on the superi- 35 ing. He could refrain, but he could not ority of the criminal jurisprudence of use moderately. He told me that he had this country over that of Holland, he in- fasted two days without inconvenience, veighed against the barbarity of putting and that he had never been hungry but an accused person to the torture, in order once. They who beheld with wonder to force a confession. But Johnson was 40 how much he ate upon all occasions, when as ready for this as for the inquisition, his dinner was to his taste, could not ' Why, sir, you do not, I find, understand easily conceive what he must have meant the law of your own country. To tor- by hunger ; and not only was he remark- ture in Holland is considered as a favor able for the extraordinary quantity which to an accused person ; for no man is put 4s he ate, but he was, or affected to be, a to the torture there, unless there is as man of very nice discernment in the much evidence against him as would science of cookery. He used to descant amount to conviction in England. An ac- critically on the dishes which had been cused person, among you, therefore, has at table where he had dined or supped, one chance more to escape punishment so and to recollect very minutely what he than those who are tried among us.' had liked. I remember when he was in At supper this night he talked of good Scotland, his praising ' Gordon's palates ' eating with uncommon satisfaction. (a dish of palates at the Honorable Alex- ' Some people,' said he, 'have a foolish ander Gordon's) with a warmth of ex- way of not minding, or pretending not to" pression which might have done honor to mind, what they eat. For my part, I more important subjects. ' As for Mac- mind my belly very studiously and very laurin's imitation of a made dish, it was carefully; for I look upon it, that he who a wretched attempt.' He about the same 442 JAMES BOSWELL lime was so much displeased with the per- some time here.' The practice of using formances of a nobleman's French cook, words of disproportionate magnitude, is, that he exclaimed with vehemence, 'I'd no doubt, too frequent everywhere; but, throw such a rascal into the river;' and I think, most remarkable among the he then proceeded to alarm a lady at 5 French, of which, all who have traveled whose house he has to sup, by the follow- in France must have been struck with ing manifesto of his skill: — 'I, madam, innumerable instances, who live at a variety of good tables, am We went and looked at the church, and a much better judge of cookery, than any having gone into it, and walked up to the person who has a very tolerable cook, but lo altar, Johnson, whose piety was constant lives much at home ; for his palate is and fervent, sent me to my knees, saying, gradually adapted to the taste of his cook; ' Now that you are going to leave your whereas, madam, in trying by a wider native country, recommend yourself to range, I can more exquisitively judge.' the protection of your Creator and Re- When invited to dine, even with an inti- i5 deemer.' male friend, he was not pleased if some- After we came out of the church, we thing better than a plain dinner was not stood talking for some time together, of prepared for him. I have heard him say Bishop Berkeley's ingenious sophistry to on such an occasion. ' This was a good prove the non-existence of matter, and dinner enough to be sure; but it was not 20 that everything in the universe is merely a dinner to ask a man to.' On the other ideal. I observed that, though we are hand, he was wont to express, with great satisfied his doctrine is not true, it is im- glee, his satisfaction when he had been possible to refute it. I never shall for- entertained quite to his mind. get the alacrity with which Johnson an- While we were left by ourselves, after 25 swered, striking his foot with mighty the Dutchman had gone to bed, Dr. John- force against a large stone, till he re- son talked of that studied behavior which bounded from it, — I refute it thus.' many have recommended and practised. * * * He disapproved of it ; and said, * I never My revered friend walked down with considered whether I should be a grave 30 me to the beach, where we embraced and man, or a merry man, but just let inclina- parted with tenderness, and engaged to tion, for the time, have its course.' correspond by letters. I said, ' I hope, Next day we got to Harwich, to dinner ; sir, you will not forget me in my ab- and my passage in the packet boat to Hel- sence.' Johnson: ' Nay, sir, it is more voetsluys being secured, and my baggage 35 likely you should forget me, than that I put on board, we dined at our inn by should forget you.' As the vessel put out ourselves. I happened to say it would be to sea, I kept my eyes upon him for a con- terrible if he should not find a speedy op- siderable time, while he remained rolling portunity of returning to London, and be his majestic frame in his usual manner; confined in so dull a place. Johnson : 40 and at last I perceived him walk back into ' Don't, sir, accustom yourself to use big the town, and he disappeared, words for little matters. It would not be (1/90 terrible, though I were to be detained * * * EDMUND BURKE (1729-1797) The career of Burke belongs to the history of English politics, its memorials to English literature. His father was a Dublin solicitor and a Protestant ; his mother was a firm Catholic, and he spent a part of his school days under the tuition of a Quaker. He was himself brought up a Protestant, but on this as other subjects preserved a large and open mind. He took his bachelor's degree at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1748, and later read law at the Middle Temple in Loudon. For upwards of a decade after his removal to Eng- land, in 1750, his ambition poiuted to literature. In 175G he published A Vindicnilon of Natural Society, an ironical imitation of Kolingbroke intended to throw ridicule upon the political theories of that writer. ' Burke foresaw from the first,' an English statesman of our own day has said, ' what, if rationalism were allowed to run its course, would be the really great business of the second half of his century.' The same year he printed his youthful essay On the Suhlime and Beautiful and three years later became editor of Dods- ley's Annual Register. But his literary abilities soon marked him out for the public service. In some way, not very well understood, his financial disability was overcome, and he entered upon a career in Parliament, making his first speech in January, 17G0. His Ohseriations on the Present State of the Nation (17G9) showed his grasp of economic detail, and his pamphlet, entitled. Thoughts on the Present Discontents, the following year, for the first time exhibited the full breadth of his political philosophy. Four years later the struggle with the American colonies which had been going on ever since Burke entered Parliament had reached the stage of threatened war. It was in the debate upon this great occasion that Burke's mastery of economic detail, and his broad and lucid command of principle were welded together by his gift of passionate exposition into the three documents of political philosophy which will be cherished wherever the race flourishes in whose language they were de- livered. The Speech on American Taxation was given in April, 1774, The Speech for Concilia- tion, March 22, 1775, and the Letter to the Slteriffs of Bristol was issued in 1777. The other subjects upon which Burke distinguished himself as an orator were the Impeachment of Warren Hastings and the imideuts of the French Revolution. His views in regard to the latter were such as sometimes to perplex his party and his friends and he was often almost solitary in his position. In spite of Goldsmith's accusation that he ' to party gave up what was meant for mankind,' Burke's gifts were not those of the successful politician. He re- tired from Parliament in 1794, having wielded great power at times, but having won no ofEcial position of high dignity. His achievements were such as grow more lustrous with the passage of time. From THE SPEECH FOR CONCILIA- love of freedom is the predominating TION WITH THE COLONIES feature which marks and distinguishes the whole ; and as an ardent is always a jeal- These, sir, are my reasons for not en- ous affection, your colonies become sus- tertaining that high opinion of untried 5 picious, restive, and untractable, when- force, by which many gentlemen, for ever they see the least attempt to wrest whose sentiments in other particulars I from them by force or shuffle from them have great respect, seem to be so greatly by chicane, what they think the only ad- captivated. But there is still behind a vantage worth living for. This fierce third consideration concerning this ob- 10 spirit of liberty is stronger in the English ject. which serves to determine my opin- colonies probably than in any other peo- ion on the sort of policy which ought to pie of the earth; and this from a great be pursued in the management of variety of powerful causes ; which, to America, even more than its population understand the true temper of their minds, and its commerce, I mean its temper and i5 and the direction which this spirit takes, character. " it will not be amiss to lay open somewhat In this character of the Americans, a more largely. 443 444 EDMUND BURKE First, the people of the colonies are de- Liberty might be safe, or might be en- scendants of Englishmen. England, sir, dangercd, in twenty other particulars, is a nation which still 1 hope respects, without their l)eing much pleased or and formerly adored, her freedom. The alarmed. Here they felt its pulse; and as colonists emigrated from you, when this 5 they found that heat, they thought them- part of your character was most predomi- selves sick or sound. I do not say nant; and they took this bias and direc- whether they were right or wrong in ap- tion the moment they parted from your plying your general arguments to their hands. They are therefore not only de- own cause. It is not easy indeed to make voted to liberty, but to liberty according lo a monopoly of theorems and corollaries, to English ideas, and on English princi- The fact is, that they did thus apply those pies. Abstract liberty, like other mere general arguments; and your mode of abstractions, is not to be found. Liberty governing them, whether through lenity inheres in some sensible object; and every or indolence, through wisdom or mistake, nation has formed to itself some favor- i5 confirmed them in the imagination, that ite point, which by way of eminence be- they, as well as you, had an interest in comes the criterion of their happiness, these common principles. It happened, you know, sir, that the They were further confirmed in this great contests for freedom in this country pleasing error by the form of their provin- were from the earliest times chiefly upon 20 cial legislative assemblies. The govern- the question of taxing. Most of the con- ments are popular in a high degree ; some tests in the ancient commonwealths are merely popular; in all, the popular turned primarily on the right of election representative is the most weighty ; and of magistrates; or on the balance among this share of the people in their ordinary the several orders of the state. The 25 government never fails to inspire them question of money was not with them so with lofty sentiments, and with a strong immediate. But in England it was other- aversion from whatever tends to deprive wise. On this point of taxes the ablest them of their chief importance, pens and most eloquent tongues have been If anything were wanting to this exercised ; the greatest spirits have acted 30 necessary operation of the form of gov- and suffered. In order to give the fullest ernment, religion would have given it a satisfaction concerning the importance of complete effect. Religion, always a prin- this point, it was not only necessary for ciple of energy, in this new people is no those who in argument defended the ex- way worn out or impaired ; and their mode cellence of the English constitution to in- 35 of professing it is also one main cause of sist on this privilege of granting money this free spirit. The people are Protes- as a dry point of fact, and to prove that tants ; and of that kind which is the most the right had been acknowledged in an- adverse to all implicit submission of mind cient parchments and blind usage to re- and opinion. This is a persuasion not side in a certain body called a House of 40 only favorable to liberty, but built upon it. Commons. They went much farther; I do not think, sir, that the reason of this they attempted to prove, and they sue- averseness in the dissenting churches, ceeded, that in theory it ought to be so, from all that looks like absolute govern- from the particular nature of a House of ment, is so much to be sought in their re- Commons as an immediate representative 45 ligious tenets as in their history. Every of the people, whether the old records had one knows that the Roman Catholic re- delivered this oracle or not. They took ligion is at least coeval with most of the infinite pains to inculcate, as a funda- governments where it prevails ; that it mental principle, that in all monarchies has generally gone hand in hand with the people must in effect themselves, 5o them, and received great favor and every mediately or immediately, possess the kind of support from authority. The power of granting their own money, or Church of England too was formed from no shadow of liberty could subsist. The her cradle under the nursing care of colonies draw from you, as with their life- regular government. But the dissenting blood, these ideas and principles. Their 55 interests have sprung up in direct oppo- love of liberty, as with you, fixed and at- sition to all the ordinary powers of the tached on this specific point of taxing. world; and could justify that opposition J CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES 445 only on a strong claim to natural liberty, of man. The fact is so ; and these peo- Their very existence depended on the pie of the southern colonies are much powerful and unremitted assertion of that more strongly, and with a higher and claim. All Protestantism, even the most more stubborn spirit, attached to liberty, cold and passive, is a sort of dissent. 5 than those to the northward. Such were But the religion most prevalent in our all the ancient commonwealths ; such northern colonies is a refinement on the were our Gothic ancestors ; such in our principle of resistance ; it is the dissi- days were the Poles ; and such will be dence of dissent, and the Protestantism all masters of slaves who are not slaves of the Protestant religion. This religion, 10 themselves. In such a people, the under a variety of denominations agree- haughtiness of domination combines with ing in nothing but in the communion of the spirit of freedom, fortifies it, and the spirit of liberty, is predominant in renders it invincible. most of the northern provinces, where the Permit me, sir, to add another circum- Church of England, notwithstanding its 15 stance in our colonies, which contributes legal rights, is in reality no more than no mean part towards the growth and a sort of private sect, not composing most effect of this untractable spirit. I mean probably the tenth of the people. The their education. In no country perhaps colonists left England when this spirit in the world is the law so general a study. was high, and in the emigrants was the 20 The profession itself is numerous and highest of all, and even that stream of powerful ; and in most provinces it takes foreigners, which has been constantly the lead. The greater number of the flowing into these colonies, has, for the deputies sent to the Congress were law- greatest part, been composed of dissenters yers. But all who read (and most do from the establishments of their several 25 read), endeavor to obtain some smattering countries, and have brought with them a in that science. I have been told by an temper and character far from alien to eminent bookseller, that in no branch of that of the people with whom they mixed, his business, after tracts of popular de- Sir, I can perceive by their manner, votion, were so many books as those on that some gentlemen object to the latitude 30 the law exported to the plantations. The of this description, because in the south- colonists have now fallen into the way ern colonies the Church of England forms of printing them for their own use. I a large body, and has a regular establish- hear that they have sold nearly as many ment. It is certainly true. There is, of Blackstone's Commentaries in America however, a circumstance attending these 35 as in England. General Gage marks out colonies, which, in my opinion, fully this disposition very particularly in a let- counterbalances this difference, and ter on your table. He states that all the makes the spirit of liberty still more high people in his government are lawyers, or and haughty than in those to the north- smatterers in law ; and that in Boston ward. It is, that in Virginia and the 40 they have been enabled, by successful Carolinas they have a vast multitude of chicane, wholly to evade many parts of slaves. Where this is the case in any one of your capital penal constitutions, part of the world, those who are free are The smartness of debate will say that this by far the most proud and jealous of their knowledge ought to teach them more freedom. Freedom is to them not only 45 clearly the rights of legislature, their ob- an enjoyment, but a kind of rank and ligations to obedience, and the penalties privilege. Not seeing there, that free- of rebellion. All this is mighty well, dom, as in countries where it is a common But my honorable and learned friend on blessing, and as broad and general as the the floor, who condescends to mark what air, may be united with much abject toil, 50 I say for animadversion, will disdain that with great misery, with all the exterior ground. He has heard, as well as I, that of servitude, liberty looks, amongst them, when great honors and great emoluments like something that is more noble and do not win over this knowledge to the liberal. I do not mean, sir, to commend service of the state, it is a formidable ad- the superior morality of this sentiment, 55 versary to government. If the spirit be which has at least as much pride as vir- not tamed and broken by these happy tue in it : but I cannot alter the nature methods, it is stubborn and litigious. 446 EDMUND BURKE Abennt studia in mores [studies de- Then, sir, from these six capital velop into habits]. This stvidy renders sources; of descent; of form of govern- men acute, inquisitive, dexterous, prompt ment ; of religion in the northern in attack, ready in defense, full of re- provinces; of manners in the southern; sources. In other countries, the people, 5 of education; of the remoteness of situa- more simple, and of a less mercurial cast, tion from the first mover of government; judge of an ill principle in government from all these causes a fierce spirit of only by an actual grievance; here they liberty has grown up. It has grown with anticipate the evil, and judge of the pres- the growth of the people in your colonies, sure of the grievance by the badness of 10 and increased with the increase of their the principle. They augur misgovern- wealth ; a spirit, that unhappily meeting ment at a distance; and snuff the ap- with an exercise of power in England, proach of tyranny in every tainted breeze. which, however lawful, is not reconcil- The last cause of this disobedient spirit able to any ideas of liberty, much less in the colonies is hardly less powerful 15 with theirs, has kindled this flame that is than the rest, as it is not merely moral, ready to consume us. but laid deep in the natural constitution I do not mean to commend either the of things. Three thousand miles of ocean spirit in this excess, or the moral causes lie between you and them. No con- which produce it. Perhaps a more trivance can prevent the effect of this dis- 20 smooth and accommodating spirit of frce- tance in weakening government. Seas dom in them would be more accept- roll, and months pass, between the order able to us. Perhaps ideas of liberty and the execution; and the want of a might be desired more reconcilable with speedy explanation " of a single point is an arbitrary and boundless authority, enough to defeat a whole system. You 25 Perhaps we might wish the colonists to be have, indeed, ' winged ministers of ven- persuaded that their liberty is more se- geance,' who carry your bolts in their cure when held in trust for them by us pounces to the remotest verge of the sea. (as their guardians during a perpetual But there a power steps in, that limits the minority) than with any part of it in their arrogance of raging passions and furious 30 own hands. The question is, not whether elements, and says, ' So far shalt thou go, their spirit deserves praise or blame, but and no farther.' Who are you, that you what, in the name of God, shall we do should fret and rage, and bite the chains with it? You have before you the ob- of Nature ? — nothing worse happens to ject, such as it is, with all its glories you than does to all nations who have ex- 35 with all its imperfections, on its head, tensive empire; and it happens in all You see the magnitude, the importance, the forms into which empire can be the temper, the habits, the disorders. By thrown. In large bodies, the circulation all these considerations we are strongly of power must be less vigorous at the urged to determine something concern- extremities. Nature has said it. The 4° ing it. We are called upon to fix some Turk cannot govern Egypt, and Arabia, rule and line for our future conduct, and Kurdistan, as he governs Thrace ; which may give a little stability to our nor has he the same dominion in Crimea politics, and prevent the return of and Algiers which he has at Brusa and such unhappy deliberations as the present. Smyrna. Despotism itself is obliged to 45 Every such return will bring the matter truck and huckster. The Sultan gets before us in a still more untractable such obedience as he can. He governs form. For, what astonishing and in- with a loose rein, that he may govern at credible things have we not seen already ! all ; and the whole of the force and vigor What monsters have not been generated of his authority in his center is derived 5o from this unnatural contention ! Whilst from a prudent relaxation in all his every principle of authority and resistance borders. Spain, in her provinces, is per- has been pushed, upon both sides, as far haps not so well obeyed as you are in as it would go, there is nothing so solid yours. She complies too; she submits; and certain, either in reasoning or in she watches times. This is the immutable 55 practice, that has not been shaken. Until condition, the eternal law, of extensive very lately, all authority in America and detached empire. seemed to be nothing but an emanation CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES 447 from yours. Even the popular part of of things appeared. Anarchy is found the colony constitution derived all its ac- tolerable. A vast province has now sub- tivity, and its first vital movement, from sisted, and subsisted in a considerable the pleasure of the crown. We thought, degree of health and vigor, for near a sir, that the utmost which the dis- 5 twelvemonth, without Governor, without contented colonists could do was to dis- public council, without judges, without turb authority; we never dreamt they executive magistrates. How long it will could of themselves supply it; knowing continue in this state, or what may rise in general what an operose business it is out of this unheard-of situation, how can to establish a government absolutely new. 10 the wisest of us conjecture? Our late ex- But having, for our purposes in this con- perience has taught us that many of those tention, resolved that none but an obedient fundamental principles formerly believed assembly should sit; the humors of the infallible, are either not of the importance people there finding all passage through they were imagined to l)e ; or that we have the legal channel stopped, with great '5 not at all adverted to some other far more violence broke out another way. Some important and far more powerful princi- provinces have tried their experiment, pies, which entirely overrule those we had as we have tried ours ; and theirs has considered as onmipotent. I am much succeeded. They have formed a govern- against any further experiments, which ment sufficient for its purposes, without 20 tend to put to the proof any more of these the bustle of a revolution, or the trouble- allowed opinions, which contribute o some formality of an election. Evident much to the public tranquillity. In effect, necessity and tacit consent have done the we suffer as much at home by this loosen- business in an instant. So well they have ing of all ties, and this concussion of all done it, that Lord Dunmore — the ac- 25 established opinions, as we do abroad, count is among the fragments on your For, in order to prove that the Americans table — tells you that the new institution have no right to their liberties, we are is infinitely better obeyed than the an- every day endeavoring to subvert the cient government ever was in its most maxims which preserve the whole spirit fortunate periods. Obedience is what 30 of our own. To prove that the Ameri- makes government, and not the names by cans ought not to be free, we are obliged which it is called; not the name of Gov- to depreciate the value of freedom itself; ernor, as formerly, or Committee, as at and we never seem to gain a paltry ad- present. This new government has vantage over them in debate, without at- originated directly from the people ; and 3s tacking some of those principles, or de- was not transmitted through any of the riding some of those feelings, for which ordinary artificial media of a positive our ancestors have shed their blood, constitution. It was not a manufacture But, sir, in wishing to put an end to ready formed, and transmitted to them in pernicious experiments. I do not mean to that condition from England. The evil 40 preclude the fullest inquiry. Far from it. arising from hence is this, that the Far from deciding on a sudden or par- colonists having once found the possibility tial view, I would patiently go round and of enjoying the advantages of order in round the subject, and survey it minutely the midst of a struggle for liberty, such in every possible aspect. Sir, if I were struggles will not henceforward seem 45 capable of engaging you to an equal al- so terrible to the settled and sober part of tention, I would state that, as far as I am mankind as they had appeared before the capable of discerning, there are but three trial. ways of proceeding relative to this stub- Pursuing the same plan of punishing by born spirit, which prevails in your the denial of the exercise of government 5o colonies, and disturbs your government, to still greater lengths, we wholly abro- These are: to change that spirit, as in- gated the ancient government of Massa- convenient, by removing the causes ; to chusetts. We were confident that the prosecute it as criminal ; or, to comply first feeling, if not the very prospect of with it as necessary. T would not be anarchy, would instantly enforce a com- 55 guilty of an imperfect enumeration; I can plete submission. The experiment was think of but these three. Another has tried. A new, strange, tmexpected phase indeed been started, that of giving up the 448 EDMUND BURKE colonies; but it met so slight a reception, that I do not think myself obliged to dwell a great while upon it. It is nothing but a little sally of anger, like the forward- ness of peevish children, who, when they cannot get all they would have, are re- solved to take nothing. The first of these plans, to change the spirit as inconvenient, by removing the causes, I think is the most like a system- atic proceeding. It is radical in its principle; but it is attended with great difficulties, some of them little short, as I conceive, of impossibilities. This will ap- pear by examining into the plans which have been proposed. As the growing population in the colonies is evidently one cause of their resistance, it was last session mentioned in both Houses, by men of weight, and re- ceived not without applause, that in order to check this evil, it would be proper for the crown to make no further grants of land. But to this scheme there are two objections. The first, that there is al- ready so much unsettled land in private hands as to afford room for an immense future population, although the crown not only withheld its grants, Ijut annihilated its soil. If this be the case, then the only effect of this avarice of desolation, this hoarding of a royal wilderness, would be to raise the value of the possessions in the hands of the great private monopolists, without any adequate check to the grow- ing and alarming mischief of population. But if you stopped your grants, what would be the consequence? The people would occupy without grants. They have already so occupied in many places. You cannot station garrisons in every part of these deserts. If you drive the people from one place, they will carry on their annual tillage, and remove with their flocks and herds to another. Many of the people in the back settlements are already little attached to particular situations. Already they have topped the Appalachian mountains. From thence they behold be- fore them an immense plain, one vast, rich, level meadow ; a square of five hun- dred miles. Over this they would wander without a possibility of restraint; they would change their manners with the habits of their life ; would soon forget a government by which they were dis- owned; would become hordes of English Tartars ; and pouring down upon your unfortified frontiers a fierce and ir- resistible cavalry, become masters of your governors and your counsellors, 5 your collectors and comjjlrollers, and of all the slaves that adhered to them. Such would, and in no long time must, be the effect of attempting to forbid as a crime, and to suppress as an evil, the command 10 and blessing of Providence, ' Increase and multiply.' Such would be the happy result of an endeavor to keep, as a lair of w^ild beasts, that earth which God, by an express charter, has given to the children 15 of men. Far dift'erent, and surely much wiser, has been our policy hitherto. Hitherto we have invited our people, by every kind of bounty, to fixed establish- ments. We have invited the husbandman 20 to look to authority for his title. We have taught him piously to believe in the mysterious virtue of wax and parchment. We have thrown each tract of land, as it was peopled, into districts, that the ruling 25 power should never be wholly out of sight. We have settled all we could ; and we have carefully attended every settle- ment with government. Adhering sir, as I do, to this policy, i^ as well as for the reasons I have just given, I think this new project of hedging-in population to be neither pru- dent nor practicable. To impoverish the colonies in general, 35 and in particular to arrest the noble course of their marine enterprises, would he a more easy task. I freely confess it. We have shown a disposition to a sys- tem of this kind; a disposition even to JO continue the restraint after the offence ; looking on ourselves as rivals to our col- onies, and persuaded that of course we must gain all that they shall lose. Much mischief we may certainly do. The A'-, power inadequate to all other things is often more than sufficient for this. I do not look on the direct and immediate power of the colonies to resist our vio- lence as very formidable. In this, how- •0 ever, I may be mistaken. But when I consider that we have colonies for no pur- pose but to be serviceable to us, it seems to my poor understanding a little pre- posterous to make them unserviceable, in ?5 order to keep them obedient. It is, in truth, nothing more than the old, and, as I thought, exploded problem of tyranny. CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES 449 which proposes to beggar its subjects into offer of liberty would not always be ac- submission. But remember, when you cepted. History furnishes few instances have completed your system of impover- of it. It is sometimes as hard to persuade ishment, that Nature still proceeds in her slaves to be free, as it is to compel free- ordinary course ; that discontent will in- 5 men to be slaves ; and in this auspicious crease with misery ; and that there are scheme we should have both these pleas- critical moments in the fortune of all ing tasks on our hands at once. But states, when they who are too weak to when we talk of enfranchisement, do contribute to your prosperity may be we not perceive that the American mas- strong enough to complete your ruin. 10 ter may enfranchise too, and arm servile Spoliatis anna siipersnnt [Arms remain hands in defence of freedom? A meas- to the despoiled]. aire to which other people have had re- The temper and character which pre- course more than once, and not without vail in our colonies, are, I am afraid, un- success, in a desperate situation of their alterable by any human art. We cannot, 15 affairs. I fear, falsify the pedigree of this fierce Slaves as these unfortunate black people people, and persuade them that they are are, and dull as all men are from slavery, not sprung from a nation in whose veins must they not a little suspect the offer the blood of freedom circulates. The Ian- of freedom from that very nation which guage in which they would hear you tell 20 has sold them to their present masters? them this tale would detect the imposition : from that nation, one of whose causes your speech would betray you. An Eng- of quarrel with those masters is their lishman is the unfittest person on earth to refusal to deal any more in that inhuman argue another Englishman into slavery. traffic? An offer of freedom from Eng- I think it is nearly as little in our 25 land would come rather oddly, shipped to power to change their republican religion them in an African vessel, which is re- as their free descent; or to substitute the fused an entry into the ports of Virginia Roman Catholic, as a penalty; or the or Carolina, with a cargo of three hun- Church of England, as an improvement, dred Angola negroes. It would be curi- The mode of inquisition and dragooning 30 ous to see the Guinea captain attempting is going out of fashion in the Old World, at the same instant to publish his procla- and I should not confide much to their mation of liberty, and to advertise his efficacy in the New. The education of sale of slaves. the Americans is also on the same unal- But let us suppose all these moral terable bottom with their religion. You 35 difficulties got over. The ocean remains, cannot persuade them to burn their books You cannot pump this dry; and as long of curious science; to banish their lawyers as it continues in its present bed, so long from their courts of laws ; or to quench all the causes which weaken authority by the lights of their assemblies, by refusing distance will continue. ' Ye gods, an- to choose those persons who are best read 40 nihilate but space and time, and make in their privileges. It would be no less two lovers happy ! ' was a pious and impracticable to think of wholly annihilat- passionate prayer; but just as reasonable ing the popular assemblies, in which as many of the serious wishes of very these lawyers sit. The army, by which grave and solemn politicians, we must govern in their place, would be 45 If then, sir, it seems almost desperate far more chargeable to us ; not quite so to think of any alternative course for effectual ; and perhaps, in the end, full as changing the moral causes, and not quite difficult to be kept in obedience. easy to remove the natural, which pro- With regard to the high aristocratic duce prejudices irreconcilable to the late spirit of Virginia and the southern colo- 5o exercise of our authority, but that the nies, it has been proposed, I know, to re- spirit infallibly will continue, and, con- duce it, by declaring a general enfran- tinning, will produce such effects as now chisement of their slaves. This project embarrass us; the second mode under has had its advocates and panegyrists; consideration is to prosecute that spirit yet I never could argue myself into any 55 in its overt acts as criminal, opinion of it. Slaves are often much at- At this proposition I must pause a tached to their masters. A general wild moment. The thing seems a great deal 450 EDMUND BURKE too big for my ideas of jurisprudence, munitics, I can scarcely conceive anythiuj^ It should seem to my way of conceiving more completely imprudent than for the such matters, that there is a very wide head of the empire to insist that, if any difference in reason and policy between privilege is pleaded against his will, or the mode of proceeding on the irregular 5 his acts, his whole authority is denied : conduct of scattered individuals, or even instantly to proclaim rebellion, to beat to of bands of men, who disturb order arms, and to put the offending provinces within the state, and the civil dissensions under the ban. Will not this, sir, very which may, from time to time, on great soon teach the provinces to make no dis- questions, agitate the several communities lo tinctions on their part? Will it not teach which compose a great empire. It looks them that the government, against which to me to be narrow and pedantic to apply a claim of liberty is tantamount to high the ordinary ideas of criminal justice to treason, is a government to which sub- this great public contest. I do not know mission is equivalent to slavery? It may the method of drawing up an indictment 15 not always be quite convenient to impress against a whole people. I cannot insult dependent communities with such an idea, and ridicule the feelings of millions of We are indeed, in all disputes with the my fellow-creatures, as Sir Edward Coke colonies, by the necessity of things, the insulted one excellent individual (Sir judge. It is true, sir. But I confess Walter Raleigh) at the bar. I hope I am 20 that the character of judge in my own not ripe to pass sentence on the gravest cause is a thing that frightens me. In- public bodies, entrusted with magistracies stead of filling me ' with pride, I am of great authority and dignity, and exceedingly humbled by it. I cannot pro- charged with the safety of their fellow- ceed with a stern, assured, judicial con- citizens, upon the very same title that I 25 fidence, until I find myself in something am. I really think that, for wise men, more like a judicial character. I must this is not judicious; for sober men, not have these hesitations as long as I am decent; for minds tinctured with human- compelled to recollect that, in my little ity, not mild and merciful. reading upon such contests as these, the Perhaps, sir, I am mistaken in my idea 30 sense of mankind has, at least, as often of an empire, as distinguished from a decided against the superior as the sub- single state or kingdom. But my idea of ordinate power. Sir, let me add too, that it is this: that an empire is the aggre- the opinion of my having some abstract gate of many states under one conn-non right in my favor would not put me much head ; whether this head be a monarch, 3S at my ease in passing sentence, unless I or a presiding republic. It does, in such could be sure that there were no rights constitutions, frequently happen (and which, in their exercise under certain nothing but the dismal, cold, dead uni- circumstances, were not the most odious formity of servitude can prevent its of all wrongs, and the most vexatious happening) that the subordinate parts 4° of all injustice. Sir, these considerations have many local privileges and immu- have great weight with me, when I find nities. Between these privileges and the things so circumstanced, that I see the supreme common authority the line may same party at once a civil litigant against be extremely nice. Of course, disputes, me in point of right; and a culprit before often, too, very bitter disputes, and much 4'; me, while I sit as a criminal judge on ill bl'ood, will arise. But though every acts of his, whose moral quality is to be privilege is an exemption (in the case) decided upon the merits of that very from the ordinary exercise of the supreme litigation. Men are every now and then authority, it is no denial of it. The claim put, by the complexity of human affairs, of the privilege seems rather, ex vi ter-'>° into strange situations; but justice is the mini [by the meaning of the term], to im- same, let the judge be in what situation ply a superior power. For to talk of the he will. privileges of a state, or of a person, who There is, sir, also a circumstance which has no superior, is hardly any better than convinces me that this mode of criminal speaking nonsense. Now, in such un- ^^ proceeding is not (at least in the present fortunate quarrels among the component stage of our contest) altogether expedi- parts of a great political union of com- ent ; which is nothing less than the con- CONCILIATION WITH THE COLONIES 451 duct of those very persons who have please any people, you must give them the seemed to adopt that mode, by lately de- boon which they ask ; not what you may daring a rebellion in Massachusetts Bay, think better for them, but of a kind as they had formerly addressed to have totally different. Such an act may be a traitors brought hither, under an Act of 5 wise regulation, but it is no concession ; Henry the Eighth, for trial. For though whereas our present theme is the mode of rebellion is declared, it is not proceeded giving satisfaction. against as such ; nor have any steps been Sir, I think you must perceive that I taken towards the apprehension or con- am resolved this day to have nothing at viction of any individual offender, either 10 all to do with the question of the right on our late or our former Address ; but of taxation. Some gentlemen startle — modes of public coercion have been but it is true; I put it totally out of the adopted, and such as have much more question. It is less than nothing in my resemblance to a sort of qualified hos- consideration. I do not indeed wonder, tility toward an independent power than y nor will you, sir, that gentlemen of pro- the punishment of rebellious subjects. found learning are fond of displaying it All this seems rather inconsistent; but it on this profound subject. But my con- shows how difficult it is to apply these sideration is narrow, confined, and wholly juridical ideas to our present case. limited to the policy of the question. I In this situation, let us seriously and 20 do not examine whether the giving away coolly ponder. What is it we have got a man's money be a power excepted and by all our menaces, which have been reserved out of the general trust of many and ferocious? What advantage government; and how far all mankind, in have we derived from the penal laws we all forms of polity, are entitled to an ex- have rightly passed, and which, for the 25 ercise of that right by the charter of time, have been severe and numerous? Nature. Or whether, on the contrary, a What advances have we made towards right of taxation is necessarily involved our object, by the sending of a force in the general principle of legislation, and which, by land and sea, is no contemp- inseparable from the ordinary supreme tible strength? Has the disorder abated? 30 power. These are deep questions, where Nothing less. When I see things in this great names militate against each other; situation, after such confident hopes, bold where reason is perplexed ; and an appeal promises, and active exertions, I cannot to authorities only thickens the confusion, for my life avoid a suspicion that the plan For high and reverend authorities lift up itself is not correctly right. 35 their heads on both sides; and there is no If then the removal of the causes of sure footing in the middle. This point this spirit of American liberty be, for the ' is the great Serbonian bog. Betwixt greater part^ or rather entirely, imprac- Damiata and Mount Casius old. Where ticable ; if the ideas of criminal process armies whole have sunk.' I do not intend be inapplicable, or if applicable, are in 40 to be overwhelmed in that bog, though in the highest degree inexpedient; what way such respectable company. The question yet remains ? No way is open but the with me is, not whether you have a right third and last — to comply with the to render your people miserable, but American spirit as necessary; or, if you whether it is not your interest to make please, to submit to it as a necessary evil. 45 them happy. It is not what a lawyer tells If we adopt this mode; if we mean to me I may do, but what humanity, reason, conciliate and concede; let us see of what and justice tell me I ought to do. Is a nature the concession ought to be: to as- politic act the worse for being a generous certain the nature of our concession we one ? Is no concession proper, but that must look at their complaint. The col- 50 which is made from your want of right to onies complain that they have not the keep what you grant? Or does it lessen characteristic mark and seal of British the grace or dignity of relaxing in the freedom. They complain that they are exercise of an odious claim, because you taxed in a parliament in which they are have your evidence-room full of titles, not represented. If you mean to satisfy 55 and your magazines stuffed with arms to them at all. you must satisfv them with enforce them? What signify all those regard to this complaint. If you mean to titles and all those arms? Of what avail 452 EDMUND BURKE are they, when the reason of the thing My idea, therefore, without considering tells me that the assertion of my title is whether we yield as matter of right, or the loss of my suit; and that I could do grant as matter of favor, is to admit the nothing but wound myself by the use of people of our colonies into an interest in my own weapons? 5 llie Constitution; and, by recording that Such is steadfastly my opinion of the admission in the journals of parliament, absolute necessity of keeping up the con- to give them as strong an assurance as cord of this empire by a unity of spirit, the nature of the thing will admit, that though in a diversity of operations, that, we mean for ever to adhere to that if I were sure the colonists had, at their lo solemn declaration of systematic indul- leaving this country, sealed a regular gence. compact of servitude ; that they had Some years ago, the repeal of a Rev- solemnly abjured all the rights of citi- enue Act, upon its understood principle, zens; that they had made a vow to re- might have served to show that we in- nounce all ideas of liberty for them and i5- tended an unconditional abatement of the their posterity to all generations; yet I exercise of a taxing power. Such a should hold myself obliged to conform to measure was then sufficient to remove all the temper I found universally prevalent suspicion, and to give perfect content, in my own day, and to govern two million But unfortunate events, since that time, of men, impatient of servitude, on the 20 may make something further necessary; principles of freedom. I am not deter- and not more necessary for the satisfac- mining a point of law; I am restoring tion of the colonies, than for the dignity tranquillity ; and the general character and consistency of our own future pro- and situation of a people must determine ceedings. what sort of government is fitted for them. 25 * * * That point nothing else can or ought to (i775) determine. I EDWARD GIBBON (1737-1794) The greatest of English historians was born not far from London, at Putney in Surrey, where his father lived the easy life of a country gentleman. . Gibbon ascribed the success of his later years to the ' golden mediocrity ' of his fortunes, which preserved him on the one hand from the seductions of pleasure and, on the other, from the need of earning a living. His childhood was sickly, his education was intermittent, and he was indulged in his bent for reading which soon settled to a passion for history. At an early age he had devoured everything in that department which was accessible in English and had begun to annex other languages in order that he might gratify his hunger for original documents. He was sent at fifteen to Magdalen College, Oxford, and has left a withering indictment of the neglect and incompetence which he encountered at that seat of learning. Left to himself, he fell under the influence of a Jesuit and was converted to Roman Catholicism; whereupon his father promptly deported him to Switzerland and placed him under the care of a Calvinist minister at Lausanne. Through constant practice in the defense of his faith he became familiar with its assailable points, and soon passed to the position of scepticism which he permanently occupied. He mastered the French language and the French method of study and became deeply imbued with the French rationalistic ideas of the period. By five years of great diligence under able direction he laid the foundation of his superb equipment for the task of his life. Returning to England, he published in the French language his first book, Essai sur l' Etude de la Litterainre [Essay on the Study of Literature] (1761). To please his father he served for two years and a half as a captain of militia. The singleness of his ambition is well illustrated by his summary of these lost years: 'The discipline and evolu- tions of a modern battalion gave me a clearer notion of the phalanx and the legions, and the captain of the Hampshire grenadiers — the reader may smile — has not been useless to the historian of the Roman empire.' But of this and of his later career in Parliament he was impatient as of anything which did not contribute directly to his one ambition. From his early youth he had ' aspired to the character of a historian.' but he remained unsettled as to the field he should occupy until he found himself at Rome. ' In my journal, the place and the moment of the conception are recorded,' he tells us in his Memoirs, ' the fif- teenth of October, 1764, in the close of the evening, as I sat musing in the church of the Zoccolanti or Franciscan friars, while they were singing vespers in the temple of Jupiter on the ruins of the Capitol.' Two years elapsed before he was able to set to work, twelve before the first volume was published in London, and another twelve before he laid down his pen at Lausanne. His History of the Decline and Fall had been his life, the one object toward which all his reading and experience were made to converge, and is the one subject of his Memoirs. He quietly finished his days at Lausanne, undoubtedly justified in his feeling that this achievement had been enough for one life. The substance of Gibbon's ' candid and rational inquiry into the human causes ' of the religious growth which undermined the civilization of the ancient world, has not remained totally unassailed by the modern historian; nor is Gibbon's style perfect; but it is safe to say that no other Englishman has united in an equal degree abundance and accuracy of information, sense of historical perspective and proportion, vigor of narrative, and splendor of style. From THE DECLINE AND FALL OF a deep ditch of the depth of one hundred THE ROMAN EMPIRE feet. Against this Hne of fortification, which Phranza, an eye-witness, prolongs Of the triangle which composes the to the measure of six miles, the Ottomaiis figure of Constantinople, the two sides 5 directed their principal attack; and the along the sea were made inaccessible to emperor, after distributing the service an enemy: the Propontis by nature and and command of the most perilous sta- the harbor by art. Between the two tions, undertook the defence of the ex- waters, the basis of the triangle, the land ternal wall. In the first days of the siege, side was protected by a double wall and lo the Greek soldiers descended into the 453 454 EDWARD GIBBON ditch, or sallied into the field; but they workmen were destroyed; and the skill of soon discovered that, in the proportion of an artist was admired, who bethought their numbers, one christian was of more himself of preventing the danger and the value than twenty Turks; and, after these accident, by pouring oil, after each explo- bold preludes, they were prudently con- ^ sion, into the mouth of the cannon, tent to maintain the ramj)art with their The first random shots were productive missile weapons. Nor should this pru- of more sound than effect; and it was by dence be accused of pusillanimity. The the advice of a christian that the en- nation was indeed pusillanimous and gineers were taught to level their aim base; but the last Constantine deserves ,o against the two opposite sides of the the name of an hero: his noble band of salient angles of a bastion. However volunteers was inspired with •Roman vir^ imperfect, the weight and repetition of tue ; and the foreign auxiliaries supported the fire made some impression on the the honor of the Western chivalry. The walls; and the Turks, pushing their ap- incessant volleys of lances and arrows 15 proaches to the edge of the ditch, at- w'ere accompanied with the smoke, the tempted to fill the enormous chasm and sound, and the fire of their musketry and to build a road to the assault. Innumer- cannon. Their small arms discharged at able fascines and hogsheads and trunks of the same time either five or even ten trees were heaped on each other ; and balls of lead of the size of a walnut; and, 20 such was the impetuosity of the throng according to the closeness of the ranks that the foremost and the weakest were and the force of the powder, several pushed headlong down the precipice and breastplates and bodies were transpierced instantly buried under the accumulated by the same shot. But the Turkish ap- mass. To fill the ditch was the toil of proaches were soon sunk in trenches or 25 the besiegers ; to clear away the rubbish covered with ruins. Each day added to was the safety of the besieged; and. after the science of the christians; but their a long and bloody conflict, the web that inadequate stock of gunpowder was had been woven in the day was still un- wasted in the operations of each day raveled in the night. The next resource Their ordnance was not powerful either 30 of Mahomet was the practice of mines ; in size or number ; and, if they possessed but the soil was rocky; in every attempt some heavy cannon, they feared to plant he was stopped and undermined by the them on the walls, lest the aged structure christian engineers ; nor had the art been should be shaken and overthrown by the yet invented of replenishing those sub- explosion. The same destructive secret 3s terraneous passages with gunpowder and had been revealed to the Moslems; by blowing whole towers and cities into the whom it was employed with the superior air. A circumstance that distinguishes energy of zeal, riches, and despotism. the siege of Constantinople is the reunion The great cannon of Mahomet has been of the ancient and modern artillery, separately noticed ; an important and 40 The cannon were intermingled with the visible object in the history of the times: mechanical engines for casting stones and but that enormous engine was flanked by darts; the bullet and the battering-ram two fellows almost of equal magnitude ; were directed against the same walls ; nor the long order of the Turkish artillery had the discovery of gunpowder super- was pointed against the walls; fourteen 45 seded the use of the liquid and unextin- batteries thundered at once on the most guishable fire. A wooden turret of the accessible places; and of one of these it largest size was advanced on rollers: this is ambiguously expressed that it was portable magazine of ammunition and fas- mounted with one hundred and thirty cines was protected by a threefold cover- guns, or that it discharged one hundred 5° ing of bulls' hides; incessant volleys w^re and thirty bullets. Yet, in the power and securely discharged from the loop-holes; activity of the sultan, we may discern the in the front, three doors were contrived infancy of the new science. Under a for the alternate sally and retreat of the master who counted the moments, the soldiers and workmen. They ascended great cannon could be loaded and fired no ^^ by a staircase to the upper platform, and. more than seven times in one day. The as high as the level of that platform, a heated metal unfortunately burst; several scaling-ladder could be raised by pulleys FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE 455 to form a bridge and grapple with the tlie greatness of the spectacle. The five adverse rampart. By these various arts christian ships continued to advance with of annoyance, some as new as they were joyful shouts, and a full press both of pernicious to the Greeks, the tower of St. sails and oars, against an hostile fleet of Romanus was at length overturned: after 5 tiiree hundred vessels; and the rampart, a severe struggle, the Turks were re- the camp, the coasts of Europe and Asia, pulsed from the breach and interrupted were lined with innumerable spectators, by darkness; but they trusted that with who anxiously awaited the event of this the return of light they should renew the momentous succor. At the first view attack with fresh vigor and decisive 10 that event could not appear doubtful: the success. Of this pause of action, this superiority of the Moslems was beyond interval of hope, each moment was im- all measure or account; and, in a calm, proved by the activity of the emperor and their numbers and valor must inevitably Justiniani, who passed the night on the have prevailed. But their hasty and im- spot, and urged the labors which involved 'S perfect navy had been created, not by the the safety of the church and city. At genius of the people, but by the will of the dawn of day, the impatient sultan the sultan: in the height of their pros- perceived, with astonishment and grief, perity, the Turks have acknowledged that, that his wooden turret had been reduced if God had given them the earth, he had to ashes: the ditch was cleared and re- 2° left the sea to the infidels; and a series of stored ; and the tower of St. Romanus defeats, a rapid progress of decay, has was again strong and entire. He de- established the truth of their modest con- plored the failure of his design; and fession. Except eighteen galleys of some uttered a profane exclamation that the force, the rest of their fleet consisted of word of the thirty-seven thousand proph- 25 open boats, rudely constructed and awk- ets should not have compelled him to be- wardly managed, crowded with troops and lieve that such a work, in so short a time, destitute of cannon ; and, since courage should have been accomplished by the in- arises in a great measure from the con- fidels. sciousness of strength, the bravest of the The generosity of the christian princes 30 Janizaries might tremble on a new ele- was cold and tardy; but, in the first ap- ment. In the christian squadron, five prehension of a siege, Constantine had stout and lofty ships were guided by skil- negotiated, in the isles of the Archipelago, ful pilots, and manned with the veterans the Morea, and Sicily, the most indispen- of Italy and Greece, long practised in the sable supplies. As early as the begin- 35 arts and perils of the sea. Their weight ning of April, five great ships, equipped was directed to sink or scatter the weak for merchandise and war, would have obstacles that impeded their passage: sailed from the harbor of Chios, had not their artillery swept the waters; their the wind blown obstinately from the liquid fire was poured on the heads of the north. One of these ships bore the Im- 40 adversaries who. with the design of perial flag; the remaining four belonged ])oarding, presumed to approach them; to the Genoese ; and they were laden with and the winds and waves are always on wheat and barley, with wine, oil, and the side of the ablest navigators. In this vegetables, and, above all, with soldiers conflict, the Imperial vessel, which had and mariners, for the service of the 45 been almost overpowered, was rescued by capital. After a tedious delay, a gentle the Genoese; but the Turks, in a distant breeze, and. on the second day, a strong and closer attack, were twice repulsed gale from the south, carried them through with considerable loss. Mahomet himself the Hellespont and the Propontis ; but the sat on horseback on the beach, to en- city was already invested by sea and land ; 50 courage their valor by his voice and and the Turkish fleet, at the entrance of presence, by the promise of reward, and the Bosphorus, was stretched from shore bv fear more potent than the fear of the to shore, in the form of a crescent, to enemy. The passions of his soul, and intercept, or at least to repej_. these bold even the gestures of his bodv, seemed auxiliaries. The reader whrThas present 55 to imitate the actions of the combatants; to his mind the geographical picture of and, as if he had been the lord of nature. Constantinople, will conceive and admire he spurred his horse with a fearless and 456 EDWARD GIBBON impotent effort into the sea. His loud re- etrate the secret of the divan; yet the proaches, and the clamors of the camp, G,reeks are persuaded that a resistance ureed the Ottomans to a third attack, so obstinate and surprising, had fatigued more fatal and bloody than the two the perseverance of Mahomet. He began former; and I must repeat, though I can- 5 to meditate a retreat, and the siege would not credit, the evidence of Phranza, who have been speedily raised, if the ambition affirms, from their own mouth, that they and jealousy of the second vizir had not lost above twelve thousand men in the opposed the perfidious advice of Calil slaughter of the day. They fled in dis- Bashaw, who still maintained a secret order to the shores of Europe and Asia, lo correspondence with the Byzantine court, while the christian squadron, triumphant The reduction of the city ap])earcd to be and unhurt, steered along the Bosphorus hopeless, unless a double attack could be and securelv anchored within the chain niade from the harbor as well as from of the harbor. In the confidence of the land ; but the harbor was inaccessible : victory they boasted that the whole i5 an impenetrable chain was now defended Turkish power must have yielded to their by eight large ships, more than twenty of arms; but the admiral, or captain bashaw, a smaller size, with several galleys and found some consolation for a painful sloops ; and instead of forcing this barrier, wound in his eye, by representing that the Turks might apprehend a naval sally accident as the cause of his defeat. 20 and a second encounter in the open sea. Baltha Ogli was a renegade of the race In this perplexity, the genius of Mahomet of the Bulgarian princes; his military conceived and executed a plan of a bold character was tainted with the unpopular and marvelous cast, of transporting by vice of avarice; and, under the despotism land his lighter vessels and military stores of the prince or people, misfortune is a 25 from the Bosphorus into the higher pan sufficient evidence of guilt. His rank and of the harbor. The distance is about ten services were annihilated by the displeas- miles; the ground is uneven, and was ure of Mahomet. In the royal presence, overspread with thickets ; and, as the road the captain bashaw was extended on the must be opened behind the suburb of ground by four slaves, and received one 30 Galata, their free passage or total destruc- hundred strokes with a golden rod; his tion must depend on the option of the death had been pronounced; and he Genoese. But these selfish merchants adored the clemency of the sultan, who were ambitious of the favor of being the was satisfied with the milder punishment last devoured; and the deficiency of art of confiscation and exile. The introduc- 35 was supplied by the strength of obedient tion of this supply revived the hopes of myriads. A level way was covered with the Greeks, and accused the supineness a broad platform of strong and solid of their Western allies. Amidst the des- planks ; and to render them more slippery erts of Anatolia and the rocks of Pales- and smooth, they were anointed with the tine, the millions of the crusades had 40 fat of sheep and oxen. Fourscore light buried themselves in a voluntary and in- galleys and brigantines of fifty and thirty evitable grave; but the situation of the oars were disembarked on the Bosphorus Imperial city was strong against her shore, arranged successively on rollers, enemies, and accessible to her friends ; and drawn forwards by the power of men and a rational and moderate armament of 45 and pulleys. Two guides or pilots were the maritime states might have saved the stationed at the helm and the prow of relics of the Roman name, and maintained each vessel: the sails were unfurled to a christian fortress in the heart of the the winds; and the labor was cheered Ottoman empire. Yet this was the sole by song and acclamation. In the course and feeble attempt for the deliverance of 5° of a single night, this Turkish fleet pain- Constantinople ; the more distant powers fully climbed the hill, steered over the were insensible of its danger; and the plain, and was launched from the de- ambassador of Hungary, or at least of clivity into the shallow waters of the Huniades, resided in the Turkish camp, harbor, far above the molestation of the to remove the fears, and to direct the 55 deeper vessels of the Greeks. The real operations, of the sultan. importance of this operation was mag- It was difficult for the Greeks to pen- nified by the consternation and confidence FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE 457 which it inspired ; but the notorious, un- serted the pre-eminence of their respective questionable fact was displayed before the service; and Justiniani and the Great eyes, and is recorded by the pens, of the Duke, whose ambition was not extiri- two nations. A similar stratagem had guished by the common danger, accused been repeatedly practised by the an- 5 each other of treachery and cowardice, cients; the Ottoman galleys, I must During the siege of Constantinople, the again repeat, should be considered as words of peace and capitulation had been large boats; and, if we compare the mag- sometimes pronounced; and several em- nitude and the distance, the obstacles and bassies had passed between the camp and the means, the boasted miracle has per- lo the city. The Greek emperor was hum- haps been equaled by the industry of our bled by adversity; and would have yielded own times. As soon as Mahomet had to any terms compatible with religion and occupied the upper harbor with a fleet royalty. The Turkish sultan was desirous and army, he constructed, in the narrow- of sparing the blood of his soldiers; still est part, a bridge, or rather mole, of fifty 15 more desirous of securing for his own cubits in breadth and one hundred in use the Byzantine treasures ; and he ac- length; it was formed of casks and hogs- complished a sacred duty in presenting heads, joined with rafters linked with to the Gabours the choice of circumcision, iron, and covered with a solid floor. On of tribute, or of death. The avarice of this floating battery he planted one of his 20 ]\Iahomet might have been satisfied with largest cannon, while the fourscore an annual sum of one hundred thousand galleys, with troops and scaling-ladders, ducats; but his ambition grasped the approached the most accessible side, capital of the East; to the prince he of- which had formerly been stormed by the fered a rich equivalent, to the people a Latin conquerors. The indolence of the 25 free toleration or a safe departure: but, christians has been accused for not de- after some fruitless treaty, he declared stroying these unfinished works; but their his resolution of finding either a throne fire, by a superior fire, was controlled and or a grave under the walls of Constan- silenced; nor were they wanting in a tinople. A sense of honor and the fear nocturnal attempt to burn the vessels as 3° of universal reproach forbade Palasologus well as- the bridge of the sultan. His to resign the city into the hands of the vigilance prevented their approach ; their Ottomans ; and he determined to abide the foremost galliots were sunk or taken ; last extremities of war. Several days forty youths, the bravest of Italy and were employed by the sultan in the prep- Greece were inhumanly massacred at his 35 arations of the assault ; and a respite command ; nor could the emperor's grief was granted by his favorite science of be assuaged by the just though cruel re- astrology, which had fixed on the twenty- taliation of exposing from the walls the ninth of May as the fortunate and fatal heads of two hundred and sixty Mussul- hour. On the evening of the twenty-sev- man captives. After a siege of forty 4° enth, he issued his final orders ; assembled days, the fate of Constantinople could no in his presence the military chiefs; and longer be averted. The diminutive gar- dispersed his heralds through the camp rison was exhausted by a double attack; to proclaim the duty and the motives of the fortifications, which had stood for the perilous enterprise. Fear is the first ages against hostile violence, were dis- 45 principle of a despotic government; and mantled on all sides by the Ottoman his menaces were expressed in the Ori- cannon ; many breaches were opened; and ental style, that the fugitives and desert - near the gate of St. Romanus four towers ers, had they the wings of a bird, should had been leveled with the ground. For not escape from his inexorable justice, the payment of his feeble and mutinous so The greatest part of his bashaws and troops, Constantine was compelled to de- Janizaries were the offspring of chris- spoil the churches, with the promise of a tian parents; but the glories of the Turk- fourfold restitution; and his sacrilege ish name were perpetuated by successive offered a new reproach to the enemies of adoption; and, in the gradual change of the union. A spirit of discord impaired 55 individuals, the spirit of a legion, a reg- the remnant of the christian strength: iment. or an oda is kept alive by imita- the Genoese and \^enetian auxiliaries as- tion and discipline. In this holy warfare, 458 EDWARD GIBBON the Moslems were exhorted to purify pense to the heroes who fall in the serv- their minds with prayer, their bodies ice of their country. But the example with seven ablutions; and to abstain from of their prince and the confinement of food till the close of the ensuing day. a siege had armed these warriors with A crowd of dervishes visited the tents, 5 the courage of despair ; and the pathetic to instil the desire of martyrdom, and scene is described by the feelings of the the assurance of spending an immortal historian I'hranza, who was himself youth amidst the rivers and gardens of present at this mournful assembly. They paradise and in the embraces of the black- wept, they embraced; regardless of their eyed virgins. Yet Mahomet principally lo families and fortunes, they devoted their trusted to the efiicacy of temporal and lives; and each commander, departing to visible rewards. A double pay was his station, maintained all night a vigi- promised to the victorious troops : ' The lant and anxious watch on the rampart, city and the buildings,' said Mahomet, The emperor, and some faithful compan- ' are mine ; but I resign to your valor 15 ions, entered the dome of St. Sophia, the captives and the spoil, the treasures which in a few hours was to be converted of gold and beauty ; be rich and be happy. into a mosque; and devoutly received, Many are the provinces of my empire: with tears and prayers, the sacrament of the intrepid soldier who first ascends the the holy communion. He reposed some walls of Constantinople shall be rewarded 20 moments in the palace, which resounded with the government of the fairest and with cries and lamentations; solicited the most wealthy; and my gratitude shall ac- pardon of all whom he might have in- cumulate his honors and fortunes above jured; and mounted on horseback to the measure of his own hopes.' Such visit the guards and explore the motions various and potent motives diffused 25 of the enemy. The distress and fall of among the Turks a general ardor, re- the last Constantine are more glorious gardless of life and impatient for action : than the long prosperity of the Byzantine the camp re-echoed with the Moslem Caesars. shouts of ' God is God, there is but one In the confusion of darkness an assail- God, and Mahomet is the apostle of 30 ant may sometimes succeed ; but, in this God ' ; and the sea and land, from Ga- great and general attack, the military lata to the seven towers, were illuminated judgment and astrological knowledge of by the blaze of their nocturnal fires. Mahomet advised him to expect the Far different was the state of the morning, the memorable twenty-ninth of christians; who with loud and impotent 35 May, in the fourteen hundred and fifty- complaints, deplored the guilt, or the third year of the christian sera. The punishment, of their sins. The celestial preceding night had been strenuously em- image of the Virgin had been exposed in ployed: the troops, the cannon, and the solemn procession ; but their divine pa- fascines were advanced to the edge of troness was deaf to their entreaties : they 40 the ditch, which, in many parts, pre- accused the obstinacy of the emperor for sented a smooth and level passage to the refusing a timely surrender; anticipated breach; and his fourscore galleys al- the horrors of their fate ; and sighed for most touched, with the prows and their the repose and security of Turkish serv- scaling-ladders, the less defensible walls itude. The noblest of the Greeks, and 45 of the harbor. Under pain of death, si- the bravest of the allies, were summoned lence was enjoined ; but the physical to the palace, to prepare them, on the laws of motion and sound are not obedi- evening of the twenty-eighth, for the ent to discipline or fear; each individual duties and dangers of the general assault. might suppress his voice and measure his The last speech of Palseologus was the 5o footsteps ; but the march and labor of funeral oration of the Roman Empire: thousands must inevitably produce a he promised, he conjured, and he vainly strange confusion of dissonant clamors, attempted to infuse the hope which was which reached the ears of the watchmen extinguished in his own mind. In this of the towers. At daybreak, without the world all was comfortless and gloomy; 55 customary signal of the morning-gun, the and neither the gospel nor the church Turks assaulted the city by sea and land ; have proposed any conspicuous recom- and the similitude of a twined or twisted FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE 459 thread has been applied to the closeness dispelled by 'the final deliverance or de- and continuity of their line of attack. struction of the Roman empire. The The foremost ranks consisted of the single combats of the heroes of history refuse of the host, a voluntary crowd, or fable amuse our fancy and engage our who fought without order or command; 5 affections: the skilful evolutions of war of the feebleness of age or childhood, of may inform the mind, and improve a peasants and vagrants, and of all who necessary though pernicious science, had joined the camp in the blind hope But, in the uniform and odious pictures of plunder and martyrdom. The com- of a general assault, all is blood, and mon impulse drove them onwards to the 10 horror, and confusion ; nor shall I strive, wall; the most audacious to climb were at the distance of three centuries and a instantly precipitated; and not a dart, not thousand miles, to delineate a scene of a bullet of the christians was idly wasted which there could be no spectators, and on the accumulated throng. But their of which the actors themselves were in- strength and ammunition were exhausted 15 capable of forming any just or adequate in this laborious defence ; the ditch was idea. filled with the bodies of the slain; they The immediate loss of Constantinople supported the footsteps of their com- may be ascribed to the bullet, or arrow, panions; and of this devoted van- which pierced the gauntlet of John Jus- guard the death was more serviceable 20 tiniani. The sight of his blood, and the than the life. Under their respective exquisite pain, appalled the courage of bashaws and sanjaks, the troops of An- the chief, whose arms and counsel were atolia and Romania were successively the firmest rampart of the city. As he led to the charge: their progress was va- withdrew from his station in quest of rious and doubtful ; but, after a conflict 25 a surgeon, his flight was perceived and of two hours, the Greeks still maintained stopped by the indefatigable emperor, and improved their advantage; and the 'Your wound,' exclaimed Palaaologus, 'is voice of the emperor was heard, en- slight; the danger is pressing; your pres- couraging his soldiers to achieve, by a ence is necessary; and whither will you last effort, the deliverance of their coun- 30 retire ? ' 'I will retire,' said the trem- try. In that fatal moment, the Janizaries bling Genoese, ' by the same road which arose, fresh, vigorous, and invincible. God has opened to the Turks ; ' and at The sultan himself on horseback, with these words he hastily passed through an iron mace in his hand, was the one of the breaches of the inner wall, spectator and judge of their valor; he 35 By this pusillanimous act, he stained was surrounded by ten thousand of his the honors of a military life; and the domestic troops, whom he reserved for few days which he survived in Galata, the decisive occasion; and the tide of or the isle of Chios, were embittered by battle was directed and impelled by his his own and the public reproach. His voice and eye. His numerous ministers 40 example was imitated by the greatest of justice were posted behind the line. part of the Latin auxiliaries, and the to urge, to restrain, and to punish ; and, defence began to slacken when the at- if danger was in the front, shame and tack was pressed with redoubled vigor, inevitable death were in the rear of the The number of Ottomans was fifty, per- fugitives. The cries of fear and of pain 45 haps an hundred, times superior to that were drowned in the martial music of of the christians; the double walls were drums, trumpets, and attaballs; and ex- reduced by the cannon to an heap of perience has proved that the mechanical ruins; in a circuit of several miles, some operation of sounds, by quickening the places must be found more easy of access circulation of the blood and spirits, will 50 or more feebly guarded; and, if the be- act on the human machine more forcibly siegers could penetrate in a single point, than the eloquence of reason and honor. the whole city was irrecoverably lost. From the lines, the galleys, and the The first who deserved the sultan's re- bridge, the Ottoman artillery thundered ward was Hassan, the Janizary, of on all sides ; and the camp and city, the 55 gigantic stature and strength. With his Greeks and the Turks, were involved in scimitar in one hand and his buckler in a cloud of smoke, which could only be the other, he ascended the outward forti- 46o EDWARD GIBBON fication: of the thirty Janizaries, who quarters might prolong, some moments, were emulous of his valor, eighteen i)er- the happy ignorance of their ruin. But ished in the bold adventure. Hassan and in the general consternation, in the feel- his twelve companions had reached the ings of selfish or social anxiety, in the summit : the giant was precipitated from 5 tumult and thunder of the assault, a the rampart; he rose on one knee, and sleepless night and morning must have was again oppressed by a shower of darts elapsed ; nor can I believe that many and stones. But his success had proved Grecian ladies were awakened by the that the achievement was possible: the Janizaries from a sound and tranquil walls and towers were instantly covered lo slumber. On the assurance of the pub- with a swarm of Turks; and the Greeks, He calamity, the houses and convents now driven from the vantage-ground, were instantly deserted ; and the _ trem- were overwhelmed by increasing multi- bling inhabitants flocked together in the tudes. Amidst these multitudes, the em- streets, like an herd of timid animals, as peror, who accomplished all the duties 15 if accumulated weakness could be pro- of a general and a soldier, was long seen, ductive of strength, or in the vain hope and finally lost. The nobles who fought that amid the crowd each individual might round his person sustained, till their last be safe and invisible. From every part breath, the honorable names of Palaeo- of the capital, they flowed into the church logus and Cantacuzene : his mournful ex- 20 of St. Sophia : in the space of an hour, clamation was heard, * Cannot there be the sanctuary, the choir, the nave, the found a christian to cut off my head? upper and lower galleries, were filled with and his last fear was that of falling alive the multitudes of fathers and husbands, into the hands of the infidels. The of women and children, of priests, monks, prudent despair of Constantine cast away 25 and religious virgins : the doors were purple; amidst the tumult, he fell by an barred on the inside, and they sought unknown hand, and his body was buried protection from the sacred dome which under a mountain of the slain. After his they had so lately abhorred as a profane death, resistance and order were no more ; and polluted edifice. Their confidence the Greeks fled towards the city ; and 30 was founded on the prophecy of an en- many were pressed and stifled in the thusiast or impostor, that one day the narrow pass of the gate of St. Romanus. Turks would enter Constantinople, and The victorious Turks rushed through the pursue the Romans as far as the column breaches of the inner wall ; and, as they of Constantine in the square before St. advanced into the streets, they were soon 35 Sophia ; but that this would be the term joined by their brethren, who had forced of their calamities; that an angel would the gate Phenar on the side of the har- descend from heaven, with a sword in his bor. In the first heat of the pursuit, hand, and would deliver the empire, with about two thousand christians were put that celestial weapon, to a poor man to the sword ; but avarice soon prevailed 40 seated at the foot of the column. ' Take over cruelty ; and the victors acknowl- this sword,' would he say, ' and avenge edged that they should immediately have the people of the Lord.' At these ani- given quarter, if the valor of the em- mating words, the Turks would instantly peror and his chosen bands had not pre- fly, and the victorious Romans would pared them for a similar opposition in 45 drive them from the West, and from all every part of the capital. It was thus, Anatolia, as far as the frontiers of Per- after a siege of fifty-three days, that Con- sia. It is on this occasion that Ducas, stantinople, which had defied the power with some fancy and much truth, up- of Chosroes, the Chagan, and the caliphs, braids the discord and obstinacy of the was irretrievably subdued by the arms 50 Greeks. ' Had that angel appeared,' ex- of Mahomet the Second. Her empire claims the historian, ' had he offered to only had been subverted by the Latins: exterminate your foes if you would con- her religion was trampled in the dust by sent to the union of the church, even the Moslem conquerors. then, in that fatal moment, you would The tidings of misfortune fly with a 55 have rejected your safety or have de- rapid wing; yet such was the extent of ceived your God.' Constantinople that the more distant While they expected the descent of the FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE 461 tardy angel, the doors were broken with with a suppliant and lamentable crowd; axes; and, as the Turks encountered no but the means of transportation were resistance, their bloodless hands were scanty ; the Venetians and Genoese se- employed in selecting and securing the lected their countrymen; and, notwith- multitude of their prisoners. Youth, 5 standing the fairest promises of the sul- beauty, and the appearance of wealth tan, the inhabitants of Galata evacuated attracted their choice; and the right of their houses and embarked with their property was decided among themselves most precious effects, by a prior seizure, by personal strength, In the fall and the sack of great cities, and by the authority of command. In 10 an historian is condemned to repeat the the space of an hour, the male captives tale of uniform calamity: the same ef- were bounds with cords, the females with fects must be produced by the same pas- their veils and girdles. The senators sions ; and, when those passions may be were linked with their slaves; the prelates indulged without control, small, alas! is with the porters of the church ; and young 15 the difference between civilised and sav- men of a plebeian class with noble maids, age man. Amidst the vague exclama- whose faces had been invisible to the sun tions of bigotry and hatred, the Turks and their nearest kindred. In this com- are not accused of a wanton or immoder- mon captivity, the ranks of society were ate effusion of christian blood; but, ac- confounded; the ties of nature were cut 20 cording to their maxims (the maxims of asunder; and the inexorable soldier v^^as antiquity), the lives of the vanquished careless of the father's groans, the tears were forfeited ; and the legitimate re- of the mother, and the lamentations of ward of the conqueror was derived from the children. The loudest in their wail- the service, the sale, or the ransom, of ings were the nuns, who were torn from ^5 his captives of both sexes. The wealth the altar with naked bosoms, outstretched of Constantinople had been granted by hands, and disheveled hair; and we the sultan to his victorious troops; and should piously believe that few could the rapine of an hour is more productive be tempted to prefer the vigils of the than the industry of years. But, as no haram to those of the monastery. Of 30 regular division was attempted of the these unfortunate Greeks, of these do- spoil, the respective shares were not de- mestic animals, whole strings were rudely termined by merit; and the rewards of driven through the streets ; and, as the valor were stolen away by the followers conquerors were eager to return for more of the camp, who had declined the toil prey, their trembling pace was quickened 35 and the danger of the battle. The nar- with menaces and blows. At the same rative of their depredations could not af- hour, a similar rapine was exercised in ford either amusement or instruction : the all the churches and monasteries, in all total amount, in the last poverty of the the palaces and habitations of the cap- empire, has been valued at four millions ital ; nor could any palace, however sacred 40 oi ducats ; and of this sum a small part or sequestered, protect the persons or the was the property of the Venetians, the property of the Greeks. Above sixty Genoese, the Florentines, and the mer- thousand of this devoted people were chants of Ancona. Of these foreigners, transported from the city to the camp and the stock was improved in quick and per- fieet ; exchanged or sold according to the 45 petual circulation ; but the riches of the caprice or interest of their masters, and Greeks were displayed in the idle osten- dispersed in remote servitude through the tation of palaces and wardrobes, or deeply provinces of the Ottoman empire. buried in treasures of ingots and old coin. * * * lest it should be demanded at their hands The chain and entrance of the outward 50 for the defence of their country. The harbor was still occupied by the Italian profanation and plunder of the monas- ships of merchandise and war. They teries and churches excited the most had signalized their valor in the siege : tragic complaints. The dome of St. So- they embraced the moment of retreat, phia itself, the earthly heaven, the sec- while the Turkish mariners were dis- 55 ond firmament, the vehicle of the cher- sipated in the pillage of the city. When ubim, the throne of the glory of God, they hoisted sail the beach was covered was despoiled of the oblations of ages; 462 EDWARD GIBBON and the gold and silver, the pearls and wonder on the strange though splendid jewels, the vases and sacerdotal orna- appearance of the domes and palaces, so ments, were most wickedly converted to dissimilar from the style of Oriental the service of mankind. After the divine architecture. In the hippodrome, or images had heen stripped of all that could 5 atmeidan, his eye was attracted by the be valuable to a profane eye, the canvas, twisted column of the three serpents; or the wood, was torn, or broken, or burnt, and, as a trial of his strength, he shat- or trod under foot, or applied, in the tered with his iron mace or battle-axe stables or the kitchen, to the vilest uses. the under-jaw of one of these monsters, The example of sacrilege was imitated, 10 which in the eye of the Turks were the however, from the Latin conquerors of idols or talismans of the city. At the Constantinople ; and the treatment which principal door of St. Sophia, he alighted Christ, the Virgin, and the saints had from his horse and entered the dome ; sustained from the guilty Catholic and such was his jealous regard for that might be inflicted by the zealous Mussul- 15 monument of his glory that, on observ- man on the monuments of idolatry. Per- ing a zealous Mussulman in the act of haps, instead of joining the public clamor, breaking the marble pavement, he ad- a philosopher will ol3serve that m the monished him with his scimitar that, if decline of the arts the workmanship the spoil and captives were granted to the could not be more valuable than the work, 20 soldiers, the puljlic and private buildings and that a fresh supply of visions and had been reserved for the prince. By miracles would speedily be renewed by his command the metropolis of the East- the craft of the priest and the credulity crn church was transformed into a of the people. He will more seriously mosque : the rich and portable instru- deplore the loss of the Byzantine libra- 2s ments of superstition had been re- ries, which were destroyed or scattered moved ; the crosses were thrown down ; in the general confusion : one hundred and the walls, which were covered with and twenty thousand manuscripts are images and mosaics, were washed and said to have disappeared ; ten volumes purified and restored to a state of naked might be purchased for a single ducat; and 30 simplicity. On the same day, or on the the same ignominous price, too high per- ensuing Friday, the muezin or crier as- haps for a shelf of theology, included cended the most lofty turret, and pro- the whole works of Aristotle and Homer, claimed the czan, or public invitation, in the noblest productions of the science and the name of God and his prophet; the literature of ancient Greece. We may 35 imam preached ; and Mahomet the Sec- reflect with pleasure that an inestimable ond performed the namaz of prayer and portion of our classic treasures was thanksgiving on the great altar, where safely deposited in Italy; and that the the christian mysteries had so lately been mechanics of a German town had in- celebrated before the last of the Caesars, vented an art which derides the havoc 40 From St. Sophia he proceeded to the of time and barbarism. august but desolate mansion of an hun- From the first hour of the memorable dred successors of the great Constantine ; twerrty-ninth of May, disorder and rapine but which, in a few hours, had been strip- prevailed in Constantinople till the eighth ped of the pomp of royalty. A melan- hour of the same day ; when the sultan 45 choly reflection on the vicissitudes of himself passed in triumph through the human greatness forced itself on his gate of St. Romanus. He was attended mind; and he repeated an elegant distich by his vizirs, bashaws, and guards, each of Persian poetry, ' The spider has wove of whom (says a Byzantine historian) his web in the imperial palace; and the was robust as Hercules, dexterous as 5° owl hath sung her watch-song on the Apollo, and equal in battle to any ten towers of Afrasiab.' of the race of ordinary mortals. The * * * conqueror gazed with satisfaction and (i?^^) OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774) The author of The Vicar of \Viil,< field was the sixth of nine chikh-en of an Irish parson fanner and passed most of liis boyiiood iu the little hamlet of Lissoy, which he afterward idealized in The Deserted Village. He was regarded as 'a stupid blockhead' iu the village school and when, in 1749, he succeeded in taking a degree at Trinity College, Dublin, he was lowest on the list. For a number of years he showed little ability and still less in- clination to fit himself to practical life. Rejected for holy orders, he taught school for a time and, soon disgusted, tried the law with the same result. He then spent several years in the nominal study of medicine, in the course of which, he made the grand tour of Europe, setting oif it is said, ' with a guinea in his pocket, one shirt to his back, and a flute in his hand.' Finding his way to London, in IT.Kj, he existed for a couple of years in a most haphazard mamier, as ' chemist's ' assistant, corrector of the press, struggling physician, usher in a school, and hack writer for the Montldy Review. The culmination of this period arrived when he borrowed a suit of clothes to present himself for examination as a hospital mate, failed in the examination, and pawned the clothes. Soon after this, his literary successes began. It was in 17G4, that Johnson following close after a guinea with which he had responded to a message of distress, ' put the cork into the bottle ' for which Gold- smith had promptly changed the guinea, carried off tke manuscript of The Vicar of Wakc- fidd to a bookseller, and relieved the author from arrest. The Traveler (17G4) was now published and The Deserted Village (1770) confirmed the reputation which this had estab- lished. His two plays. The Good Xatured Man (17(iS) and tihe Stoops to Conquer (1773) brought him five hundred pounds apiece; his History of Animated Nature, for which he had no qualification except the ability to write, secured him eight hundred pounds; and similar hack work was similarly paid ; but such was his indiscretion that he was seldom long out of difficulty. He had in a high measure the prodigality, not uncommon among clever writers, of bestowing his entire stock of wisdom on the reader and reserving none for the conduct of life. Yet his follies, like those of Steele, were the indexes of a liberal and lovable nature. When he died, at the age of forty-six, leaving debts of two thousand pounds, there was as much tenderness as humor in Johnson's deep ejaculation: 'Was ever poet so trusted? ' SONG When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye. To give repentance to her lover. And wring his bosom, is — to die. (1766) THE DESERTED VILLAGE Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain ; Where health and plenty cheered the labor- ing swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms de- layed : 463 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, s Scats 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 topped the neighbor- ing hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made ! How often have I blest the coming day, '5 When toil remitting lent its turn to play. And all the village train, from labor free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree. While many a pastime circled in the shade. The young contending as the old surveyed; 464 And many a yanihol 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 in- spired ; The dancing pair that simply sought re- nown, -'5 By holding out to tire each other down ; 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 : 3" These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught even toil to please: These round thy bowers their cheerful in fluence shed : These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- drawn ; 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. No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; 4^ Along thy glades, a solitary guest. The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest ; 44 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the moldering wall ; And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. 5° 111 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 country'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; OLIVER GOLDSMITH For him light labor spread her wholesome store. Just gave what life 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 ; Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 65 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp re- pose, 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 little room, 70 Those healthful sports that graced the peace- ful scene. 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 blissful hour, 75 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds. And, many a year elapsed, return to -view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 8*^ Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care. In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 84 I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close. And keep the flame from wasting by repose : I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 90 Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw : And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue. Pants to the place from whence at first she flew. I still had hopes, my long vexations past. ''S Here to return — and die at home at last. I THE DESERTED VILLAGE 465 O, blest retirement, friend to life's de- cline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How happy he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labor with an age of ease; 'oo Who quits a world where strong tempta- tions try. And, since 't is 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 guilty state, 'os To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; But on he moves to meet his latter end. Angels around befriending Virtue's friend; Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects brightening to the last. III His heaven commences ere the world be past! Sweet was the sound, when oft at even- ing's close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, I IS The mingling notes came softened from be- low ; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. The sober herd that lowed to meet their young. The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. The playful children just let loose from school, 120 The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind. 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, 12s No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread. For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, 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 ; 30 She only left of all the harmless train, '35 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 disclose. The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all 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; Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power. By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 147 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, iss 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. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan His pity gave ere charity began. 162 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, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; 166 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, 171 And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dis- mayed. 466 OLIVER GOLDSMITH The reverend champion stood. At his con- trol Despair and anyuisli ilcd the strugghng soul ; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, '75 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and- unaffected grace. His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from lips prevailed with double sway. And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. '^" 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. His ready smile a parent's warmth expresl ; Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest: '86 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 190 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. With blossomed furze unprofitably gay. There, in his noisy mansion, skilled 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 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 : 'T was certain he could write, and cipher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And even the story ran that he could gauge ; In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For, even though vanquished, he could argue still: 2X2 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 lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the pass- ing eye, 220 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired. Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil re- tired, Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace 225 The parlor splendors of that festive place: The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor. The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; 228 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 royal game of goose ; The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay ; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 23s Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. Vain transitory splendors ! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 240 Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall pre- vail ; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 245 Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be presl, THE DESERTED VILLAGE 467 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250 Yes! let the rich deride, the proud dis- dain, 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, 25s The soul adopts, and owns their first born sway ; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. But the long pomp, the midnight masque- rade. With all the freaks of wanton weahh ar- rayed — /60 In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain. The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who sur- vey 26s The rich man's joy increase, the poor's de- cay, 'T is yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and an happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 270 Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound. And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains ! This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 275 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 limbs in silken sloth Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth; 280 His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: Around the world each needful product flies. For all the luxuries the world supplies ; While thus the land adorned for pleasure all In barren splendor feebly waits tb.c fall. 2S6 As some fair female unadorned and plain. Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies. Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 290 But when those charms are past, for charms are frail. When 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 splendors rise. Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; While, scourged by famine from the smiling land The mournful peasant leads his humble band, 300 And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms — a garden and a grave. Where then, ah ! where, shall poverty re- side. To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits strayed, 305 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. Here while the courtier glitters in bro- cade, 315 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 mid- night reign. Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train : 320 Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er an- noy! Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts? — Ah, turn thine eyes 3-^5 Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 468 OLIVER GOLDSMITH She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at talcs of innocence distrest; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 33o Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled. Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. And, pinched 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 ! 34° Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene. Where half the convex world intrudes be- tween. Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charmed before ^"^^ 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; 35o 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, ^^^ And savage men more murderous still than they ; While 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 gloomed that parting day. That called them from their native walks away : 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 still to face the distant deep. Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 370 The good old sire, the first prepared to go 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, 380 And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear, Whilst her fond husband strove to lend re- lief, In all the silent manliness of grief. O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's de- cree, 385 How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! How do thy potions, with insidious joy. Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 390 At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe; Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down, they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun, 39S 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. THE RETALIATION 469 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 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; 4io Dear charming nymph, neglected and de- cried, 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 fervors glow. Or winter wraps the polar world in snow. Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 421 Redress the rigors of the inclement clime; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain : Teach him, that states of native strength possest, 42s Though very poor, may still be very blest ; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labored mole away; While self-dependent power can time defy. As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 430 (1770) From THE RETALIATION Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind : Though fraught with all learning, yet strain- ing his throat 5 To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining; Though equal to all things, for all things unfit ; Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; 10 For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge dis- obedient ; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short, 't was his fate, unemployed or in place, sir, To cat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. * * * Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, IS An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; As an actor, confcst 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 colors he spread, 21 And beplastered with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affect- ing, 'T was only that when he was off he was acting ; With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 25 He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day: Though secure of our hearts, yet confound- edly sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick ; He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack. For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. 3° Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came. And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; Till his relish grown callous, almost to dis- ease. Who peppered the highest was surest to please. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind: 35 If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. (1774) WILLIAM COVVPER (1731-1800) The son of fi chaplain of Cooige II, Cowper was derived on both sides from illustrious families and it is not unnatural to ascribe to race a certain touch of gentility in all he did or wrote. After seven years at Westminster School he was 'articled,' at eighteen, to a Loudon attorney, with whom he spent three years, afterward going into residence in the Temple, and in 1754, he was called to the bar. Ilis experinieuls in versification at this time, some of them addressed to his cousin Theodora, with whom he was in love, show few symptoms of the poetic originality which he long afterward evinced. Some of his early associates, too, Warren Hastings at Westminster, Thurlow, the fellow-clerk of his apprentice days, and the raucous and none too moral wits of the Nonsense Club, seem in their several ways incongruous associates for the shrinking and self-searching pietist whom we know in his later years. Cowper was too timid for the business of a lawyer and, in 17t;3, when he was thirty-two years of age, the dread of qualifying for a clerkship so preyed upon his mind that he became violently insane and attempted suicide. When he recovered, he determined to retire from the excitements of the world and found a retreat at Huntington, near Cambridge, where he entered the home of the Reverend Uuwin and his wife and was converted to Methodism. On the death of Unwin, in 1TU7, Cowper removed with Mrs. Unwin to Olney, and here came under the intiueuce of John Newton, with whom he joined in the writing of the Olney Hymns. Newton's strenuous fanaticism aggravated his religious mania and, in ITTo, he again became mad and so remained for two years. On his recovery, along with other worldly diversions, such as gardening, cheerful conversation and the keeping of pet hares, which were dis- countenanced by his spiritual comforter, Cowper began to amuse himself by writing verses and found increasing satisfaction in the exercise. His first volume, containing Table Talk and other poems, was published in 1782. The liveliness of this period was increased by his acquaintance with Lady Austen, a bright young widow, who suggested the subjects of The Task and llie Diverting Ride of John Gilpin. These poems, published in 1785, made his reputation national. The most exacting of his tasks, the translation of Homer, was brought to completion in 1791. He now began to sink, for the last time, under the cloud of despondency, suffering almost constantly from the conviction that he was a lost soul. Some of the darker and more intense of his short poems, such as The Castaway, belong to these unhappy years and were printed after his death. Cowper had a rare and intense, though not a rich nature. His gift of humor appears most conspicuously in his Letters, which some critics have not hesitated to pronounce the best in the language. Fidelity to nature and religious earnestness are the prevailing characteristics of his poetry. Byron's phrase, ' the quiet of a loving eye,' precisely fits Cowper's manner of looking about him, except in his most heightened moments. From OLNEY HYMNS WALKING WITH GOD. Gen. v. 24 Oh ! for a closer walk with God, A calm and heavenly frame ; A light to shine upon the road That leads me to the Lamb ! Where is the blessedness I knew When first I saw the Lord? Where is the soul-refreshing view Of Jesus and his word? What peaceful hours I once enjoyed! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill. Return, O holy Dove, return Sweet messenger of rest ! I hate the sins that made thee mourn And drove thee from my breast. The dearest idol I have known, Whate'er that idol be, Help me to tear it from thy throne, And worship only thee. ■ So shall my walk be close with God, Calm and serene my frame ; So purer light shall mark the road That leads me to the Lamb. (1779) 470 THE TASK 471 From TABLE TALK Pity religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground! The flowers would spring where'er she deigned to stray, And every Muse attend her in her way. Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, 5 And many a compliment politely penned ; But, unattired in that becoming vest Religion weaves for her, and half un- dressed, Stands in the desert, shivering and forlorn, A wintry figure, like a withered thorn. 10 The shelves are full, all other themes are sped. Hackneyed and worn to the last flimsy thread : Satire has long since done his best, and cursed And loathsome ribaldry has done his worst ; Fancy has sported all her powers away i5 In tales, in trifles, and in children's play; And 't is the sad complaint, and almost true, Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new. 'T were new indeed, to see a bard all fire. Touched with a coal from Heaven, assume the lyre 20 And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, With more than mortal music on his tongue. That he, who dies below, and reigns above. Inspires the song, and that his name is Love. (1782) THE TASK, Book IV Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright ; — He comes, the herald of a noisy world, 5 With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks ; News from all nations lumbering at his back. True to his charge, the close-packed load behind, Yet careless what he brings, his one con- cern Is to conduct it to the destined inn : 10 And, having dropt the expected bag, pass on. He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch. Cold and yet cheerful : messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some; To him indifferent whether grief or joy. "5 Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks Fast as the periods from his fluent quill. Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, 20 Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horse and him, unconscious of them all. But oh, the important budget ! ushered in With such heart-shaking music, who can say What are its tidings? have our troops awaked ? 25 Or do they still, as if with opium drugged. Snore to the murnuirs of the Atlantic wave? Is India free? and does she wear her plumed And jeweled turban with a smile of peace. Or do we grind her still? The grand de- bate, 30 The popular harangue, the tart reply. The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, And the loud laugh — I long to know them all; I burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free, And give them voice and utterance once again. 35 Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast. Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups. That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 40 So let us welcome peaceful evening in. * * * Oh, Winter, ruler of the inverted year, Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled. Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, lliy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 4^ Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, A leafless branch thy scepter and thy throne A sliding car indebted to no wheels. But urged by storms along its slippery way, I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, 50 And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold'st the sun 472 WILLIAM COWPER A prisoner in the yet undavvning East, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west ; but kindly still 5S Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease. And gathering at short notice in one group The family dispersed, and fixing thought Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown the king of intimate delights, 6i Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening know. 65 No rattling wheels stop short before these gates ; No powdered, pert proficients in the art Of sounding an alarm, assault these doors Till the street rings; no stationary steeds Cough their own knell, while heedless of the sound 7° The silent circle fan themselves, and quake : But here the needle plies its busy task, The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, Unfolds its bosom; buds and leaves and sprigs 7S And curly tendrils, gracefully disposed, Follow the nimble finger of the fair; A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow With most success when all besides decay. The poet's or historian's page, by one 80 Made vocal for the amusement of the rest; The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out ; And the clear voice symphonious, yet dis- tinct, And in the charming strife triumphant still ; Beguile the night, and set a keener edge 86 On female industry; the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. The volume closed, the customary rites Of the last meal commence: a Roman meal, 90 Such as the mistress of the world once found Delicious, when her patriots of high note, Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors. And under an old oak's domestic shade. Enjoyed — spare feast ! — a radish and an egg. _ _ 95 Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull. Nor such as w ith a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or prescribes the sound of mirth; Nor do we madly, like an impious world, Who deem religion frenzy, and the God "o" That made them an intruder on their joys. Start at his awful name, or deem his praise A jarring note; themes of a graver tone Exciting oft our gratitude and love. While we retrace with memory's pointing wand los That calls the past to our exact review, The dangers we have scaped, the broken snare. The disappointed foe, deliverance found Unlookcd for, life preserved and peace re- stored. Fruits of omnipotent eternal love: — "o Oh, evenings worthy of the gods ! exclaimed The Sabine bard. Oh, evenings, I reply. More to be prized and coveted than yours. As more illumined and with nobler truths. That I, and mine, and those we love, en- joy. 115 Is Winter hideous in a garb like this? Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, The pent-up breath of an unsavory throng To thaw him into feeling, or the smart And snappish dialogue that flippant wits '^o Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile? The self-complacent actor, when he views (Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) The slope of faces from the floor to the roof, As if one master-spring controlled them all, 125 Relaxed into an universal grin, Sees not a countenance there that speaks a joy Half so refined or so sincere as ours. Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks That idleness has ever yet contrived uo To fill the void of an unfurnished brain. To palliate dulness and give time a shove. Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoiled and swift and of a silken sound. But the world's time is time in masquerade. Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged 136 With motley plumes, and, where the peacock shows His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red With spots quadrangular of diamond form. Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife. And spades, the emblem of untimely graves. What should be, and what was an hour-glass once, 142 Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mast THE i ASK 473 Well does the work of his destructive scythe. Thus decked he charms a world whom fashion blinds '4S To his true worth, most pleased when idle most, Whose only happy are their wasted hours. Even misses, at whose age their mothers wore The back-string and the bib, assume the dress Of womanhood, sit pupils in the school iso Of card-devoted time, and night by night, Placed at some vacant corner of the board, Learn every trick, and soon play all the game. But truce with censure. Roving as I rove. Where shall I find an end, or how pro- ceed? I5S As he that travels far, oft turns aside To view some rugged rock, or moldering tower. Which seen delights him not; then coming home. Describes and prints it, that the world may know How far he went for what was nothing worth ; i6o So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread With colors mixed for a far different use, Paint cards and dolls, and every idle thing That fancy finds in her excursive flights. Come, Evening, once again, season of peace, 165 Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! JMethinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron-step slow moving, while the night Treads on thy sweeping train ; one hand em- ployed In letting fall the curtain of repose 170 On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day; Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid, Like homely-featured night, of clustering gems, A star or two just twinkling on thy brow '75 Suffices thee ; save that the moon is thine No less than hers, not worn indeed on high With ostentatious pageantry, but set With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. Con>e, then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, 181 Or make me so. Composure is thy gift ; And whether I devote thy gentle hours To books, to music, or to poet's toil. To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit, 185 Or twining silken threads round ivory reels When they command whom man was born to please, I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. * * * Mow calm is my recess! and how the frost Raging abroad, and the rough wind, en- dear 190 The silence and the warmth enjoyed within ! I saw the woods and fields at close of day A variegated show; the meadows green Though faded, and the lands, where lately waved The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, i95 Upturned so lately by the forceful share; I saw far off the weedy fallows smile With verdure not unprofitable, grazed By flocks fast feeding, and selecting each His favorite herb; while all the leafless groves 200 That skirt the horizon wore a sable hue. Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. To-morrow brings a change, a total change, Which even now, though silently performed And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face 205 Of universal nature undergoes. Fast falls a fleecy shower ; the downy flakes, Descending and with never-ceasing lapse Softly alighting upon all below. Assimilate all objects. Earth receives 210 Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green And tender blade, that feared the chilling blast. Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. In such a world, so thorny, and where none Finds happiness unblighted, or if found, 215 Without some thistly sorrow at its side, It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin Against the law of love, to measure lots With less distinguished than ourselves, that thus We may with patience bear our moderate ills, 220 And sympathize with others, suffering more. Ill fares the traveler now, and he that stalks In ponderous boots beside his reeking team ; The wain goes heavily, impeded sore By congregating loads adhering close 225 To the clogged wheels, and, in its sluggish pace, Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, While every breath, by respiration strong 474 WILLIAM COWPER Forced downward, is consolidated soon 230 Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, With half-shut eyes, and puckered checks, and teeth Presented bare against the storm, plods on ; One hand secures his hat, save when with both ^^5 He brandishes his pliant length of whip, Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. Oh, happy, and, in my account, denied That sensibility of pain with which Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou! Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels in- deed ^^' The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired; The learned finger never need explore Thy vigorous pulse, and the unhealthful East, That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone _ ^4S Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. Thy days roll on exempt from household care. Thy wagon is thy wife ; and the poor beasts. That drag the dull companion to and fro. Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. ^5° Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou ap- pearest. Yet show that thou hast mercy, which the great, With needless hurry whirled from place to place. Humane as they would seem, not always show. ^54 Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat. Such claim compassion in a night like this. And have a friend in every feeling heart. Warmed while it lasts, by labor, all day long They brave the season, and yet find at eve, 111 clad and fed but sparely, time to cool. 260 The frugal housewife trembles when she lights Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear. But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys; The few small embers left she nurses well. And while her infant race with outspread hands ^^5 And crowded knees sit cowering o'er the sparks, Retires, content to quake, so they be warmed. The man feels least, as more inured than she To winter, and the current in his veins More briskly moved by his severer toil ; 270 Yet he, too, finds his own distress in theirs. The taper soon extinguished, which I saw Dangled along at the cold finger's end Just when the day declined, and the brown loaf Lodged on the shelf, half-eaten, without sauce 27s Of sav'ry cheese, or butter costlier still. Sleep seems their only refuge. For alas. Where penury is felt the thought is chained, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few. With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care 280 Ingenious parsimony takes, but just Saves the small inventory, bed and stool, Skillet and old carved chest, from public sale. They live, and live without extorted alms From grudging hands, but other boast have none 285 To soothe their honest pride that scorns to beg, Nor comfort elsi, but in their mutual love. I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair. For ye are worthy ; choosing rather far A dry but independent crust, hard-earned ^9" And eaten with a sigh, than to endure The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs Of knaves in ofiicc, partial in their work Of distribution ; liberal of their aid To clamorous importunity in rags, 295 But ofttimes deaf to suppliants who would blush To wear a tattered garb however coarse. Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth ; These ask with painful shyness, and, re- fused Because deserving, silently retire. 300 But be ye of good courage! Time itself Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase. And all your numerous progeny, well trained, But helpless, in few years shall find their hands. And labor too. Meanwhile ye shall not want 305 What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. I mean the man, who when the distant poor THE TASK 475 Need help, denies them nothing but his name. But poverty with most, who whimper forth 3>o Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe, The effect of laziness or sottish waste. Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad For plunder; much solicitous how best He may compensate for a day of sloth, 315 By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong, Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's hedge Plashed neatly and secured with driven stakes Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame 3^0 To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil — An ass's burden — and when laden most And heaviest, light of foot steals fast away. Nor does the boarded hovel better guard The well-stacked pile of riven logs and roots 32s From his pernicious force. Nor will he leave Unwrenched the door, however well se- cured, Where chanticleer amidst his harem sleeps In unsuspecting pomp; twitched from the perch He gives the princely bird with all his wives 330 To his voracious bag, struggling in vain, And loudly wondering at the sudden change. Nor this to feed his own. 'T were some excuse Did pity of their sufferings warp aside His principle, and tempt him into sin 33S For their support, so destitute; but they Neglected pine at home, themselves, as more Exposed than others, with less scruple made His victims, robbed of their defenceless all. Cruel is all he does. 'T is quenchless thirst Of ruinous ebriety that prompts 34« His every action, and imbrutes the man. Oh, for a law to noose the villain's neck Who starves his own ; who persecutes the blood He gave them in his children's veins, and hates 345 And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love. Pass where we may, through city, or through town. Village or hamlet of this merry land. Though lean and beggared, every twentieth pace Conducts the unguarded nose to such a whiff 350 Of stale debauch, forth-issuing from the styes That law has licensed, as makes temperance reel. There sit involved and lost in curling clouds Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor, The lackey, and the groom. The craftsman there 355 Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil. Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears, And he that kneads the dough: all loud alike, All learned, and all drunk. The fiddle screams Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wailed Its wasted tones and harmony unheard; 361 Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme ; while she. Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate, Perched on the sign-post, holds with even hand Her undecisive scales. In this she lays 36s A weight of ignorance, in that, of pride, And smiles delighted with the eternal poise. Dire is the frequent curse and its twin sound The cheek-distending oath, not to be praised As ornamental, musical, polite, 37° Like those which modern senators employ, Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame. Behold the schools in which plebeian minds, Once simple, are initiated in arts Which some may practise with politer grace. But none with readier skill ! 'T is here they learn 376 The road that leads from competence and peace To indigence and rapine; till at last Society, grown weary of the load. Shakes her encumbered lap, and casts them out. 3S0 But censure profits little. Vain the attempt To advertise in verse a public pest, That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds His hungry acres, stinks and is of use. The excise is fattened with the rich result Of all this riot; and ten thousand casks, 386 For ever dribbling out their base contents, Touched by the Midas finger of the state, Bleed gold for Ministers to sport away. L 476 WILLIAM COWPER Drink and be mad then; 'tis your country bids ! 390 Gloriously drunk, obey the important call Her cause demands the assistance of yc throats; — Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. Would I had fallen upon those happier days That poets celebrate; those golden times 395 And those Arcadian scenes that Maro sings, And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose. Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had hearts That felt their virtues. Innocence, it seems. From courts dismissed, found shelter in the groves ; 4°° The footsteps of simplicity, impressed Upon the yielding herbage (so they sing). Then were not all effaced. Then speech profane And manners profligate were rarely found Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaimed. Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreams 4o6 Sat for the picture ; and the poet's hand, Imparting substance to an empty shade. Imposed a gay delirium for a truth. Grant it; I still must envy them an age 4io That favored such a dream, in days like these Impossible, when virtue is so scarce That to suppose a scene where she presides Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief. 414 No. We are polished now. The rural lass, Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, Her artless manners and her neat attire. So dignified, that she was hardly less Than the fair shepherdess of old romance. Is seen no more. The character is lost. 420 Her head adorned with lappets pinned aloft And ribbons streaming gay, superbly raised And magnified beyond all human size. Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand For more than half the tresses it sustains; Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form 111 propped upon French heels; she might be deemed 4-'7 (But that the basket dangling on her arm Interprets her more truly) of a rank Too proud for dairy-work, or sale of eggs ; 430 Expect her soon with foot-boy at her heels, No longer blushing for her awkward load. Her train and her umbrella all her care. The town has tinged the country; and the stain 390 1, your Appears a spot upon the vestal's robe, 43S The worse for what it soils. * * * But slighted as it is, and by the great Abandoned, and, which still I more regret. Infected with the manners and the modes It knew not once, the country wins me still. 440 I never framed a wish or formed a plan That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss. But there I laid the scene. There early strayed My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice Had found me, or the hope of being free. My very dreams were rural, rural too 446 The first-born efforts of my youthful muse. Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow- ers. No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned 450 To Nature's praises. Fleroes and their feats Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe Of Tityrus, assembling as he sang The rustic throng beneath his favorite beech. Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms: New to my taste, his Paradise surpassed 456 The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue To speak its excellence; I danced for joy. I marveled much that, at so ripe an age As twice seven years, his beauties had then first 460 Engaged my wonder, and admiring still. And still admiring, with regret supposed The joy half lost because not sooner found. Thee, too, enamored of the life I loved. Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit 465 Determined, and possessing it at last With transports such as favored lovers feel, I studied, prized, and wished that I had known Ingenious Cowley: and though now, re- claimed By modern lights from an erroneous taste. I cannot but lament thy splendid wit 47' Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. 1 still revere thee, courtly though retired. Though stretched at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers, Not unemployed, and finding rich amends For a lost world in solitude and verse. 476 'T is born with all. The love of Nature's works Is an ingredient in the compound, man, Infused at the creation of the kind. And though the Almighty Maker has throughout 480 MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 477 Discriminated each from each, by strokes And touches of His hand, with so much art Diversified, that two were never found Twins at all points — yet this obtains in all, That all discern a beauty in his works, 485 And ail can taste them : minds that have been formed And tutored, with a relish more exact, But none without some relish, none un- moved. It is a flame that dies not even there, Where nothing feeds it. Neither business, crowds, 490 Nor habits of luxurious city life, Whatever else they smother of true worth In human bosoms, quench it or abate. The villas, with which London stands be- girt Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads, Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air, 496 The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer The citizen and brace his languid frame ! Even in the stilling bosom of the town, A garden in which nothing thrives, has charms 500 That soothe the rich possessor; much con- soled That here and there some sprigs of mourn- ful mint. Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates. These serve him with a hint That Nature lives; that sight-refreshing green 505 Is still the livery she delights to wear. Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. What are the casements lined with creeping herbs The prouder sashes fronted with a range Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed. The Frenchman's darling? are they not all proofs 511 That man, immured in cities, still retains His inborn, inextinguishable thirst Of rural scenes, compensating his loss By supplemental shifts, the best he may? SiS The most unfurnished with the means of life. And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air, Yet feel the burning instinct : over-head Suspend their crazy boxes planted thick 520 And watered duly. There the pitcher stands A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there: Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets The country, with what ardor he contrives A peep at nature, when he can no more. 52s Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease And contemplation, heart-consoling joys And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode Of multitudes unknown, hail rural life! Address himself who will to the pursuit 53o Of honors, or emolument, or fame, I shall not add myself to such a chase, Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. Some must be great. Great offices will have Great talents. And God gives to every man 535 The virtue, temper, understanding, taste. That lifts him into life, and lets him fall Just in the niche he was ordained to fill. To the deliverer of an injured land 539 He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs ; To monarchs dignity, to judges sense; To artists ingenuity and skill ; To me an unambitious mind, content In the low vale of life, that early felt 545 A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long Found here that leisure and that ease I wished. (1785) ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE Oh, that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since 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, 5 ' Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away ! ' The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blessed be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bidst me honor with an artless song. Affectionate, a mother lost so long, 1 will obey, not willingly alone, J5 But gladly, as the precept were her own : And, while that face renews my filial grief, 478 WILLIAM COVVPER Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in PZlysian 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 be- gun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss: _ 25 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Ah, that maternal smile! It answers — Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw 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 ! 35 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at iny con- cern. Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, 40 Dupe of to-morroiv even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went. Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er for- got. _ 45 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 public way. Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped so In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'T is now become a history little known. That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, 55 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 check bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed ; All this, and more endearing still than all. Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 65 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes That humor interposed too often makes; All 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 7° Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; 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, 75 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 ap- pear, 80 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? I would not trust my heart — the dear de- light 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, 85 That I should ill 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. Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 91 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 ; 95 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, Joo ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE 479 Always from port withheld, always dis- tressed — Me howling 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. 105 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! m And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; us 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. Time has but half succeeded in his theft — Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. (1798) SONNET TO MRS. UNWIN Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings ; Such aid from Heaven as some have feigned they drew 1 An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new. And undebased by praise of meaner things ! That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, s I may record thy worth, with honor due. In verse as musical as thou art true, — Verse, that immortalizes whom it sings ! But thou hast little need : there is a book, By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, 10 On which the eyes of God not rarely look; A chronicle of actions just and bright! There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine. (1803) ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE Toll for the brave ! The brave that are no more! All 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 ; 1 Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought; 1 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. : His sword was in its sheath; His fingers held the pen. When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, ■ Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup The tears that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again 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 hundred Shall plough the wave no more. (1803) GEORGE CRABBE (1754-1832) When Goldsmith sat down to sketch for all time the picture of his native village, it was after an absence of eighteen years and he saw it through a tinted haze of retrospect and soft sentimental reflection. Crabbe came to his task fresh from the hardships of his youth; he wrote 'with his eye on the object'; and he painted the cot 'as Truth will paint it and as Bards will not,' in all the reality of its hard and sordid detail. The Village was Aldborough, a rude fishing port on the ' frowning coast ' of Sulfolk. Here Crabbe was born, the eldest child of a collector of salt-duties. After a scattered education which consisted partly in loading butter and cheese in the neighboring port, he was apprenticed, at fourteen, to a surgeon near Bury St. Edmunds, who employed him in 'hoeing turnips.' After some years of study he set up as a surgeon in his native village; but his rewards were meager and he desired to marry. In the meantime, lie had begun to cultivate the Muses and he resolved to try his lot in London. On the verge of starva- tion, he was taken up by Burke, who introduced him to his distinguished friends, aided the publication of his first successful poem. The Library (1781), and induced him to exchange the knife for the prayer-book. Keturning to Aldborough as a curate, he became, shortly after, through Burke's introduction, a protege of the Duke of Rutland, and was never again i'n want. His literary fame, during most of his life; was based on The Village, which he published in 1783 and followed with a silence of twenty-four years, broken only by the publication of a trifling poem. The JSicwspapcr (1785). During these years he wrote and destroyed large quantities of verse and a treatise on botany and busied himself with domestic life, but was especially occupied in healing both the minds and bodies of the poor of his various parishes. His second period of publication, beginning with The Parish Register (1807), including The Borough (1810) and Talcs in Vase (1812), and concluding with Talcs of the Hall (1819), brought him into the world of Wordsworth, Byron, and Scott. He outlived the second and died in the same year with the last. Crabbe's powerful realism has been greatly admired by the men of his own craft. He has, as Tennyson said, ' a world of his own.' It is a far more populous world than that of Cowper or even of Wordsworth and it is not more unlovely than that of Burns; but he brought to its interpretation little of the tenderness of the first, the ' internal bright- ness ' of the second, or the human tears and laughter of the third. We may be stunned or impressed by Crabbe's world, but we will never love it. THE VILLAGE, Book I The Village Life, and every care that reigns O'er youthful peasants and declining swains; What labor yields, and what, that labor past, Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last ; What form the real Picture of the Poor, s Demand a song — the Muse can give no more. Fled are those times, when, in harmonious strains, The rustic poet praised his native plains : No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse. Their country's beauty or their nymphs re- hearse; 1° Yet still for these we frame the tender strain. Still in our lays fond Corydons complain. And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal, The only pains, alas ! they never feel. On Mincio's banks, in Caesar's bounteou.= reign, '5 If Tityrus found the Golden Age again, Must sleepy bards the flattering dream pro- long, Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song? From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, Where Virgil, not where Fancy, leads the way ? ^^ Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy swains. Because the Muses never knew their pains: THE VILLAGE 481 They boast their peasant's pipes; but peas- ants now Resign their pipes and plod behind the plough ; And few, amid the rural tribe, have time 2s To number syllables, and play with rime ; Save honest Duck, what son of verse could share The poet's rapture and the peasant's care? Or the great labors of the field degrade, With the new peril of a poorer trade? 3° From this chief cause these idle praises spring, That themes so easy few forbear to sing; For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask; To sing of shepherds is an easy task; The happy youth assumes the common strain, 35 A nymph his mistress, and himself a swain; With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer. But all, to look like her, is painted fair. I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms 39 For him that grazes or for him that farms; But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace The poor laborious natives of the place. And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray. On their bare heads and dewy temples play; While some, with feebler heads, and fainter hearts 45 Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts — Then shall I dare these real ills to hide. In tinsel trappings of poetic pride? No ; cast by Fortune on a frowning coast, Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast ; 50 Where other cares than those the Muse re- lates. And other shepherds dwell with other mates ; By such examples taught, I paint the Cot, As Truth will paint it, and as Bards will not: Nor you, ye poor, of lettered scorn com- plain, 55 To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain ; O'ercome by labor, and bowed down by time, Feel you the barren flattery of a rime? Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread, By winding myrtles round your ruined shed ? 60 Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower, Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour? Lo ! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er. Lends the light turf that warms the neigh- boring poor From thence a length of burning sand ap- pears, 65 Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears. Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye; There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar. And to the ragged infant threaten war; 70 There poppies, nodding, mock the hope of toil, There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil; Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, 75 And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade; With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, And a sad splendor vainly shines around. So looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn, Betrayed by man, then left for man to scorn ; 80 Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose. While her sad eyes the troubled breast dis- close: Whose outward splendor is but folly's dress. Exposing most when most it gilds distress. Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race, 85 With sullen woe displayed in every face ; WHio, far from civil arts and social fly, And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye. Here too the lawless merchant of the main Draws from his plough the intoxicated swain ; 90 Want only claimed the labor of the day. But vice now .steals his nightly rest away. Where are the swains, who, daily labor done. With rural games played down the setting sun ; Who struck with matchless force the bound- ing ball, 95 Or made the ponderous quoit obliquely fall ; While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong. 482 GEORGE CRABBE Engaged some artful stripling of the throng. And fell beneath him, foiled, while far around Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks returned the sound? '"" Where now are these? — Beneath yon cliff they stand. To show the freighted pinnace where to land ; To load the ready steed with guilty haste, To i\y in terror o'er the pathless waste, Or, when detected, in their straggling course, 'os To foil their foes by cunning or by force ; Or, yielding part (which equal knaves de- mand), To gain a lawless passport through the land. Here, wandering long, amid these frown- ing fields, I sought the simple life that Nature yields; Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurped her place, III And a bold, artful, surly, savage race; Who, only skilled to take the finny tribe. The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe. Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high, IIS On the tossed vessel bend their eager eye, Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way; Theirs or the ocean's miserable prey. As on their neighboring beach yon swal- lows stand, And wait for favoring winds to leave the land; i-'Q While still for flight the ready wing is spread : So waited I the favoring hour, and fled; Fled from these shores where guilt and famine reign, And cried, Ah! hapless they who still re- main : Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, 12s Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore ; Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away; When the sad tenant weeps from door to door, And begs a poor protection from the poor ! But these are scenes where Nature's nig- gard hand 131 Gave a spare portion to the famished land ; Hers is the fault, if here mankind com- plain Of fruitless toil and labor spent in vain ; But yet in other scenes more fair in view, When Plenty smiles — alas ! she smiles for few — 136 And those who taste not, yet behold her store, Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore — The wealth around them makes them doubly poor. Or will you deem them amply paid in health, M'j Labor's fair child, that languishes with wealth? Go, then ! and see them rising with the sun. Through a long course of daily toil to run ; See them beneath the Dog-star's raging heat, When the knees tremble and the temples beat; 145 Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er The labor past, and toils to come explore; See them alternate smis and showers en- gage, And hoard up aches and anguish for their age; Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue, ISO When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew; Then own that labor may as fatal be To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee. Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide; 15s There may you see the youth of slender frame Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame ; Yet, urged along, and proudly loth to yield, He strives to join his fellows of the field; Till long-contending nature droops at last, Declining health rejects his poor repast, 161 His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees, And mutual murmurs urge the slow dis- ease. Yet grant them health, 't is not for us to tell. Though the head droops not, that the heart is well; 165 Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare, Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share! Oh ! trifle not with wants you cannot feel. Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal ; Homely, not wholesome, plain, not plenteous. such 170 As you who praise, would never deign to touch. THE VILLAGE 483 Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease, Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please; Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share. Go look within, and ask if peace be there; If peace be his, that drooping weary sire; Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire; ^T7 Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand Turns on the wretched hearth the expiring brand. i79 Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease; For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age Can with no cares except its own engage ; Who, propped on that rude staff, looks up to see The bare arms broken from the withering tree, iSs On which, a boy, he climbed the loftiest bough. Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now. He once was chief in all the rustic trade ; His steady hand the straightest furrow made; Full many a prize he won, and still is proud To find the triumphs of his youth allowed ; A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes, '9^ He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs': For now he journeys to his grave in pain ; The rich disdain him; nay, the poor disdain: Alternate masters now their slave command. Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand, And, when his age attempts its task in vain. With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain. Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep, 200 His winter charge, beneath the hillock weep ; Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow O'er his white locks and bury them in snow, When, roused by rage and muttering in the morn. He mends the broken edge with icy thorn : — ' Why do I live, when I desire to be 206 At once, from life and life's long labor free? Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away. Without the sorrows of a slow decay; I, like yon withered leaf, remain behind, 210 Nipped by the frost, and shivering in the wind ; There it abides till younger buds come on As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone; Then from the rising generation thrust, It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust. 215 'These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see, Are others' gain, but killing cares to me; To me the children of my youth are lords, Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words: Wants of their own demand their care; and who 220 Feels his own want and succors others too? A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go, None need my help, and none relieve my woe; Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid. And men forget the wretch they would not aid.' 225 Thus groan the old, till by disease op- pressed. They taste a final woe, and then they rest. Theirs is yon House that holds the parish poor. Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door ; There, where the putrid vapors, flagging, play, 230 And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; There children dwell who know no parents' care; Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there ! Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed ; Dejected widows with unheeded tears, 236 And crippled age with more than childhood fears ; The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping idiot, and the madman gay. Here too the sick their final doom receive, Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve, 241 Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow. Mixed with the clamors of the crowd be- low; Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan. And the cold charities of man to man : 245 Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide. And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh. And pride embitters what it can't deny. Say, ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes. Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose ; Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance ^s^ With timid eye to read the distant glance; 484 GEORGE CRABBE Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease, To name the nameless ever new disease; 255 Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, Which real pain and that alone can cure; How would ye bear in real pain to lie, Despised, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear to draw your latest breath 260 Where all that 's wretched paves the way for death? Such is that room which one rude beam divides. And naked rafters form the sloping sides ; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between ; Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patched, gives way 266 To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'er- sprcad. The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; For him no hand the cordial cup applies, 270 Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes; No friends with soft discourse his pain be- guile, Or promise hope, till sickness wears a smile. But soon a loud and hasty summons calls, Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls; 275 Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat, All pride and business, bustle and conceit; With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe. With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go, He bids the gazing throng around him fly, And carries fate and physic in his eye : 281 A potent quack, long versed in human ills. Who first insults the victim whom he kills ; Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy Bench protect, 284 And whose most tender mercy is neglect. Paid by the parish for attendance here, He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer ; In haste he seeks the bed where Misery lies. Impatience marked in his averted eyes; And, some habitual queries hurried o'er, 290 Without reply, he rushes on the door : His drooping patient, long inured to pain, And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain ; He ceases now the feeble help to crave Of man; and silent sinks into the grave. 29s But ere his death some pious doubts arise. Some simple fears, which ' bold bad ' men despise ; Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove His title certain to the joys above: For this he sends the murmuring nurse, who calls 300 The holy stranger to these dismal walls: And doth not he, the pious man, appear. He, ' passing rich, with forty pounds a J year ? ' 1 Ah! no; a shepherd of a different stock: ' And far unlike him, feeds this little flock : A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task As much as God or man can fairly ask ; 307 The rest he gives to loves and labors light, To fields the morning, and to feasts the night ; j None better skilled the noisy pack to guide, To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide; 311 A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day. And, skilled at whist, devotes the night to play: Then, while such honors bloom around his head. Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed, 315 To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal To combat fears that e'en the pious feel? ■ * * * ^ Now to the church behold the mourners come, Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb; The village children now their games sus- g pend, 320 I To see the bier that bears their ancient friend : For he was one in all their idle sport, And like a monarch ruled their little court; The pliant bow he formed, the flying ball. The bat, the wicket, were his labors all ; 32s Him now they follow to his grave, and stand, Silent and sad, and gazing hand in hand ; ■ While bending low, their eager eyes explore The mingled relics of the parish poor. The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round, 33o Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound. The busy priest, detained by weightier care, Defers his duty till the day of prayer; And, waiting long, the crowd retire dis- tressed. To think a poor man's bones should lie un- blessed. 335 (1783) WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827) ' I walked the other evening to the end of the heath and touched the sky with my finger.' Was the man inspired or mad who made this statement in fierce literalness, when bored by some scientific cant about 'the vastness of space'? One's answer to this question will determine one's attitude toward Blake, llie ordinary biographical summary hardly seems to apply to him ; yet undeniably, like the hero in the old song, ' This man was born, lived, drank, and died.' He was born in Loudon, he spent his life there, he did not drink much and frequently had none too much to eat and wear, and in London he died, ' leaving the delusive Goddess Nature to her laws, to get into freedom from all law of the numbers, into the mind, in which every one is king and priest in his own house.' Yet this man who denied the validity of positive science and repudiated the reality of physical nature was a twofold artist, draughtsman and poet. After the bare rudiments of an education, he began at ten the study of drawing and almost as early the writing of verses. At the age of fourteen he was apprenticed to the well-known engraver, Basire. About the same time he wrote some of his published poems. He first exhibited at the Royal Academy in ITSO, and three years later brought out his first volume, Poetical Sketches, the only one of his publications which was printed in the ordinary manner. Songs of Innocence (17S9), Songs of Exijcriencc (1794), and the series of enormous, crazed, diflicult, or unintelligible Prophetic Books were all engraved upon plates and embellished with designs by himself. Other published designs and engravings of importance were those for Young's Night Thoughts (1797), Hayley's Life of Cowper (1803), Blair's The Grave (1808), the Book of Job (1825), and Dante (1824-27). None of his accomplishments, whether in literature or design, brought him any considerable return in money or immediate fame. He lived most of his life in almost squalid poverty which he did not seem to mind and, when he had means, bestowed them with unstinted charity and without concern for the future. His conduct was fairly within the law of conventional society and government ; his doctrines were revolutionary and extreme even for the age of revolution in which he lived. With all their wildness they are sometimes startlingly modern, and it is not unlikely that the world is yet to ring with some of his ideas. As a workman in lines he was strangely original and powerful, and has been com- pared with the greatest artists of design that ever lived ; though often crudely careless or perverse he could draw with propriety and beauty when he chose, and with tremendous energy and suggestiveness. It would be hard to conceive of finer illustrations than his 'Winter' and 'Evening' for Cowper's Task. His poetry speaks for itself. Like his design it is often absurdly crude and at other times his speech is something more than mortal. ' When the stars threw down their spears ' — We happen upon a line like this and we seem to have heard a voice of other worlds. TO SPRING O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle. Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring ! The hills tell each other, and the listening 5 Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned Up to thy bright pavilions : issue forth, And let thy holy feet visit our clime. Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste 1° Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee. O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put '4 Thy golden crown upon her languished head. Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee. (1783) 485 486 WILLIAM BLAKE TO THE MUSES Whether on Ida's shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, The clianibers of the sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased ; VVlicthcr in Heaven ye wander fair, 5 Or the green corners of the earth. Or the bhie regions of the air Where the melodious winds have birth ; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea i° Wandering in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry ! How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move! >5 The sound is forced, tiie notes are few ! (1783) MAD SONG The wild winds weep, And the night is a-cold; Come hither, Sleep ; And my griefs enfold! . . . But lo ! the morning peeps 5 Over the eastern steeps. And the rustling [birds] of dawn The earth do scorn. Lo! to the vault Of paved heaven, 1° With sorrow fraught, My notes are driven : They strike the ear of night, Make weep the eyes of day; They make mad the roaring winds, i5 And with tempests play. Like a fiend in a cloud, With howling woe After night I do crowd And with night will go; 20 I turn my back to the east From whence comforts have increased; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain. (1783) THE PIPER Piping down the valleys wild. Piping songs of pleasant glee. On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me: ' Pipe a song about a Lamb ! ' So I piped with merry cheer. ' Piper, pipe that song again ; ' So I piped : he wept to hear. ' Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; Sing thy songs of happy cheer : * So I sang the same again. While he wept with joy to hear. * Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read.' So he vanished from my sight, And I plucked a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen. And I stained the water clear. And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. (1789) THE SHEPHERD How sweet is the shepherd's sweet lot ! From the morn to the evening he strays; J He shall follow his sheep ail the day, | And his tongue shall be filled with praise. For he hears the lamb's innocent call, 5 And he hears the ewe's tender reply; He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their shepherd is nigh. (1789) THE LITTLE BLACK BOY My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O my soul is white; White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light. My mother taught me underneath a tree, s And, sitting down before the heat of day. She took me on her lap and kissed me. And, pointing to the east, began to say: ' Look on the rising sun, — there God does live. And gives his light, and gives his heat away; '« And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. ' And we are put on earth a little space. That we may learn to bear the beams of love; CRADLE SONG 487 And these black bodies and this sunburnt Sweet babe, once like thee. face IS Thy Maker lay and wept for me. Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove. Wept for me, for thee, for all, 25 'For when our souls have learned the heat When he was an infant small. to bear, Thou his image ever see. The cloud will vanish, we shall hear his Heavenly face that smiles on thee, voice, Saying: "Come out from the grove, my Smiles on thee, on me, on all ; love and care, Who became an infant small. 30 And round my golden tent like lambs rc- Infant smiles are His own smiles; joice." ' 20 Heaven and earth to peace beguiles. (1789) Thus did my mother say, and kissed mc; And thus I say to little English boy. When I from black, and he from white c free. And round the tent of God like la oud CRADLE SONG mbs FROM SONGS OF EXPERIENCE we joy, Sleep! sleep! beauty bright. Dreaming o'er the joys of night; I '11 shade him from the heat, till he can Sleep! sleep! in thy sleep bear 25 Little sorrows sit and weep. To lean in joy upon our father's knee And then I '11 stand and stroke his si Iver Sweet Babe, in thy face 5 hair, Soft desires I can trace. And be like him, and he will then love me. Secret joys and secret smiles, (1789) Little pretty infant wiles. As thy softest limbs I feel, CRADLE SONG Smiles as of the morning steal 1° FROM SONGS OF INNOCENCE O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast Where thy little heart does rest. Sweet dreams, form a shade O'er my lovely infant's head; ! the cunning wiles that creep Sweet dreams of pleasant streams In thy little heart asleep. By happy, silent, moony beams. When thy little heart does wake i5 Then the dreadful lightnings break. Sweet sleep, with soft down 5 Weave thy brows an infant crown. From thy cheek and from thy eye. Sweet sleep, Angel mild. O'er the youthful harvests njgh. Hover o'er my happy child. Infant wiles and infant smiles Heaven and Earth of peace beguiles. 20 Sweet smiles, in the night (1794) Hover over my delight; 10 Sweet smiles, mother's smiles, All the livelong night beguiles. A DREAM Sweet moans, dovelike sighs, Once a dream did weave a shade Chase not slumber from thy eyes. O'er my Angel-guarded bed, Sweet moans, sweeter smiles, IS That an emmet lost its way All the dovelike moans beguiles. Where on grass methought I lay. Sleep, sleep, happy child. Troubled, 'wildered, and forlorn, 5 All creation slept and smil'd; Dark, benighted, travel-worn. Sleep, sleep, happy sleep. Over many a tangled spray, While o'er thee thy mother weep. 20 All heart-broke I heard 'her say: Sweet babe, in thy face '0, my children! do they cry? Holy image I can trace. Do they hear their father sigh? 10 488 WILLIAM BLAKE Now they look abroad to see: Now return and weep for me.' Pitying, I dropped a tear ; But I saw a glow-worm near, Who replied : ' What wailing wight Calls the watchman of the night? ' I am set to light the ground, While the beetle goes his round: Follow now the beetle's hum; Little wanderer, hie thee home.' (1789) THE DIVINE IMAGE To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, All pray in their distress, And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness. For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, Is God our Father dear ; And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, Is man, his child and care. For Mercy has a human heart; Pity, a human face ; And Love, the human form divine^ And Peace, the human dress. —~ Then every man, of every clime. That prays in his distress, QPrays to the human form divine: Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. ^n3^i_must love^ th^_human_form,./ In Iieatiicn, Turk, or Jew. Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell. There God is dwelling too. (1789) THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER A little black thing among the snow. Crying 'weep! weep!' in notes of woe! 'Where arc thy father and mother, say?' — ' They are both gone up to the church to pray. ' Because I was happy upon the heath, 5 And smiled among the winter's snow. They clothed me in the clothes of death. And taught me to sing the notes of woe. ' And because I am happy and dance and sing. They think they have done me no injury, >o And are gone to praise God and his priest and king. Who make up a heaven of our misery.' (1794) THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE ' Love sceketh not itself to please. Nor for itself hath any care. But for another gives its ease. And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.' So sung a little clod of clay. Trodden with the cattle's feet. But a pebble of the brook Warbled out these meters meet: 'Love seeketh only self to please, To bind another to its delight, i Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.' (1794) 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 S 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? 10 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 iS Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears. And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 20 Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright In the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? (1794) FROM MILTON 4»9 AH SUNFLOWER Ah Sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun. Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveler's journey is done — Where the youth pined away with desire, S And the pale virgin, shrouded in snow. Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my sunflower wishes to go! (1794) NURSE'S SONG When the voices of children are heard on the green And whisperings are in the dale, The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind, My face turns green and pale. sun Then come home, my children, the gone down. And the dews of night arise; Your spring and your day are wasted play, And your winter and night in disguise. (1794) A LITTLE BOY LOST. ' Nought loves another as itself, Nor venerates another so. Nor is it possible to thought A greater than itself to know. 'And, father, how can I love you Or any of my brothers more? I love you like the little bird That picks up crumbs around the door.' The priest sat by and heard the child; In trembling zeal he seized his hair, 10 He led him by his little coat. And all admired the priestly care. And standing on the altar high, ' Lo, what a fiend is here ! ' said he : ' One who sets reason up for judge is Of our most holy mystery.' The weeping child could not be heard, The weeping parents wept in vain : They stripped him to his little shirt. And bound him in an iron chain, 2° And burned him in a holy place Where many had been burned before ; The weeping parents wept in vain. Are such things done on Albion's shore? (1794) From MILTON And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen? And did the Countenance Divine 5 Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic Mills? Bring me my bow of burning gold ! Bring me my arrows of desire! 1° Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire ! I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, Till we have built Jerusalem '5 In England's green and pleasant land. (1804) ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796) Burns was born near 'Alloway's auld haunted khk ' on the banks of the Doon, in a two-roomed cottage which his father had built with liis own hands out of rough stone and clay. A storm blew down the gable a few days after his birth, and ' A blast o' Janwar ' win' Blew hansel in on Kobiu.' * JS'o wonder that one ushered into the world amid such a tempest should be the victim of stormy passions,' Burns would afterward say. His father was a poor ' renter ' who moved from one farm to another while Burns was growing up. Amid ' the unceasing moil of a galley slave,' he found time for the ordinary education of a Scotch peasant lad and added considerable reading in history and English poetry; but he had known many a weary day at the plow-tail and in harvest by the tmie he was fifteen. It was at this age, as he has told us, that he found himself partner in the harvest-field with 'a bonnie sweet sonsie lassie.' 'Among her love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly; and it was her favorite reel to which I attempted giving an embodied vehicle in rime. . . . Thus with me began love and poetry.' Farming, love, and poetry were the staples of Burns's life from now on. lie tried flax- dressing at Irvine, a town of some size near-by, but succeeded only in acquiring the bad habits of the place and soon returned to the farm and to poetry. After his father's death in 1784, he and his brother Gilbert moved to the farm of Mossgiel and a little later he met Jean Armour, who after a long and irregular courtship became his wife. His first collection of poems was issued at Kilmarnock in 17SG, and such was their immediate success that he went to Edinburgh and brought out a new edition the following winter. He was lionized for a season, but had bitterly to learn the difference between curiosity and social acceptance. From this publication he realized enough money to pay for a tour of the Highlands, contribute two hundred pounds to the needs of his brother, and stock a farm at Ellisland. Here he settled with his wife Jean, now regularly marj-ied, in December, 1788. But he had chosen his farm with a poet's rather than a farmer's eye, and shortly undertook to add to his earnings by securing a post in the excise at Dumfries, — 'gauging auld wives' barrels,' he called it. His next course was to give up the farm and remove his family to town. It was a perilous position for one of his temperament. Too many ' trusty droutby cronies ' clustered around him ; the ' social glass ' became too frequent; 'thoughtless follies laid him low, and stained his name.' Yet even during these years of decline in health and respectability his genius burned brightly. Many of the *old Scots songs' with which his name is inseparably connected were given to the world at this time; many equally fine were not printed until after his death. Though it is totally uncritical to think of him as merely an unlettered natural singei-, Burns never had the leisure or opportunity to become a highly cultivated poet in the English language or on the grand scale. He constantly falls back upon his native dialect for his most telling phrases and his most magical bursts ; and he is at his best in those brief snatches, perfect in pitch and infinite in variety, for which — and for the passionate, imperfect, human bounty of his nature — the world so deeply loves him. SONG: MARY MORISON O Mary, at thy window be. It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor; How blythely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw : Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd, and said amang them a', iS ' Ye are na Mary Morison.' O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whaie only faut is loving thee? 20 If love for love thou wilt na gie At least be pity to me shown : A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. (1800) 490 TO JOHN LAPRAIK 491 SONG: MY NANIE, O Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has clos'd, An' I 'II awa to Nanie, O. The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill : 5 The night 's baith mirk an' rainy, O ; But I '11 get my plaid an' out I '11 steal, An' owre the hill to Nanie, O. My Nanie 's charming, sweet, an' young ; Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O: ^° ]\Iay ill befa' the flattering tongue That wad beguile my Nanie, O. Her face is fair, her heart is true. As spotless as she 's bonie, O : The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew, 'S Nae purer is than Nanie, O. A country lad is my degree. An' few there be that ken me, O ; But what care I how few they be? I 'm welcome aye to Nanie, O. 20 My riches a's my penny- fee, An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,. My thoughts are a' my Nanie, O. Our auld guidman delights to view 25 His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O ; But I 'm as biythe that bauds his pleugh, And has nae care but Nanie, O. Come weel, come woe, I care na by, I '11 tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O ; 30 Nae ither care in life hae I, But live, an' love my Nanie, O. (1787) 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 ban', 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, O; 10 An' tho' at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can 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. May a' gae tapsalteerie, O. 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. ■ Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O : Her prentice ban' she try'd on man. An' then she made the lasses, O. (1803) From LINES TO JOHN LAPRAIK I am nae Poet, in a sense, But just a Rhymer like by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretence; Yet what the matter? Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, S I jingle at her. Your critic-folk may cock their nose, And say, ' How can you e'er propose. You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang? ' 10 But, by your leave, my learned foes, Ye 're maybe wrang. What 's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools? If honest nature made you fools, is What sairs your grammars? Ye 'd better taen up spades and shools. Or knappin-hammers. A set o' dull, conceited hashes Confuse their brains in college classes! 20 They gang in stirks and come out asses. Plain truth to speak; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek! Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 25 That 's a' the learnin I desire ; Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My Muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. 30 * * (1786) 492 ROBERT BURNS TO A MOUSE ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1 785 Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie. Oh, what a panic 's in thy brcastie ! Thou need na start avva sae hasty Wi' bickcrin brattle ! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee 5 Wi' murd'rin pattle! I 'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle 'o At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal ! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve : What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! A daimen icker in a thrave '5 'S a sma' request ; I 'II 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 ^° An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' 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 ! 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 turn'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 Gang aft a-gley, 40 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 ! (1786) THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor, — Gray. My lov'd, my honored, much respected friend ! No mercenary bard his homage pays ; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end: My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise. To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 5 The lowly train in life's sequester 'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah I tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween ! November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh. The short'ning winter day is near a close; II The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh. The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose; The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, — This night his weekly moil 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, stachcr through To meet their dad, wi' fiichterin noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie. His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile. The lisping infant prattling on his knee. Does a' his weary kiaugh and care be- guile, 26 An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drappin in, At service out amang the farmers roun' ; Some ca the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 30 A cannie errand to a neibor toun : Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman- grown. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 493 In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her ee, Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, 3S To help her parents dear, if they in hard- ship 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 labors wi' an eydent hand, An' ne'er tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play: * An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alvvay, 50 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 ! ' But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door. Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 56 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; 60 Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins 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 ; 65 Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen ; 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 70 What maks the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave, Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn 's respected like the lave. happy love! where love like this is found ! O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond com- pare ! 1 've paced much this weary, mortal round, 75 And sage experience bids me this de- clare — 'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleas- ure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 80 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.' 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 honor, 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 Jialesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food; The sowpe 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. 494 ROBERT BURNS I And aft he's prcst, an' aft he ca's it guid; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 'o" They round the ingle form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er with patriarchal grace The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride ; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; 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: "o Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise. Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name. Or noble Elgin beats the heaven-ward flame. The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays. Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; "5 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 i-o With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 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 sun a mi.^hly angel stand, And heard great Bab'ion's doom pronounced by Heav'n's command. us 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. While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride '45 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 ofif their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest; The parent-pair their secret homage pay. And proffer up to Heav'n the warm re- quest, 157 That he, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 160 For them and for their little ones pro- vide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's gran- deur springs. That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : ADDRESS TO THE DEIL 495 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, is Thou travels far ; An' faith! 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; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks. I 've heard my rev'rend grannie say, z5 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. 3° 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, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin, 35 Wi' heavy groan. Ae dreary, windy, winter night. The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, Wi' you mysel I gat a fright Ayont the lough ; 40 Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight Wi' waving sough. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake. When wi' an eldritch, stoor ' Quaick, quaick,' Amang the springs, 46 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, Owre howket dead. Thence, countra wives wi' toil an' pain ss May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; For oh ! the yellow treasure's taen By witchin skill ; An' dawtet, twal-pint hawkie's gaen As yell's the bill. 60 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, ^65 'An honest man's the noblest work of God': And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road. The cottage leaves the palace far be- hind : What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load. Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness re- fin'd! 171 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 ! J/S 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. j8o 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 re- ward!) 186 O never, never Scotia's realm desert, But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, Li bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! (1786) ADDRESS TO THE DEIL 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 To scaud poor wretches ! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be ; 1 'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, E'en to a deil. 496 ROBERT BURNS Thence, mystic knols inak ^rcat abuse, On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crousc ; When the best wark-lunie i' the house, By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, ^s Just at the bit. When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord. An' float the jinglin icy-boord Then water-kelpies haunt the foord By your direction, 7o 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 bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys 75 Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is. Ne'er mair to rise. When 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 straught to hell! Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, ^s 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, io5 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, '"o 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 Clools, I ken ye 're thinkin, A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, "6 Some luckless hour will send him linkin. To your black pit ; But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin. An' cheat you yet. 120 But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben ! wad ye tak a thought an' men'! Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — Still hae a stake: 1 'm wae to think upo' yon den, '^5 Ev'n for your sake ! (1786) 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, That weekly this area throng? — Oh, pass not by! ^° But with a frater-feeling 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 i5 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. 3° (1786) TAM GLEN 497 OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW Of a' the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the west, For there the bonie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There 's wild woods grow an' rivers row s An' mony a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flow'rs, I see her sweet an' fair: lo I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonie flow'r that springs By fountain, shaw or green ; There's not a bonie bird that sings, i5 But minds me o' my Jean. (1790) GO FETCH TO ME A PINT O' WINE Go fetch to me a pint o' wine. And fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonie lassie : The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, s Fu' loud the wind blaws f rae the Ferry ; The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly. The glittering spears are ranked ready, The shouts o' war are heard afar, n The battle closes deep and bloody ; It 's not the roar o' sea or shore Would mak me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — is It 's leaving thee, my bonie Mary ! (1790) AULD LANG SYNE Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And auld lang syne? Cho. — For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp, And surely I '11 be mine ! 32 And we '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. We twa hae run about the braes. And pu'd the gowans fine; But we 've wander'd mony a weary fit 15 Sin' auld lang syne. We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, From mornin' sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld lang syne. 2c And there 's a hand, my trusty fier, And gie 's a hand o' thine ; And we '11 tak a right guid-willie waught For auld lang syne. (1796) JOHN ANDERSON MY JO John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent. Your locks were like the raven. Your bonie brow was brent ; But now your brow is held, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We 've had wi' ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John, And hand in hand we '11 go. And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. (1790) TAM GLEN My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie, Some counsel unto me come len'; To anger them a' is a pity, But what will I do wi' Tam Glen? I 'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, S In poortith I might mak a fen': What care I in riches to wallow. If I maunna marry Tam Glen? There 's Lowrie, the laird o' Dumeller, ' Guid-day to you' — brute! he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller, n But when will he dance like Tam Glen ^ 498 ROBERT BURNS My niiiinie does constantly dcave mc, And bids me beware o' young men ; They tlatter, she says, to deceive me; '3 But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen? My daddie says, gin I '11 forsake him, lie '11 gie me guid hunder marks ten: But, if it 's ordain'd I maun tak him, O, wha will I get but Tarn Glen? 20 Yestreen at the valentines' dealing. My heart to my mou gied a sten : For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written, ' Tam Glen ' ! The last Halloween I was waukin 23 My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken : His likeness cam up the house staukin, And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen ! Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry; I '11 gie ye my bonie black hen, 3o Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. (1790) TO MARY IN HEAVEN Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray. That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day Aly Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 5 Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, 10 Where by the winding Ayr we met To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past. Thy image at our last embrace — 'S Ah ! little thought we 't was our last 1 Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbl'd shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green ; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene: The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest, 21 The birds sang love on every spray. Till too, too soon the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 25 And fondly broods with miser care ! 'lime but th' impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest? 30 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st tliou the groans that rend his l)rrast ? (1790) TAM O' SHANTER A TALE Of Brovvnyis 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 Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter : (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, '5 For honest men and bonie lasses.) O Tam ! had'st thou but been sae wise As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! 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 Doon ; 3o Or catch't wi' warlocks in the mirk. By Alloway'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! TAM O' SHANTER 499 But to our tale : — Ae market night, Tarn had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezin finely, Wi' reamin swats that drank divinely; 4o And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony: Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter ; And ay the ale was growing better: 46 The landlady and Tarn grew gracious Wi' secret favors, sweet, and precious : The souter tauld his queerest stories ; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : so The storm without might rair and rustle Tarn 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, ss The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; Kings may be blest, but Tarn 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 ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form 65 Evanishing amid the storm. 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 ; 74 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 mounted on his grey mear, 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 son- net, Whiles glowrin round wi' prudent cares, 85 Lest bogles catch him unawares. Kirk-Alioway 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 pa.st 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 roll ; '0° When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze : Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing. And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! los What dangers thou can'st make us scorn ! Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil ; Wi' usquebae we '11 face the devil ! The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle. Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. "o 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; us 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 screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, Till 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 devilish cantraip sleight Each in its cauld hand held a light. By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table '3o A murderer's banes m 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; '35 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; '40 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: 500 ROBERT BURNS The piper loud and louder blew, hs The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and rcckit And coost her duddics to the wark And linket at it in her sark! 'So Now Tam, O Tarn ! had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens! Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! — Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 'SS That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff my hurdles. For ae blink o' the bonie burdies ! But Tam ken'd what was what fu' brawlie; There was ae winsom wench and walie, i6o That night enlisted in the core (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, 165 And kept the country-side in fear) ; 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. 170 Ah ! little kent thy reverend grannie, 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 povv'r; 176 To sing how Nannie lap and fiang, (A souple jad she was and Strang,) And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd. And thought his very een enrich'd; 180 Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain. 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! ' 185 And in an instant all was dark: 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, 191 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, >95 Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo. Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou '11 get thy fairin I In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! 200 Now, do thy speedy ut;iiost, Meg, And win the kcy-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, 20s The fient a tail she had to shake ! 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 — 210 Ae spring brought aff her master hale. But left behind her ain grey tail. (1793) WILLIE BREWED A PECK O' MAUT O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, i An' Rob an' Allan cam to see : Three biyther hearts that Ice-lang night Ye wad na found in Christendie. Chorus. — We are na fou, we 're nae that fou, 5 But just a drappie in our ee; The cock may craw, the day may daw. And aye we 'II taste the barley bree. Here are we met, three merry boys. Three merry boys, I trow, are we; 10 An' mony a night we 've merry been. And mony mae we hope to be! It is the moon, I ken her horn. That's blinkin in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wile us hame, is But, by my sooth, she '11 wait a wee ! Wha first shall rise to gang awa', A cuckold, coward loon is he ! Wha first beside his chair shall fa". He is the king amang us three ! 20 (1790) A WINTER NIGHT Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm! How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? SlIAKSPERE. When biting Boreas, fell and doure. Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r; DUNCAN GRAY 501 When Phoebus gies a short lived glow'r Far south the lift, Dim-darkening thro' the flaky show'r S Or whirling drift; Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor Labor sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked, Wild-eddying swirl, 10 Or, thro' the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl : Listening the doors and winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle '5 O' winter war. An' through the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle Beneath a scaur. Ilk happin bird — wee, helpless thing! — That in the merry months o' spring 2° Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing An' close thy ee? Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, -5 Lone from your savage homes exil'd, — The blood-stain'd roost an' sheep-cot spoil'd My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. 30 (1787) 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, S 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, 'S 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. (1799) 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 '11 break my heart, thou bonie bird, s That sings upon the bough ; Thou minds me o' the happy days. When my fause luve was true. Thou '11 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 bird sang o' its luve, is And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Frae aff its thorny tree ; And my fause luver staw my rose But left the thorn wi' me. 20 (1808) DUNCAN GRAY 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, s Look'd asklent and unco skiegh, Gart poor Duncan stand abiegh; Ha, ha, the wooin o't! Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! i» Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooin o't! 502 ROBERT BURNS Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin'. Spak o' lowpin owre a linn; "5 Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! Time and chance arc but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooin o't! Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 2° ' 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 conies let doctors tell, ^s 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; 3o And O ! her een, they spak sic things ! Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 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 (1798) SCOTS WHA HAE 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 ; 5 See the front o' battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power — Chains and slavery! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill 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', '5 Let him follow mc ! 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! 'jyrants fall in every foe! Liberty 's in every blow ! — Let us do or die ! (1794) 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 the' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodden-gray, an' a' that ; 'o Gie fools their silks, 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, i5 Is king o' men for a' that. 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, ^s A marquis, duke, an' a' that ; But an honest man 's aboon his might, Guid faith he niauna fa that ! For a' that, an' a' that. Their dignities, an' a' that, 3° 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, 35 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. 4o (1800) WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850) Wordsworth was boru at Cockermouth in Cumberland, and educated at Plawkshead Grammar School between Esthwaite Water and Windermere in the Lake District, with which his whole life was closely connected. At St. John's College, Cambridge, according to bis own account, he was neither among the ' loyal students faithful to their books,' nor among the * honest dunces,' but one of the ' half-and-half idlers ' who ' read lazily in trivial books,' amused themselves with athletic sports, ' and let the stars Come forth, per- haps, without one quiet thought.' In recollection, Wordsworth probably exaggerated his youthful idleness, for he read extensively, in both classical and modern languages, but he was not for that hour, nor for that place,' and he undoubtedly profited more, intellectually and spiritually, by his vacations in the Lake District and in France. He became a warm sympathizer with the French revolutionary movement, which deeply stirred his imagination. The declaration of war between France and England and the Ileign of Terror in France cast him into deep melancholy, but he clung to his revolutionary principles until the Napoleonic despotism finally threw him back into agreement with his conservative fellow-countrymen. In this spiritual crisis Wordsworth owed much to the companionship of his sister Dorothy, with whom he decided to retire from the world and devote himself to ' plain living and high thinking.' A legacy of £900 from a young admirer (Raisley Calvert) enabled the Words- worths, who were living in the Lake District on milk and potatoes, to carry out this resolution, and in 1795 they took a cottage at Racedown. in Worcestershire, where they were visited by Coleridge. In the autumn of 1797 the three friends took a long walk together in the Quantock Hills ; and to pay the expenses of the excursion, the young men planned a small volume of poetry, which was published the following year by an obscure Bristol printer under the title of Lyrical Bullads. Containing Coleridge's Ancient Mariner and Wordsworth's Lines icritten above Tintern Abbey, it marked very distinctly the two new streams of influence which were to enrich English poetry throughout the nineteenth century, and it has come to be regarded as one of the most important events in the history of literature, although at the time it attracted little attention. In the same year (1798) the Wordsworths and Coleridge sailed for Germany, where the latter plunged deep into the study of German literature and philosophy, while Wordsworth began the composition of The Prelude, an account of his own poetical and spiritual development, which was fin- ished in 1S05, although withheld from publication until after his death. In 1799 Wordsworth and his sister settled permanently in the Lake District, their home for the next nine years being Dove Cottage, Grasmere. In ISOO the payment of a long deferred debt to the family enabled Wordsworth to marry a lifelong friend, Mary Hutchison, sung by him in ' She was a phantom of delight ' and other poems. In 1813 he was given a government sinecure as distributor of stamps, which brought him in £400 a year, and he was able to remove to a larger house at Rydal Mount, where he stayed until his death. Most of his work now recognized as of the highest excellence was published by 1807, though his longest poem, The Excursion, appeared in 1814 ; The M'hitc Doe of Rylstone and Laodamia in 1815; Tlte Waggoner and I'etcr Bell in 1819; the fine series of son- nets, The River Duddon, in 1820; and a less successful sequence. Ecclesiastical Sketches, in 1822. On the death of Southey in 1843, he was appointed Poet Laureate, and was in turn succeeded by Tennyson, who received ' the laurel greener from the brow, Of him who uttered nothing base.' Wordsworth's most obvious service to English poetry was to free it from the bondage of the artificial diction which the school of Pope received as a tradition and hardened into a convention. Subsequent ages owe him a greater debt for opening their minds to truer and deeper relations with Nature, and their hearts to sympathy with simple things and simple people. But his greatest gift was neither a theory of diction nor a system of philosophy, l)ut the union of high imaginative powers with a rare faculty of expression, which enabled him to enrich English poetry with priceless treasures. INIatthew Arnold's con- viction that ' the poetical performance of Wordsworth is after that of Shakspere and Mil- ton . . . undoubtedly the most considerable in our language from the Elizabethan age to the present time ' has been confirmed by the judgment of later critics. 503 504 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH PREFACE TO LATER ISSUES ^""'^^ '' healthy or depraved ; which, RMTAi^t:' ^g^i"> could not be determined, without OF L\I\ICAL BALLADS pointing out, in what manner language and the human mind act and react on The first volume of these poems has 5 each other, and without retracing the already been sul)mitted to general revolutions, not of literature alone, but perusal. It was published as an expcri- likewise of society itself. I have there- mcnt, which, I hoped, might be of some fore altogether declined to enter reg- use to ascertain, how far, by fitting to ularly upon this defense; yet I am metrical arrangement a selection of the 10 sensil^le, that there would be some im- real language of men in a state of vivid propriety in abruptly obtruding upon the sensation, that sort of pleasure and that public, without a few words of intro- quantity of pleasure may be imparted, duction, poems so materially different which a poet may rationally endeavor to from those upon which general approba- impart. 15 tion is at present bestowed. I had formed no very inaccurate es- It is supposed, that by the act of writ- timate of the probable effect of those ing in verse an author makes a formal poems: I flattered myself that they who engagement that he will gratify certain should be pleased with them would read known habits of association ; that he not them with more than common pleasure ; 20 only thus apprises the reader that certain and, on the other hand, I was well classes of ideas and expressions will be aware, that by those who should dis- found in his book, but that others will be like them, they would be read with more carefully excluded. This exponent or than common dislike. The result has symbol held forth by metrical language differed from my expectation in this 25 must in different eras of literature have only, that a greater number have been excited very different expectations: for pleased than I ventured to hope I should example, in the age of Catullus, Terence, please. and Lucretius, and that of Statins or Several of my friends are anxious for Claudian; and in our own country, in the the success of these poems from a be- 30 age of Shakspere and Beaumont and lief, that, if the views with which they Fletcher, and that of Donne and Cowley, were composed were indeed realized, a or Dryden, or Pope. I will not take upon class of poetry would be produced well me to determine the exact import of the adapted to interest mankind permanently, promise which by the act of writing in and not unimportant in the quality and 31; verse an author, in the present day, makes in the multiplicity of its moral relations: to his reader; but it will undoubtedly and on this account they have advised me appear to many persons that I have not to add a systematic defense of the theory fulfilled the terms of an engagement thus upon which the poems were written. voluntarily contracted. They who have But I was unwilling to undertake the task, 40 been accustomed to the gaudiness and because I knew that on this occasion the inane phraseology of many modern reader would look coldly upon my argu- writers', if they persist in reading this ments, since I might be suspected of book to its conclusion, will, no doubt, having been principally influenced by frequently have to struggle with feelings the selfish and foolish hope of reasoning 4'^ oi strangeness and awkwardness: they him into an approbation of these partic- will look round for poetry, and will be ular poems: and I was still more unwill- induced to inquire by what species of ing to undertake the task, because, courtesy these attempts can be per- adequately to display my opinions, and mitted to assume that title. I hope there- fully to enforce my arguments, would 50 fore the reader will not censure me, for require a space wholly disproportionate attempting to state what I have proposed to a preface. For to treat the subject to myself to perform; and also (as far with the clearness and coherence of as the limits of a preface will permit) to which it is susceptible, it would be explain some of the chief reasons which necessary to give a full account of the 55 have determined me in the choice of my present state of the public taste in this purpose: that at least he may be spared country, and to determine how far this any unpleasant feeling of disappoint- PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS 505 ment, and that I myself may be protected and regular feelings, is a more permanent, from one of the most dishonorable ac- and a far more philosophical language, cusations which can be brought against than that which is frequently substituted an author, namely, that of an indolence for it by poets, who think that they are which prevents him from endeavormg 5 conferring honor upon themselves and to ascertain what is his duty, or, when his their art, in proportion as they separate duty is ascertained, prevents him from themselves from the sympathies of men, performing it. and indulge in arbitrary and capricious The principal object, then, proposed in habits of expression, in order to furnish these poems was to choose incidents and 10 food for fickle tastes, and fickle appetites, situations from common life, and to re- of their own creation, late or describe them, throughout, as far I cannot, however, be insensible to the as was possible, in a selection of Ian- present outcry against the triviality and guage really used by men, and, at the meanness, both of thought and language, same time, to throw over them a certain 15 which some of my contemporaries have coloring of imagination, whereby ordi- occasionally introduced into their metrical nary things should be presented to the compositions ; and I acknowledge that this mind in an unusual aspect, and, further, defect, where it exists, is more dis- and above all, to make these incidents honorable to the writer's own character and situations interesting by tracing in 20 than false refinement or arbitrary innova- them, truly though not ostentatiously, tion, though I should contend at the same the primary laws of our nature : chiefly, time, that it is far less pernicious in the as far as regards the manner in which we sum of its consequences. From such associate ideas in a state of excitement, verses the poems in these volumes will be Humble and rustic life was generally 25 found distinguished at least by one mark chosen, because, in that condition, the of difference, that each of them has a essential passions of the heart find a worthy purpose. Not that I always be- better soil in which they can attain their gan to write with a distinct purpose maturity, are less under restraint, and formally conceived; but habits of med- speak a plainer and more emphatic Ian- 30 itation have, I trust, so prompted and guage; because in that condition of life regulated my feelings, as that my de- our elementary feelings co-exist in a state scriptions of such objects as strongly of greater simplicity, and, consequently, excite those feelings, will be found to may be more accurately contemplated, carry along with them a purpose. If and more forcibly communicated; be- 35 this opinion is erroneous, I can have cause the manners of rural life germinate little right to the name of a poet. For from those elementary feelings; and from all good poetry is the spontaneous over- the necessary character of rural occupa- flow of powerful feelings : and though tions, are more easily comprehended, and this be true, poems to which any value are more durable ; and, lastly, because m 40 can be attached were never produced on that condition the passions of men are any variety of subjects but by a man, incorporated with the beautiful and per- who, being possessed of more than usual manent forms of nature. The language, organic sensibility, had also thought long too, of these men is adopted (purified in- and deeply. For our continued influxes deed from what appears to be its real 45 of feeling are modified and directed by defects, from all lasting and rational ' our thoughts, which are indeed the reprc- causes of dislike or disgust) because such sentatives of all our past feelings; and, men hourly communicate with the best as by contemplating the relation of these objects from which the best part of Ian- general representatives to each other, we guage is originally derived; and because, 5o discover what is really important to men. from their rank in society and the same- so, by the repetition and continuance of ness and narrow circle of their inter- this act, our feelings will be connected course, being less under the influence of with important subjects, till at length, if social vanity, they convey their feelings we be originally possessed of much sen- and notions in simple and unelaborated 55 sibility, such habits of mind will be pro- expressions. Accordingly such a Ian- duced, that, by obeying blindly and guage, arising out of repeated experience mechanically the impulses of those habits. 5o6 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH we shall describe objects, and utter senti- elder writers, I bad almost said the works nients, of such a nature, and in such of Shakspere and Milton, are driven into connection with each other, that the un- neglect by frantic novels, sickly and derstanding of the reader must necessarily stupid German tragedies, and deluges of be in some degree enlightened, and his 5 idle and extravagant stories in verse.^ — affections strengthened and purified. When I think upon this degrading thirst I have said that each of these poems after outrageous stinmlation, I am almost has a purpose. But it is proper that I ashamed to have spoken of the feeble should mention one other circumstance endeavor made in these volumes to coun- which distinguishes these poems from the 10 teract it; and, reflecting upon the mag- l)opular poetry of the day; it is this, that nitude of the general evil, I sliould be the feeling therein developed gives im- oppressed with no dishonorable melan- portance to the action and situation, and cboly, had I not a deep impression of not the action and situation to the feel- certain inherent and indestructible quail- ing. My meaning will be rendered per- ^5 ties of the human mind, and likewise of fectly intelligible by referring my reader certain powers in the great and perma- to the poems entitled Poor Susan and the ncnt objects that act upon it, which are Childless Pother, particularly to the last equally inherent and indestructible; and stanza of the latter poem. did I not further add to this imi)ression I will not suffer a sense of false *° a belief, that the time is approaching modesty to prevent me from asserting, when the evil will be systematically op- that I point my reader's attention to this posed, by men of greater powers, and mark of distinction, far less for the sake with far more distinguished success, of these particular poems than from the Having dwelt thus long on the subjects general importance of the subject. The 25 and aim of these poems, I shall request subject is indeed important ! For the the reader's permission to apprise him of human mind is capable of being excited a. few circumstances relating to their without the application of gross and vio- style, in order, among other reasons, that lent stimulants; and he must have a very I may not be censured for not having faint perception of its beauty and dignity 30 performed what I never attempted. The who does not know this, and who does reader will find that personifications of not further know, that one being is abstract ideas rarely occur in these elevated above another, in proportion as volumes ; and, I hope, are utterly re- he possesses this capability. It has there- jected, as an ordinary device to elevate fore appeared to me, that to endeavor to 35 the style, and raise it above prose. I produce or enlarge this capability is one have proposed to myself to imitate, and, of the best services in which, at any as far as is possible, to adopt the very period, a writer can be engaged; but this language of men; and assuredly such service, excellent at all times, is espe- personifications do not make any natural cially so at the present day. For a 40 or regular part of that language. They multitude of causes, unknown to former are, indeed, a figure of speech occasion- times, are now acting with a combined ally proiupted by passion, and I have force to blunt the discriininating powers made use of them as such ; but I have of the mind, and unfitting it for all endeavored utterly to reject them as a voluntary exertion, to reduce it to a state 4S mechanical device of style, or as a fam- of almost savage torpor. The most ef- ily language which writers in meter seem fective of these causes are the great to lay claim to by prescription. I have national events which are daily taking wished to keep my reader in the company place, and the increasing accumulation of flesh and blood, persuaded that by so of men in cities, where the uniformity 5o doing I shall interest him. Others who of their occupations produces a craving pursue a different track will interest him for extraordinary incident, which the likewise; I do not interfere with their rapid communication of intelligence claim, but wish to prefer a different claim hourly gratifies. To this tendency of life of my own. There will also be found in and manners the literature and theatrical 55 these pieces little of what is usually called exhibitions of the country have conformed poetic diction ; as much pains has been themselves. The invaluable works of our taken to avoid it as is ordinarily taken PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS 507 to produce it; this has been done for the found to be strictly the language of prose, reason already alleged, to bring my Ian- when prose is well written. The truth guage near to the language of men, and of this assertion might be demonstrated further, because the pleasure which I by innumerable passages from almost all have proposed to myself to impart, is of 5 the i)oetical writings, even of Milton a kind very different from that v^-hich himself. To illustrate the subject in a is supposed by many persons to be the general manner, I will here adduce a proper object of poetry. Without being short composition of Gray, who was at culpably particular, I do not know how the head of those who, by their reason- to give my reader a more exact notion 10 ings, have attempted to widen the space of the style in which it was my wish and of separation betwixt prose and metrical intention to write, than, by informing him composition, and was more than any other that I have at all times endeavored to look man curiously elaborate in the structure steadily at my subject; consequently, of his own poetic diction, there is, I hope in these poems little i5 falsehood of description, and my ideas In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, are expressed in language fitted to their And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire: respective importance. Something must The birds in vain their amorous descant have been gained by this practice, as it join, is friendly to one property of all good 2° Or cheerful fields resume their green attire, poetry, namely, good sense; but it has These ears, alas! for other notes repine; necessarily cut me off from a large por- A different object do these eyes require; tion of phrases and figures of speech My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; which from father to son have long been And in my breast the imperfect joys expire: regarded as the common inheritance of 25 Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, poets. I have also thought it expedient And new-born pleasure brings to happier to restrict myself still further, having m^" ." abstained from the use of many expres- The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; sions, in themselves proper and beautiful, To warm their little loves the birds corn- but which have been foolishly repeated 30 plani. by bad poets, till such feelings of disgust ' fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, are connected with them as it is scarcely ^"'^ "^^'<-'<-'P ^'^^ ^>iore because I zveep in vain. possible by any art of association to over- It will easily be perceived, that the po\ver. only part of this sonnet which is of any If in a poem there should be found a 35 value is the lines printed in italics; it is series of lines, or even a single line, in equally obvious, that, except in the rime, which the language, though naturally ar- and in the use of the single word ' fruit- ranged, and according to the strict laws less ' for fruitlessly, which is so far a de- of meter, does not differ from that of feet, the language of these lines does in prose, there is a numerous class of critics 40 no respect differ from that of prose, who, when they stumble upon these By the foregoing quotation I have prosaisms, as they call them, imagine that shown that the language of prose may they have made a notable discovery, and yet be well adapted to poetry; and it was exult over the poet as over a man previously asserted, that a large portion ignorant of his own profession. Now 45 of the language of every good poem can these men would establish a canon of in no respect differ from that of good criticism which the reader will conclude prose. We will go further. It may be he must utterly reject, if he wishes to safely affirmed, that there neither is, nor be pleased with these pieces. And it can be, any essential difference between would be a most easy task to prove to 5o the language of prose and metrical com- him, that not only the language of a large position. We are fond of tracing the portion of every good poem, even of the resemblance between poetry and paint- most elevated character, must necessarily, ing, and. accordingly, we call them sisters : except with reference to the meter, in no but where shall we find bonds of con- respect differ from that of good prose, 55 nection sufficiently strict to typify the but likewise that some of the most in- affinity betwixt metrical and prose com- tcresting parts of the best poems will Ije position? They both speak by and to the 5o8 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH same organs; the bodies in which both of his own with that which the passion natu- thcni are clothed may be said to be of the rally suggests: it is sufficient to say that same substance, their affections are such a WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE TRELUDE FROM BOOK I Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up Fostered alike by beauty and by fear: Much favored in my birth-place, and no less In that beloved Vale to which erelong We were transplanted — there were we let loose 5 For sports of wider range. Ere I had told Ten birth-days, when among the mountain slopes Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had snapped The last autumnal crocus, 't was my joy With store of springes o'er my shoulder hung " To range the open heights where woodcocks run Along the smooth green turf. Through half the night. Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied That anxious visitation; — moon and stars Were shining o'er iny head. I was alone, '5 And seemed to be a trouble to the peace That dwelt among them. Sometimes it be- fell In these night wanderings, that a strong de- sire O'erpowered my better reason, and the bird Which was the captive of another's toil 2° Became my prey ; and when the deed was done I heard among the solitary hills Low breathings coming after me, and sounds Of undistinguishable motion, steps Almost as silent as the turf they trod. ^s Nor less when spring had warmed the cultured Vale, Moved we as plunderers where the mother- bird Had in high places built her lodge; though mean Our object and inglorious, yet the end Was not ignoble. Oh ! when I have hung 3o Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock But ill sustained, and almost (so it seemed) Suspended by the blast that blew amain, Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that time While on the perilous ridge I hung alone, 36 With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind Blow through my ear! the sky seemed not a sky Of earth — and with what motion moved the clouds ! Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music ; there is a dark 41 Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling to- gether In one society. How strange that all The terrors, pains, and early miseries, 45 Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part, And that a needful part, in making up The calm existence that is mine when I Am worthy of myself! Praise to the end! 50 Thanks to the means which Nature deigned to employ; Whether her fearless visitings, or those That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light Opening the peaceful clouds ; or she may use Severer interventions, ministry 55 More palpable, as best might suit her aim. One summer evening (led by her) I found A little boat tied to a willow tree Within a rocky cave, its usual home. Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in 60 Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on; Leaving behind her still, on either side. Small circles glittering idly in the moon, 65 Until they melted all into one track Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows. Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point With an unswerving line, I fixed my view Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, 70 The horizon's utmost boundary ; far above Was nothing but the stars and the gray sky. She was an elfin pinnace ; lustily I dipped my oars into the silent lake, And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat 75 Went heaving through the water like a swan ; When, from behind that craggy steep till then The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge. As if with voluntary power instinct Upreared its head. I struck and struck again, ^° And growing still in stature the grim shape "THE PRELUDE 517 Towered up between me and the stars, and still, For so it seemed, with purpose of its own And measured motion like a living thing, Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned, 85 And through the silent water stole my way Back to the covert of the willow tree; There in her mooring-place I left my bark, — And through the meadows homeward went, in grave And serious mood ; but after I had seen 90 That spectacle, for many days, my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes 95 Remained, no pleasant images of trees. Of sea or sky, no colors of green fields; But huge and mighty forms that do not live Like living men, moved slowly through the mind 99 By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought. That givest to forms and images a breath j And everlasting motion, not in vain I By day or star-light thus from my first I dawn 105 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me i The passions that build up our human soul ; Not with the mean and vulgar works of ! man, But with high objects, with enduring things -r- With life and nature — purifying thus no The elements of feeling and of thought. And sanctifying, by such discipline. Both pain and fear, until we recognize A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 114 Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me With stinted kindness. In November days. When vapors rolling down the valley made A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods. At noon and 'mid the calm of summer nights, 119 When, by the margin of the trembling lake, Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went In solitude, such intercourse was mine ; Mine was it in the fields both day and night. And by the waters, all the summer long. And in the frosty season, when the sun Was set, and visible for many a mile 126 The cottage windows blazed through twi- light gloom, I heeded not their summons : happy time It was indeed for all of us — for me 129 It was a time of rapture 1 Clear and loud The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled about, Proud and exulting like an untired horse That cares not for his home. All shod with steel. We hissed along the polished ice in games Confederate, imitative of the chase '35 And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn. The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle; with the din Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 140 The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron ; while far distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west 145 The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. To cut across the reflex of a star 150 That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain ; and oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spin- ning still 155 The rapid line of motion, then at Once Have I, reclining back upon my heels. Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round! 160 Behind me did they stretch in solemn train. Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. (1850) WILLIAM WORDSWORTH LINES composed a fkw miles above tintern abbey on revisiting the banks of the wye durinc. 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 1 — Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 5 That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and con- nect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these or- chard-tufts, " Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. Are clad in one green hue, and lose them- selves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines '5 Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms. Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem. Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 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 : 24 But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din 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, -9 With tranquil restoration : — feelings, too, Of unremembered pleasure: such perhaps. As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's Hfe, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 1 The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern. To them I may have owed another gift, 36 Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burden of the mystery. In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, 4° 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 — 5° In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world. Have hung upon the beatings of my heart. How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods, s6 How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-ex- tinguished thought. With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60 The picture of the mmd 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. 6s 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 na- ture 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 colors and their forms, were then to me THE PRELUDE 519 An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 80 That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts 86 Have followed ; for such loss, I would be- lieve. Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing often- times 90 The still, sad music of humanity, 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 1°° 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 be- hold 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 recog- nize 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 110 Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, 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, 115 My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch 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 i-^o My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her ; 't is her privi- lege Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform i-S The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and lieauty, 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 130 The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith that all which we be- hold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; '35 And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee : and, in after years. When these wild ecstasies shall be ma- tured 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, m5 And these my exhortations! Nor, per- chance — If I should be where I no more can hear 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 150 We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service : rather say With warmer love — oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then for- get, 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! 160 (1798) 520 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN Strange fits of passion have 1 known: And I will dare to tell, But in the Lover's ear alone, What once to me befell. When she I loved looked every day, 5 Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon. Upon the moon I fixed my eye. All over the wide lea; 'o With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me. And now we reached the orchard plot ; And as we climbed the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot '5 Came near and nearer still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept. Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon. 20 My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped : When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropped. What fond and wayward thought will slide Into a lover's head ! — ^^ ' Oh, mercy ! ' to myself I cried, * If Lucy should be dead 1 ' (1800) SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTROD- DEN WAYS 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 ; 1° But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! (1800) I TRAVELED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN I traveled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England ! did I know till then What love I bore to thee. 'T is past, that melancholy dream ! 5 Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more. Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; 10 And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy mornings showed, thy nights con- cealed The bowers where Lucy played ; And thine too is the last green field 'S That Lucy's eyes surveyed. (1807) THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, ' A lovelier tiower 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, Jo 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; '5 And hers shall be the breathing balm. And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. 'The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; -o Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mold the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. MICHAEL 5^1 ' The stars of midnight shall be dear ^s 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 Shall pass into her face. 3o ' 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 died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; 40 The memory of what has been. And never more will be. (1800) A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL A slumber did my spirit seal ; I had no human fears : She seemed a thing that could not feel i The touch of earthly years. I No motion has she now, no force; S ; She neither hears nor sees; I Rolled round in earth's diurnal course. With rocks, and stones, and trees. (1800) MICHAEL A PASTORAL POEM If from the public way you turn your steps; Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you face to face. 5 But courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out them- selves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen : but they Who journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites '' That overhead are sailing in the sky. It is in truth an utter solitude ; Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pass by, ^5 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that simple object appertains, A story unenriched with strange events. Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 20 Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved; — not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 25 Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects led me on to feel 3o For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history 34 Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts; And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets who among these hills Will be my second self when I am gone. Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name; ^i An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen. Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, 45 And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, When others heeded not. He heard the South 50 i\Iake subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The Shepherd, at such warning, of his fiock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 54 ' The winds are now devising work for me ! ' 522 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives The traveler to a shelter, summoned him Up to the mountains ; he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists. That came to him and left him on the heights. 6° So lived he till his eightieth year vi'as past. And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed ^s The common air; hills, which with vigor- ous step He had so often climbed; which had im- pressed So many incidents upon his mind 68 Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; Which like a book preserved the memory Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts. The certainty of honorable gain; Those fields, those hills — what could they less? — had laid 74 Strong hold on his afYections, were to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love, The pleasure which there is in life itself. His days had not been passed in single- ness. His Helpmate was a comely matron, old — Though younger than himself full twenty years. ^° She was a woman of a stirring life, Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had Of antique form, this large for spinning wool. That small for flax; and if one wheel had rest, It was because the other was at work. §5 The Pair had but one inmate in their house. An only Child, who had been born to them When Michael, telling o'er his years, began To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's phrase, ^9 With one foot in the grave. This only Son, With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm. The one of an inestimable worth, Made all their household. I may truly say. That they were as a proverb in the vale 94 For endless industry. When day was gone. And from their occupations out of doors The Son and Father were come home, even then, Their labor did not cease; unless when all Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 100 Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes. And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) And his old father both betook them- selves los To such convenient work as might employ Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or re- pair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field. no Down from the ceiling by the chimney's edge That in our ancient uncouth country style With huge and black projection ovcrbrowed Large space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; us An aged utensil, which had performed Service beyond all others of its kind. Early at evening did it burn and late. Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, Which going by from year to year had found 120 And left the couple neither gay perhaps Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes. Living a life of eager industry. And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year There by the light of this old lamp they sat, 125 Father and Son, while far into the night The Housewife plied her own peculiar work. Making the cottage through the silent hours Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. This light was famous in its neighborhood. And was a public symbol of the life ui That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced. Their cottage on a plot of rising ground Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, '34 High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, MICHAEL 523 And westward to the village near the lake ; And from this constant light, so regular And so far seen, the House itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, Both old and young, was named The Even- ing Star. '40 Thus living on through such a length of years, The shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart This son of his old age was yet more dear — 144 Less from instinctive tenderness, the same Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all — Than that a child, more than all other gifts. That earth can offer to declining man Brings hope with it, and forward looking thoughts, And stirrings of inquietude, when they iso By tendency of nature needs must fail. Exceeding was the love he bare to him, His heart and his heart's joy! For often- times Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms. Had done him female service, not alone '55 For pastime and delight, as is the use Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked His cradle as with a woman's gentle hand. And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 160 Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love. Albeit of a stern unbending mind, To have the Young one in his sight, when he Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool Sat with a fettered sheep before him stretched, 165 Under the large old oak, that near his door. Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade. Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, , Thence in our rustic dialect was called The Clipping Tree,"^ a name which yet it bears. 170 There, while they two were sitting in the shade. With others round them, earnest all and blithe, ' Clipping is the word used in the North of Eng- land for shearing. Would Michael exercise his heart with looks Of fond correction and reproof bestowed Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep By catching at their legs, or with his shouts Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 177 And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek Two steady roses that were five years old. Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 181 With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt He as a watchman oftentimes was placed At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; And, to his office prematurely called, '88 There stood the urchin, as you will divine, Something between a hindrance and a help ; And for this course not always, I believe. Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; Though nought was left undone which staff or voice. Or looks, or threatening gestures could perform. But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 195 Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights. Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, He with his Father daily went, and they Were as companions, why should I relate That objects which the Shepherd loved be- fore 200 Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came Feelings and emanations — things which were Light to the sun and music to the wind ; And that the old Man's heart seemed born again. Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up; And now when he had reached his eight- eenth year, 206 He was his comfort and his daily hope. While in this sort the simple household lived From day to day, to Michael's ear there came Distressful tidings. Long before the time Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound an 5^4 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH In surety for his brother's son, a man Of an industrious life, and ample means — But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly Had pressed upon him, — and old Michael now Was summoned to discharge the forfei- ture, 216 A grievous penalty, but little less Than half his substance. This unlooked for claim At the first hearing, for a moment took More hope out of his life than he supposed That any old man ever could have lost. As soon as he had armed himself with strength To look his trouble in the face, it seemed The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once A portion of his patrimonial fields. 225 Such was his first resolve; he thought again. And his heart failed him. 'Isabel,' said he, Two evenings after he had heard the news, ' I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sunshine of God's love 230 Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think That I could not lie quiet in my grave. Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 235 And I have lived to be a fool at last To my own family. An evil man That was, and made an evil choice, if he Were false to us; and if he were not false. There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 240 Had been no sorrow. I forgive him — but 'T were better to be dumb, than to talk thus. When I began, my purpose was to speak Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; He shall possess it free as is the wind 247 That passes over it. We have, thou know- est. Another kinsman — he will be our friend In this distress. He is a prosperous man. Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go, 251 And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift He quickly will repair this loss, and then He may return to us. If here he stay. What can be done? Where every one is poor, 255 What can be gained ? ' At this the old Man paused, And Isabel sat silent, for her mind Was busy, looking back into past times. There 's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, lie was a parish-boy — at the church-door They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence, 261 And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors bought A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares ; And with this basket on his arm, the lad Went up to London, found a master there, Who out of many chose the trusty boy 266 M To go and overlook his merchandise ■ Beyond the seas : where he grew wondrous I rich, I And left estates and monies to the poor. And at his birthplace built a chapel floored With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 271 These thoughts, and many others of like sort. Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel And her face brightened. The old Man was glad. And thus resumed: — 'Well, Isabel! this scheme 275 These two days has been meat and drink to me. Far more than we have lost is left us yet. We have enough — I wish indeed that I Were younger, — but this hope is a good hope. Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 280 Buy for him more, and let us send him forth To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: I If he could go, the Boy should go to-night.' * Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 285 Was restless morn and night, and all day long Wrought on with her best fingers to pre- pare Things needful for* the journey of her son. But Isabel was glad when Sunday came To stop her in her work : for, when she lay 290 By Michael's side, she through the last two nights Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep : And when they rose at morning she could see MICHAEL 525 That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon She said to Luke, while they two by them- selves 29s Were sitting at the door. 'Thou must not go: We have no other Child but thee to lose, \2_ None to remember — do not go away, For if thou leave thy Father he will die.' The Youth made answer with a jocund voice ; 300 And Isabel, when she had told her fears. Recovered heart. That evening her best fare Did she bring forth, and all together sat Like happy people round a Christmas fire. With daylight Isabel resumed her work; And all the ensuing week the house ap- peared 306 As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length The expected letter from their kinsman came, With kind assurances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 310 To which, requests were added, that forth- with He might be sent to him. Ten times or more The letter was read over; Isabel Went forth to show it to the neighbors round ; Nor was there at that time on English land A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel Had to her house returned, the old Man said, 317 ' He shall depart to-morrow.' To this word The Housewife answered, talking much of things Which, if at such short notice he should go. Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 2^2 Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had designed To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard The tidings of his melancholy loss, 326 For this same purpose he had gathered up A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walked ; 330 And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, And thus the old Man spake to him. — ' My son. To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart I look upon thee, for thou art the same That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 335 And all thy life hast been my daily joy. I will relate to thee some little part Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good When thou art from me, even if I should touch On things thou canst not know of.— After thou 340 First cam'st into the world — as oft befalls To new-born infants — thou didst sleep away Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, And still I loved thee with increasing love. Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Than when I heard thee by our own fire- side 347 First uttering, without words, a natural tune ; While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month fol- lowed month, , 350 And in the open fields my life was passed And on the mountains, else I think that thou Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, As well thou know'st, in us the old and young 355 Have played together, nor with me didst thou Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.' Luke had a manly heart; but at these words He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand And said, ' Nay, do not take it so — I see That these are things of which I need not speak. 361 Even to the utmost I have been to thee A kind and a good Father : and herein I but repay a gift which I myself Received at others' hands ; for, though now old 365 Beyond the common life of man, I still Remember them who loved me in my youth. Both of them sleep together : here they lived 526 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH As all their forefathers had done; and when At length their time was come, they were not loath 37o To give their bodies to the family mold. I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived. But 't is a long time to look back, my Son, And see so little gain from threescore years. These fields were burdened when they came to me ; 375 Till I was forty years of age, not more Than half of my inheritance was mine. I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work, And till these three weeks past the land was free. It looks as if it never could endure 380 Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good That thou shouldst go.' At this the old Man paused; Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood. Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: * This was a work for us ; and now, my son. 386 It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. , Nay, Boy, be of good hope; — we both may live To see a better day. At eighty-four 390 I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy part, I will do mine. — I will begin again With many tasks that were resigned to thee; Up to the heights, and in among the storms. Will I without thee go again, and do 395 All works which I was wont to do alone. Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee, Boy ! Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast With many hopes; it should be so — yes — yes — I knew that thou couldst never have a wish To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound to me 401 Only by links of love: when thou art gone. What will be left to us ! — But, I forget My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone. As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, 405 When thou art gone away, should evil men Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts. And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou Mayst bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 411 Who, being innocent, did for that cause Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well — When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see A work which is not here: a covenant 415 'Twill be between us — But, whatever fate P>ofall thee, I shall love thee to the last. And bear thy memory with me to the grave.' The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down, And, as his Father had requested, laid 420 The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight The old Man's grief broke from him ; to his heart He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept ; And to the house together they returned. Hushed was that House in peace, or seem- ing peace, 425 Ere the night fell ; — with morrow's dawn the Boy Began his journey, and when he had reached The public way, he put on a bold face ; And all the neighbors as he passed their doors Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, 430 That followed him till he was out of sight. A good report did from their Kinsman come. Of Luke and his well doing: and the Boy Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news. Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout 435 ' The prettiest letters that were ever seen.' Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. So, many months passed on: and once again The Shepherd went about his daily work With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now 440 Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour He to that valley took his way, and there Wrought at the sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty; and at length TO THE CUCKOO 527 He in the dissolute city gave himself 445 To evil courses : ignominy and shame Fell on him, so that he was driven at last To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. There is a comfort in the strength of love; 449 'T will make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain, or break the heart : I have conversed with more than one who well Remember the old Man, and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy news. His bodily frame had been from youth to age 455 Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud And listened to the wind ; and as before Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep, , And for the land his small inheritance. 460 And to that hollow dell from time to time I Did he repair, to build the fold of which His flock had need. 'T is not forgotten yet I The pity which was then in every heart I For the old Man — and 'tis believed by all That many and many a day he thither went, i And never lifted up a single stone. 467 There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, I Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 47° I The length of full seven years from time j to time [ He at the building of this Sheep-fold \ wrought, I And left the work unfinished when he died. I Three years, or little more, did Isabel j Survive her Husband: at her death the I estate 475 I Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. I The cottage which was named the Evening ! Star Is gone — the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood; great changes have been wrought In all the neighborhood: — yet the oak is left 480 That grew beside their door ; and the re- mains Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. (1800) MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD ^ly heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in 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 Child is father of the Man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. (1807) THE SPARROW'S NEST Behold, within the leafy shade, Those bright blue eggs together laid! On me the chance-discovered sight Gleamed like a vision of delight. I started — seeming to espy 5 The home and sheltered bed, — The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by, My Father's house, in wet or dry, My sister Emmeline and I Together visited. 'o She looked at it, and seemed to fear it; Dreading, tho' wishing to be near it: Such heart was in her, being then A little Prattler among men. The Blessing of my later years 'S Was with me when a boy : She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears ; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love, and thought, and joy. 20 (1807) TO THE CUCKOO blithe New-comer! I have heard, 1 hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear ; From hill to hill it seems to pass. At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. 528 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to nie No hird, but an invisible thing, 'S A voice, a mystery ; The same vi'hom 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; Still 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 3° An unsubstantial, faery place ; That is fit home for Thee! (1807) RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE There was a roaring in the wind all night; The rain came heavily and fell in floods; But now the sun is rising calm and bright; The birds are singing in the distant woods : Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods ; s The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chat- ters; And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. AH things that love the sun are out of doors : The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on the moors 10 The hare is running races in her mirth; And with her feet she from the plashy earth Raises a mist; that, glittering in the sun, Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. I was a Traveler then upon the moor; "S I saw the hare that raced about with joy; I heard the woods and distant waters roar, Or heard them not, as happy as a boy: The pleasant season did my heart employ: My old remembrances went from me wholly; -'o Antl all the ways of men so vain and melancholy ! IJut, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might Of joy in minds that can no further go, As high as we have mounted in delight In our dejection do we sink as low, 25 To me that morning did it happen so ; And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came ; Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, 1 knew not, nor could name. I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; And I bethought me of the playful hare: 3° Even such a happy child of earth am I ; Even as these blissful creatures do I fare; Far from the world I walk, and from all care; But there may come another day to me — Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 35 My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, As if life's business were a summer mood; As if all needful things would come un- sought To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; But how can He expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all? 42 I thought of Chatterton, the marvelous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride ; Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 45 Following his plough, along the mountain- side: By our own spirits are we deified : We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, so A leading from above, a something given, Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place. When I with these untoward thoughts had striven. Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven I saw a Man before me unawares : 55 The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray hairs. As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie Couched on the bald top of an eminence; Wonder to all who do the same espy, RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 529 By what means it could thither come, and whence ; 60 So that it seems a thing endued with sense : Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun it- self; Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, Nor all asleep — in his extreme old age: 65 His body was bent double, feet and head Coming together in life's pilgrimage; As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage Of sickness felt by him in times long past, A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. 70 Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood: And, still as I drew near with gentle pace. Upon the margin of that moorish flood Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood ; 7S That heareth not the loud winds when they call ; And moveth altogether, if it move at all. At length, himself unsettling, he the pond Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look Upon the muddy water, which he conned, 80 As if he had been reading in a book: And now a stranger's privilege I took; And, drawing to his side, to him did say, i ' This morning gives us promise of a glori- ous day.' A gentle answer did the old Man make, 83 In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew : And him with further words I thus bespake, 'What occupation do you there pursue? This is a lonesome place for one like you.' Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes. 91 His words came feebly, from a feeble chest. But each in solemn order followed each. With something of a lofty utterance drest ; Choice word, and measured phrase, above the reach 95 Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ; Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. He told, that to these waters he had come To gather leeches, being old and poor: 100 Employment hazardous and wearisome! 34 And he had many hardships to endure: From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor ; Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance ; And in this way he gained an honest main- tenance, los The old Man still stood talking by my side; But now his voice to me was like a stream Scarce heard ; nor word from word could I divide ; And the whole body of the man did seem Like one whom I had met with in a dream; Or like a man from some far region sent. To give me human strength, by apt ad- monishment. 112 My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; And hope that is unwilling to be fed; Cold, pain and labor, and all fleshly ills; And mighty Poets in their misery dead. "6 Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, My question eagerly did I renew, ' How is it that you live, and what is it you do?' He with a smile did then his words repeat; And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide 121 He traveled; stirring thus about his feet The waters of the pools where they abide. ' Once I could meet with them on every side; But they have dwindled long by slow decay; Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may.' 126 While he was talking thus, the lonely place, The old Man's shape, and speech, all troubled me: In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually, 130 Wandering about alone and silently. While I these thoughts within myself pur- sued. He, having made a pause, the same dis- course renewed. And soon with this he other matter blended. Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind, us But stately in the main; and when he ended, I could have laughed myself to scorn to find In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 'God,' said I, 'be rny help and stay secure; I '11 think of the leech-gatherer on the lonely moor I ' 140 (1807) 530 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH TO A YOUNG LADY WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY Dear child of nature, let them rail ! There is a nest in a green dale, A harbor and a hold, Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 5 A light to young and old. There, healthy as a shepherd-boy, And treading among flowers of joy, Which at no season fade. Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 'o Shalt show us how divine a thing A Woman may be made. Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die. Nor leave thee when gray hairs are nigh, A melancholy slave; 'S But an old age serene and bright. And lovely as a Lapland night. Shall lead thee to thy grave. (1807) 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 Of travelers 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 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 : 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 As if her song could have no ending (1807) 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. The music in my heart I bore. Long after it was heard no more. YARROW UNVISITED See the various Poems the scene of wliicli is laid 111011 tlie liaiiUs of the ^'arrow; in jiarlicular, the jxquisite Uallail of Hamilton, beginning: ' Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride, Itusk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow I From Sterling Castle we had seen The mazy Forth unraveled. Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, And with the Tweed had traveled : And when we came to Cloven ford, S Then said my winsome Marroiu, ' Whate'er betide, wc 'II turn aside, And see the Braes of Yarrow. ' Let Yarrow folk, jrac Selkirk tov.n. Who have been buying, selling, u Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own; Each maiden to her dwelling ! On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, J Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! I But we will downward with the Tweed, '5 Nor turn aside to Yarrow. ' There 's Gala Water, Leader Haughs, ■ Both lying right before us; ■ And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus; 20 There 's pleasant Teviotdale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow : Why throw away a needtul day To go in search of Yarrow? ' What 's Yarrow but a river bare, 25 That glides the dark hills under? ■< There are a thousand such elsewhere ■ As worthy of your wonder.' Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn : My True love sighed for sorrow : 3" And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 'Oh! green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,i 3i • See Hamilton's ballad, as above. TO A SKY-LARK 531 But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path, and open Strath, We '11 wander Scotland thorough ; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. 4° ' Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow ! We will not see them ; will not go, 45 To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; Enough if in our hearts we know There 's such a place as Yarrow. * Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! It must, or we shall rue it : so We have a vision of our own ; Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past, We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow ! For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 55 'Twill be another Yarrow! ' If Care, with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly, — Should we be loath to stir from home. And yet be melancholy ; 6° Should life be dull, and spirits low, 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow. That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow ! ' (1807) SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DE- LIGHT 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; s 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 waylay. 'o 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 '5 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 smiles. 20 And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveler 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 (1807) 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 cloud, A host of golden daffodils ; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, S Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along 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 Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : — A poet could not but be gay '5 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 daff"odils. (1807) TO A SKY-LARK Up with me! up with me into the clouds! For thy song. Lark, is strong; Up with me, up with me into the clouds! Singing, singing. With clouds and sky about thee ringing, S Lift me, guide me till I find That spot which seems so to thy mind. 532 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH I have walked through wildernesses dreary, And to-day my heart is weary; Had I now the wings of a Faery lo Up to thee would I tly. There is madness about thee, and joy divine In that song of thine ; Lift me, guide me, high and high To thy banqucting-place in the sky! 'S Joyous as morning. Thou art laughing and scorning ; Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, And, though little troubled with sloth, Drunken Lark ! thou wouldst be loath 20 To be such a traveler as I. Happy, happy Liver, With a soul as strong as a mountain river Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver, Joy and jollity be with us both ! -5 Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind ; But hearing thee, or others of thy kind. As full of gladness and as free of heaven, I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 30 And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. (1807) ELEGIAC STANZAS SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE IN A STORM PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile ! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: I saw thee every day ; and all the while Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. So pure the sky, so quiet was the air; 5 So like, so very like, was day to day ! Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was there; It trembled, but it never passed away. How perfect was the calm ! it seemed no sleep ; No mood which season takes away or brings: 10 I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. Ah! then, if mine had been the Painter's hand. To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam The light that never was on sea or land, >s The consecration and the Poet's dream ; I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile ! Amid a world how different from this! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 20 Thou should'st have seemed a treasure- house divine Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven; — Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine The very sweetest had to thee been given. A Picture had it been of lasting ease, 25 Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. Such Picture would I at that time have made : 30 And seen the soul of truth in every part ; A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. So once it would have been, — 't is so no more ; I have submitted to a new control : A power is gone, which nothing can re- store; 35 A deep distress hath humanized my Soul. Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea, and be what I have been: The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 4° Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been the Friend, If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, This work of thine I blame not, but com- mend ; This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. Oh, 'tis a passionate Work! — yet wise and well; 45 Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; That Hulk which labors in the deadly swell. This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! And this huge Castle, standing here sub- lime, I love to see the look with which it braves. Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time 51 The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. THE HAPPY WARRIOR 533 Farewell, farewell, the heart that lives alone, Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind ! Such happiness, wherever it be known, ss Is to be pitied ; for 't is surely blind. But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — 59 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. (1807) 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 S When empty terrors overawe ; From vain temptations dost set free ; And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! There are who ask not if thine eye 1° Be on them ; who, in love and truth. 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: is O if through confidence misplaced 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, 20 And joy its own security. 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. ^s I, loving freedom, and untried ; 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 30 Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray ; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. Through no disturbance of my soul, Or strong compunction in me wrought, 35 I supplicate for thy control ; But in the quietness of thought: Me this unchartered freedom tires; T feel the weight of chance-desires: My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. 41 Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace ; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face : 45 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds; 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! 50 I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour ; Oh, let my weakness have an end ! Give unto me, made lowly wise. The spirit of self-sacrifice; 55 The confidence of reason give ; And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! (1807) CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought : 5 Whose high endeavors are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright : Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; 9 Abides by this resolve, and stops not there. But makes his moral being his prime care ; Who doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; In face of these doth exercise a power 15 Which is our human nature's highest dower ; Controls them and subdues, transmutes, be- reaves. Of their bad influence, and their good re- ceives ; 534 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH By objects, which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; Is placable — because occasions rise 2' So often that demand such sacrifice; More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, As tempted more; more able to endure. As more exposed to suffering and distress; Thence, also more alive to tenderness. 26 'T is he whose law is reason ; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, 30 And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He labors good on good to fix, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows; Who, if he rise to station of command, 3S Rises by open means; and there will stand On honorable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 40 And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honors or for worldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all : Whose powers shed round him in the com- mon strife, 45 Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 49 Great issues, good or bad for human kind. Is happy as a Lover; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man in- spired ; And, through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he fore- saw; Or if an unexpected call succeed, 55 Come when it will, is equal to the need : He who though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, 61 Are at his heart ; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve; More brave for this that he hath much to love : — 'T is, finally, the Man, who, lifted high 6s Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye. Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not, Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won : 71 Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, 75 From well to better, daily self-surpast : Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth. Or he must fall to sleep without his fame. And leave a dead unprofital^le name, 80 Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's ap- plause : This is the happy Warrior; this is He Whom every Man in arms should wish to be. 85 (1807) ODE INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLEC- TIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD There was a time when meadow, grove and stream. The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Appareled 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. The rainbow comes and goes, »o And lovely is the Rose, The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare. Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; '5 The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go. That there hath past away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 535 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 re- lief, And I again am strong: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 25 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 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My heart is at your festival. My head hath its coronal, 4° The fulness 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 ! so — 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 forgetfulness, 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. Earth fills 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. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 85 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, 9o 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, 'oo And with new joy and pride 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 ; As if his whole vocation 106 Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity; '"9 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind. That, 'eaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 536 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,— Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, "5 Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 'I'hou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; '^o 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, '^^ And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! Oh joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, '30 That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction : not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest ; Delight and liberty, the simple creed 136 Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : — Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; mo But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realized, MS 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, '55 To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad en- deavor, 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 Which brought us hither. Can in a moment travel thither, 165 And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling ever- more. Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! 170 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 '75 Be now for ever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; 180 In the primal sympathy _ Which having been must ever be; | In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; 184 In the faith that looks through death. In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, 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 '90 To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks which down their chan- nels fret. Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; '95 The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring 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, 200 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. (1807) I SONNETS 537 NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S NARROW ROOM Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow- room ; And hermits are contented with their cells; And students with their pensive citadels: Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, 5 High as the highest Peak of Furness Fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth, the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is : and hence for me, In sundry, moods, 'twas pastime to be bound ^° Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground; Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty. Should find brief solace there, as I have found. (1807) PERSONAL TALK 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 neighbors, 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, like 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 ; To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, n In the loved presence of my cottage-fire. And listen to the flapping of the flame. Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. Yet life,' you say, ' is life ; we have seen and see. 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 5 Are fostered by the comment and the gibe.' Even be it so, yet still among your tribe, Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me ! Children are blest, and powerful ; their world lies More justly balanced; partly at their feet, And part far from them — sweetest melo- dies II 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 ! Wings have we, — and as far as we can go We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood, 16 Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know s Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There find I personal themes, a plenteous store. Matter wherein right voluble I am, 10 To which I listen with a ready ear ; Two shall be named, preeminently dear, — The gentle Lady married to the Moor; And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. IV. Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine; for thus 1 live re- mote From evil-speaking; rancor, never sought. Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought : 6 And thus from day to day my little boat Rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceably. Blessings be with them — and eternal praise. Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares — 10 The poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays! Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days. (1807) 538 WILLIAM W'ORIXS WORTH COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE SEPT. 3 1802 Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he he of soul who could pass by A sight so touching m its majesty: This city now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 5 Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; 10 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will : Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! (1807) COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE NEAR CALAIS AUGUST 1802 Fair Star of evening. Splendor of the west, Star of my Country! — on the horizon's brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink On England's bosom: yet well pleased to rest, Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 5 Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I thmk, Shouldst be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink. Bright Star ! with laughter on her banners, drest In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot Beneath thee that is England; there she lies. 1° Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot. One life, one glory ! I with many a fear For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs. Among men who do not love her, linger here. (1807) IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE 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 ; s 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, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: " Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year. And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. (1807) ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 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; S 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 de- cay; 10 Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reached its final day: Men arc we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great, is passed away. (1807) TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men ! Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den ; O miserable Chieftain ! where and when s 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 : ' ' SONNETS 539 There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind. . (1807) SEPTEMBER 1802 NEAR DOVER Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear. The coast of France, the coast of France how near ! Drawn almost into frightful neighborhood. I 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 thetn, and said that by the soul Only the Nations shall be great and free ! (1807) LONDON 1802 Milton ! thou shouldst be living 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 English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 7 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart ; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea; 10 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. (1807) IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF THAT THE FLOOD It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity Hath flowed, 'with pomp of waters unwith stood,' Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands, That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands 7 Should perish; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armory of the invincible knights of old: Jo We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakspere spake : the faith and morals hold Which Alilton held. In everything we are sprung Of earth's first blood, have titles manifold. (1807) WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY WHAT HAS TAMED When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts de- part When men change swords for ledgers and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed ? Now when I think of thee, and what thou art, 6 Verily, in the bottom of my heart. Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. For dearly must we prize thee ; we who find In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; 1° And I by my affection was beguiled. What wonder if a Poet now and then. Among the many movements of his mind. Felt for thee as a lover or a child 1 (1807) TO THE MEN OF KENT OCTOBER 1803 Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, Ye children of a soil that doth advance Her haughty brow against the coast of France, Now is the time to prove your hardiment! To France be words of invitation sent! 5 They from their fields can see the counte- nance Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance 540 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. Left single, in bold parley, ye of yore, Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath ; Confirmed the charters that were yours be- fore; — " No parleying now! In Britain is one breath ; We all are with you now from shore to shore : Ye men of Kent, 'tis victory or death! (1807) 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 re- joice. 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, Where 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; 10 For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be That Mountain floods should thunder as be- fore, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful Voice be heard by thee ! (1807) THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US The world is too much with us: late and soon. Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon I This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; The winds that will be howling at all hours, 6 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; 'o So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less for- lorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. (1807) AFTER-THOUGHT TO THE RIVER DUDDON I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, As being past away. Vain sympathies ! For, backward, Duddon ! as 1 cast my eyes, I see what was, and is, and will abide; Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide ; 5 The Form remains, the Function never dies ; 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 10 To live, and act, and serve the future hour; And if, as towards the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know. (1820) INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL CAMBRIDGE Tax not the royal saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned, _ Albeit laboring for a scanty band I Of white-robed Scholars only, this immense ' And glorious Work of fine intelligence! s Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self -poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, 10 Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingermg — and wandering on as loath to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality. (1822) SONNETS 541 CONTINUED They dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear Or groveling thought, to seek a refuge here; Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam ; Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam 5 Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the wreath Of awe-struck wisdom droops: or let my path Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome Hath typified by reach of daring art Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest, 1° The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread As now, when She hath also seen her breast Filled with mementos, satiate with its part Of grateful England's overflowing Dead. (1822) ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WAL- TER SCOTT FROM ABBOTSFORD FOR NAPLES I A trouble not of clouds, or weeping rain, I Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light ) Engendered, hangs o 'er Eildon's triple height : I Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain For kindred Power departing from their sight ; 5 i While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a ; blithe strain, : Saddens his voice again, and yet again. Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue 1° Than sceptered King or laureled Conqueror knows, Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true. Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea. Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope! (1835) 'THERE!' SAID A STRIPLING, POINTING WITH MEET PRIDE ' There ! ' said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, ' Is Mossgiel Farm ; and that 's the very field Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy.' Far and wide A plain below stretched sea-ward, while, descried s Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose; And, by that simple notice, the repose Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. Beneath ' the random bield of clod or stone ' Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower 10 Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away, less happy than the One That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of Poetry and Love. (1835) CONCLUSION Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground if path be there or none. While a fair region round the traveler lies, Which he forbears again to look upon ; Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, s 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; 10 With Thought and Love companions of our way, Whate'er the senses take or may refuse The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews Of inspiration on the humblest lay. (1835) SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (1772-1834) Coleridge was the son of a Devoushire clergyman, about whose eccentricities some amus- ing stories are told. As a ' poor, friendless boy ' he came lo London at the age of ten, and entered Christ's Hospital, the famous charity school founded by Edward VI, at the same time as Charles Lamb, with whom he struck up a friendship which lasted as long as they lived. Coleridge was a dreamy, precocious youth, who talked neo-platonism and recited Homer and Pindar in Greek in the play ground. In 17U1 he was admitted as a ' sizar ' or poor student at Jesus College, Cambridge, which he left in his second year, encumbered with debt and disappointed in love, to enlist in a dragoon regiment under the name of Silas TomUyn Cumberback. As he could not ride or clean his horse and accoutre- ments, he proved unsuccessful as a cavalry soldier, and after four months was sent back to the university. Lie left Cambridge without a degree in 1795, having already formed with Southey, who was at Oxford, the design of the Pantisocracy, an ideal community to be founded on the banks of the Susquehanna by twelve gentlemen and twelve ladies of good education and liberal principles. Southey and Coleridge did not go to America, but they married the tw^o JMiss Frickers, who were to have been their partners in the adventure. Mrs. Coleridge complained that her husband ' would walk up and down composing poetry when he ought to have been in bed,' and the union proved an ill-assorted one, but as Coleridge brought his bride to a cottage near Bristol unfurnished with groceries or kitchen ware, the fault was not entirely on lier side. Coleridge was all his life terribly impractical, as his own story of the publication of The Watchman at this time, given below, abundantly shows. In the same year (ITSJG) Coleridge made the acquaintance of Wordsworth, and the two poets formed a strong friendship, based upon mutual affection, admiration, and reverence. Wordsworth thought Coleridge ' the only wonderful man he had ever met ; ' Coleridge said of Wordsworth, ' I feel myself a little man by his side.' The two poets were very different in appearance and disposition. WordswortlVs tall, gaunt frame, his high ascetic forehead, stately expression and reserved manner contrasted sharply with Coleridge's stockish figure, awkward gait, and good-natured face with curly black hair and ardent gray eyes. For more than a year (1797-8) the two poets were constantly together, and their communion resulted, not only in the publication of Lyrical Ballads, as already related (p. 503), but in the permanent enrichment of each poetic nature by contact with another, richly though differ- ently endowed. After transitory appearances as a Unitarian minister and a London journalist, Coleritlge returned from his studies in Germany to publish his translation of Schiller's Wullcnstcin (ISOO) and to establish his family at Greta Hall, Keswick, a few miles from the Wordsvvorths. His lack of will pov^-er was increased by the habit of taking laudanum, which became tixed in 1803, and grew upon him to an alarming extent. Lamb described him in ISOt) as ' an archangel, a little damaged ' ; a less humorous account says he was ' ill, penniless, and worse than homeless.' Another attempt at periodical publication. The Friend (1809), was no better managed, and no more successful than The Watchman. His lectures in Loudon, begun about the same time, were more profitable, both to himself and to the public, in spite of his habit of lecturing on anything but the subject announced, and his occasional failure to come at all ; the scattered notes he left behind contain some most valuable contributions to Shaksperean criticism. Unable to break himself of the opium habit, Coleridge in 181G put himself under the care of Dr. Gillman, of Highgate, a London suburb, with whom he lived until his death. His poetic productivity had practically ceased years before, but he continued to write prose (Biographia Literaria, 1817; Aids to Reflection, 1825), and to pour forth the flood of impassioned and philosophical talk he had begun as a school boy at Christ's Hospital. Some of it is preserved in Table Talk, published after his death. Coleridge had all the powers of a great poet except the ordinairy virtues of concentration and continuity of pui-pose. The only great poem he succeeded in completing was the Ancient Mariner, on which he worked under the spur of Wordsworth's influence. He projected innumerable literary undertakings, most of which were not even begun. Yet his influence in producing what a modern critic has called ' the renascence of wonder ' was as revolutionary as that of Wordsworth in another way, and if the change in poetry is rightly named ' the romantic revival.' Coleridge must be given a place by the side of bis greater friend and fellow poet as one of the makers of the new era. 542 BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA 543 BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA Earl of Bottle, for aught I knew of him, FROM CHAPTER X ^^'''° ^^^^^ ^^<^^" Content to reverence the peerage in abstracto, rather than in con- An imprudent man of common" good- crctis. Of course The Friend was reg- ness of heart cannot but wish to turn 5 ularly sent as far, if I remember right, even his imprudences to the benefit of as the eighteenth number; that is, till a others, as far as this is possible. If fortnight before the subscription was to therefore any one of the readers of this be paid. And lo ! just at this time I re- semi-narrative should be preparing or ceived a letter from his lordship, reprov- intending a periodical work, I warn him, 10 ing me in language far more lordly than in the first place, against trusting in the courteous for my impudence in directing number of names on his subscription list, my pamphlets to him, who knew nothing For he cannot be certain that the names of me or my work ! Seventeen or eight- were put down by sufficient authority; een numbers of which, however, his lord- or, should that be ascertained, it still re- ^5 ship was pleased to retain, probably for mains to be known, whether they were the culinary or post-culinary conveniences not extorted by some over zealous of his servants. friend's importunity; whether the sub- Secondly, I warn all others from the scriber had not yielded his name, merely attempt to deviate from the ordinary from want of courage to answer, no ; and 20 mode of publishing a work by the trade. with the intention of dropping the work I thought indeed, that to the purchaser as soon as possible. One gentleman pro- it was indififerent, whether thirty per cured me nearly a hundred names for cent, of the purchase-money went to the The Friend, and not only took frequent booksellers or to the government ; and opportunity to remind me of his success 25 that the convenience of receiving the in his canvass, but labored to impress work by the post at his own door would my mind with the sense of the obligation, give the preference to the latter. It is I was under to the subscribers; for, (as hard, I own, to have been laboring for he very pertinently admonished me,) years, in collecting and arranging the ' fifty-two shillings a year was a large 30 materials ; to have spent every shilling sum to be bestowed on one individual, that could be spared after the necessaries where there were so many objects of of life had been furnished, in buying charity with strong claims to the as- books, or in journeys for the purpose of sistance of the benevolent.' Of these consulting them or of acquiring facts at hundred patrons ninety threw up the 35 the fountain head ; then to buy the paper, publication before the fourth number, pay for the printing, and the like, all at without any notice; though it was well least fifteen per cent, beyond what the known to them, that in consequence of trade would have paid ; and then after all the distance, and the slowness and ir- to give thirty per cent, not of the net regularity of the conveyance, I was com- 40 profits, but of the gross results of the pelled to lay in a stock of stamped paper sale, to a man who has merely to give for at least eight weeks beforehand ; each the books shelf or warehouse room, and sheet of which stood me in five pence permit his apprentice to hand them over previously to its arrival at my printer's ; the counter to those who may ask for though the subscription money was not to 45 them ; and this too copy by copy, although, be received till the twenty-first week after if the work be on any philosophical or the commencement of the work ; and scientific subject, it may be years before lastly, though it was in nine cases out of the edition is sold off. All this, I con- ten impracticable for me to receive the fess, must seem a hardship, and one, to money for two or three numbers without 50 which the products of industry in no paymg an equal sum for the postage. other mode of exertion are subject. Yet In confirmation of my first caveat, I even this is better, far better, than to will select one fact among many. On my attempt in any way to unite the functions list of subscribers, among a consider- of author and publisher. But the most able number of names equally flattering, 55 prudent mode is to sell the copyright, at was that of an Earl of Cork, with his ad- least of one or more editions, for the most dress. He might as well have been an that the trade will offer. By few only 544 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE can a large remuneration be expected ; much.' — Still nothing amiss. Selleridge but fifty pounds and ease of mind are of (for orthography is no necessary part more real advantage to a literary man, of a bookseller's literary acquirements) than the chance of five hundred with £3. 3^. ' ' Bless me ! only three guineas the certainty of insult and degrading 5 for the what d'ye call it — the scller- anxicties. I shall have been grievously idgef 'No more, sir!' replied the misunderstood, if this statement should be rider. 'Nay, but that is too moderate!' interpreted as written with the desire of rejoined my old friend. ' Only three detracting from the character of i)ook- guineas for selling a thousand copies of sellers or publishers. The individuals did 10 a work in two volumes?' 'O sir!' not make the laws and customs of their (cries the young traveler) 'you have mis- trade, but, as in every other trade, take taken the word. There have been none them as they find them. Till the evil can of them sold; they have been sent back be proved to be removable, and without from London long ago ; and this £3. ^s. is the substitution of an equal or greater in- 15 for the ccllaridgc, or warehouse-room in convenience, it were neither wise nor our book cellar.' The work was in con- manly even to complain of it. But to use sequence preferred from the ominous it as a pretext for speaking, or even for cellar of the publisher's to the author's thinking, or feeling, unkindly or oppro- garret ; and, on presenting a copy to an briously of the tradesmen, as individuals, 20 acquaintance, the old gentleman used to would be something worse than unwise tell the anecdote with great humor and or even than unmanly; it would be im- still greater good nature, moral and calumnious. My motives point With equal lack of worldly knowledge, in a far different direction and to far I was a far more than equal sufferer for other objects, as will be seen in the con- 25 it, at the very outset of my authorship, elusion of the chapter. Toward the close of the first year from A learned and exemplary old clergy- the time, that in an inauspicious hour I man, who many years ago went to his left the friendly cloisters, and the happy reward followed by the regrets and grove of quiet, ever honored Jesus blessings of his flock, published at his 30 College, Cambridge, I was persuaded by own expense two volumes octavo, en- sundry philanthropists and Anti-polem- titled, A Neiv Theory of Redemption. ists to set on foot a periodical work, en- The work was most severely handled in titled The Watchman, that according to The Monthly or Critical Review, I the general motto of the work, all might forget which; and this unprovoked hos- 35 knoiv the truth, and that the truth might tility became the good old man's favorite make us free! In order to exempt it topic of conversation among his friends. from the stamp-tax, and likewise to con- Well ! (he used to exclaim.) in the tribute as little as possible to the sup- second edition, I shall have an oppor- posed guilt of a war against freedom, it tunity of exposing both the ignorance and ^o was to be published on every eighth day, the malignity of the anonymous critic. thirty-two pages, large octavo, closely Two or three years however passed by printed, and price only four-pence. Ac- without any tidings from the bookseller, cordingly with a flaming prospectus, — who had undertaken the printing and ' Knozvledge is poivcr,' ' To cry the state publication of the work, and who was 45 of the political atmosphere,' — and so perfectly at his ease, as the author was forth, I set off on a tour to the North, known to be a man of large property. At from Bristol to Sheffield, for the purpose length the accounts were written for ; and of procuring customers, preaching by the in the course of a few weeks they were way in most of the great towns, as a presented by the rider for the house, in 50 hireless volunteer, in a blue coat and person. My old friend put on his spec- white waistcoat, that not a rag of the tacles, and holding the scroll with no very woman of Babylon might be seen on me. firm hand, began — 'Paper, so much: 6 For I was at that time and long after, moderate enough — not at all beyond my though a Trinitarian (that is ad normam expectation! Printing, so much: well ! 55 P/o/onw) in philosophy, yet a zealous moderate enough! Stitching, covers, ad- Unitarian in religion; more accurately, I vertisementSt, carriage, and so forth, so was a Psilanthropist, one of those who BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA 545 believe our Lord to have been the real Phileleutheros, the tallow-chandler, vary- son of Joseph, and who lay the main ing my notes, through the whole gamut stress on the resurrection rather than on of eloquence, from the ratiocinative to the the crucifixion. O ! never can I remem- declamatory, and in the latter from the ber those days with either shame or re- 5 pathetic to the indignant. I argued, 1 gret. For I was most sincere, most described, I promised, I prophesied ; and disinterested. My opinions were indeed beginning with the captivity of nations in many and most important points er- I ended with the near approach of the roneous ; but my heart was single, millennium, finishing the whole with some Wealth, rank, life itself then seemed lo of my own verses describing that glorious cheap to me, compared with the interests state out of the Religious Musings : of what I believed to be the truth, and the will of my Maker. I cannot even Such delights accuse myself of having been actuated by As float to earth, permitted visitants! vanity ; for in the expansion of my en- i5 When in some hour of solemn jubilee thusiasm I did not think of myself at all. The massive gates of Paradise are thrown My campaign commenced at Birming- Wide open, and forth come in fragments ham; and my first attack was on a rigid wild Calvinist, a tallow-chandler by trade. Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies, He was a tall dingy man, in whom length 20 And odors snatched from beds of ama- was so predominant over breadth, that ranth, he might almost have been borrowed for And they, that from the crystal river of a foundry poker. O that face ! a face ^^^^ Kar' €fjicf>amv\ I have it before me at Spring up on freshened wing, ambrosial this moment. The lank, black, twine-like 25 gales . hair, pingui-nitescent, cut in a straight line along the black stubble of his thin My taper man of lights listened with gunpowder eye-brows, that looked like a perseverant and praiseworthy patience, scorched after-math from a last week's though, as I was afterwards told, on shaving. His coat collar behind in per- 30 complaining of certain gales that were feet unison, both of color and luster, not altogether ambrosial, it was a melt- with the coarse yet glib cordage, which ing day with him. ' And what. Sir,' he I suppose he called his hair, and which said, after a short pause, * might the cost with a bend inward at the nape of the be?' 'Only four-pence,' — (O! how I neck, — the only approach to flexure in his 35 felt the anti-climax, the abysmal bathos whole figure, — slunk in behind his waist- of that four-pence!) — 'Only four-pence, coat; while the countenance lank, dark, Sir, each number, to be published on very hard, and with strong perpendicular every eighth day.' — ' That comes to a deal furrows, gave me a dim notion of some of money at the end of a year. And one looking at me through a 4.ised grid- 40 how much, did you say, there was to be iron, all soot, grease, and iron! But he for the money?' — ' Thirty-two pages, Sir, was one of the thorough-bred, a true large octavo, closely printed.' — ' Thirty lover of liberty, and, as I was informed, and two pages ? Bless me ! why except had proved to the satisfaction of many, what I does in a family way on the Sab- that Mr. Pitt was one of the horns of 45 bath, that 's more than I ever reads, Sir ! the second beast in The Revelations, all the year round. I am as great a one, that spake as a dragon. A person, to as any man in Brummagem, Sir ! for whom one of my letters of recommenda- liberty and truth and all them sort of tion had been addressed, was my intro- things, but as to this, — no offense, I hope, ducer. It was a new event in my life, 50 sir, — I must beg to be excused.' my first stroke in the new business I had So ended my first canvass : from causes undertaken of an : uthor. yea, and of an that I shall presently mention, I made author trading on his own account. My but one other application in person. This companion after some imperfect sentences took place at Manchester to a stately and and a multitude of hums and ha's aban- 55 opulent wholesale dealer in cottons. He doned the cause of his client; and I com- took my letter of introduction, and, hav- menced an harangue of half an hour to ing perused it, measured me from head 35 546 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE to foot and again from foot to head, and and with the cold drops of perspiration tlien asked if I had any bill or invoice of running down it from my forehead, while the thing. I presented my prospectus to one after another there dropped in the him. Me rapidly skinuned and hummed different gentlemen, who had been in- over the first side, and still more rapidly 5 vited to meet, and spend the evening with the second and concluding page ; crushed me, to the number of from fifteen to it within his fingers and the palm of his twenty. As the ])oison of tobacco acts hand; then most deliberately and signifi- but for a short time, I at length awoke cantly rubbed and smoothed one part from insensibility, and looked round on against the other ; and lastly putting it lo the party, my eyes dazzled by the candles into his pocket turned his back on me which had been lighted in the interim, with an ' over-run with these articles ! ' By way of relieving my embarrassment and so without another syllable retired one of the gentlemen began the conversa- into his counting-house. And, I can truly tion, with ' Have you seen a paper to-day, say, to my unspeakable amusement. i5 Mr. Coleridge?' 'Sir,' I replied, rubbing This, I have said, was my second and niy eyes, ' I am far from convinced, that last attempt. On returning baffled from a christian is permitted to read either the first, in which I had vainly essayed newspapers or any other works of merely to repeat the miracle of Orpheus with political and temporary interest.' This the Brummagem patriot, I dined with ^o remark, so ludicrously inapposite to, or the tradesman who had introduced me rather, incongruous with, the purpose, for to him. After dinner he importuned me which I was known to have visited to smoke a pipe with him, and two or Birmingham, and to assist me in which three other illmninati of the same rank. they were all then met, produced an m- I objected, both because I was engaged ^^ voluntary and general burst of laughter ; to spend the evening with a minister and seldom indeed have I passed so many and his friends, and because I had never delightful hours, as I enjoyed in that smoked except once or twice in my life- room from the moment of that laugh till time, and then it was herb tobacco mixed an early hour the next morning. Never, with Oronooko. On the assurance, 3° perhaps, in so mixed and numerous a however, that the tobacco was equally party have I since heard conversation mild, and seeing too that it was of a sustained with such animation, enriched yellow color; — not forgetting the lam- with such variety of information and en- entable difficulty, I have always experi- livened with such a flow of anecdote, enced, in saying, ' No,' and in abstaining 35 Both then and afterwards they all joined from what the people about me were in dissuading me from proceeding with doing, — I took half a pipe, filling the my scheme; assured me in the most lower half of the bowl with salt. I was friendly and yet most flattering expres- soon however compelled to resign it, in sions, that neither was the employment consequence of a giddiness and distress- 40 fit for me,, nor I fit for the employment, ful feeling in my eyes, which, as I had Yet, if I determined on persevering in it, drunk but a single glass of ale, must, I they promised to exert themselves to the knew, have been the effect of the utmost to procure subscribers, and in- tobacco. Soon after, deeming myself re- sisted that I should make no more ap- covered, I sallied forth to my engage- 45 plications in person, but carry on the ment; but the walk and the fresh air canvass by proxy. The same hospitable brought on all the symptoms again, and, reception, the same dissuasion, and. that I had scarcely entered the minister's failing, the same kind exertions in my drawing-room, and opened a small packet behalf, I met with at Manchester, Derby, of letters, which he had received from 50 Nottingham, Sheffield, — indeed, at every Bristol for me; ere I sank back on the place in which I took up my sojourn, sofa in a sort of swoon rather than I often recall with affectionate pleasure sleep. Fortunately I had found just time the many respectable men who interested enough to inform him of the confused themselves for me, a perfect stranger to state of my feelings, and of the occasion, 55 them, not a few of whom I can still name For here and thus I lay, my face like a among my friends. They will bear wit- wall that is white-washing, deathly pale ness for me how opposite even then my BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA 547 principles were to those of Jacobinism or political melioration. Thus by the time even of democracy, and can attest the the seventh number was published, I had strict accuracy of the statement which I the mortification — (but why should I say have left on record in the tenth and this, when in truth I cared too little for eleventh numbers of The Friend. 5 any thing that concerned my worldly From this rememberable tour I returned interests to be at all mortified about it?) with nearly a thousand names on the — of seeing- the preceding numbers ex- subscription list of The Watchman; posed in sundry old iron shops for a yet more than half convinced, that pru- penny a piece. At the ninth number I dence dictated the abandonment of the 10 dropped the work. But from the London scheme. But for this very' reason I per- publisher I could not obtain a shilling; severed in it ; for I was at that period of he was a and set me at defiance. my life so completely hag-ridden by the From other places I procured but little, fear of being influenced by selfish motives, and after such delays as rendered that that to know a mode of conduct to be the 15 little worth nothing; and I should have dictate of prudence was a sort of pre- been inevitably thrown into jail by my sumptive proof tO my feelings, that the Bristol printer, who refused to wait even contrary was the dictate of duty. Ac- for a month, for a sum between eighty cordingly, I commenced the work, which and ninety pounds, if the money had not was announced in London by long bills 20 been paid for me by a man by no means in letters larger than had ever been seen affluent, a dear friend, who attached him- before, and which, I have been informed, self to me from my first arrival at Bristol, for I did not see them myself, eclipsed who has continued my friend with a fidel- the glories even of the lottery puffs, ity unconquered by time or even by my But alas! the publication of the very first 25 own apparent neglect; a friend from number was delayed beyond the day an- whom I never received an advice that nounced for its appearance. In the was not wise, nor a remonstrance that second number an essay against fast days, was not gentle and affectionate, with a most censurable application of a Conscientiously an opponent of the first text from Isaiah for its motto, lost me 30 revolutionary war, yet with my eyes near five hundred of my subscribers at thoroughly opened to the true character one blow. In the two following numbers and impotence of the favorers of revolu- I made enemies of all my Jacobin and tionary principles in England, principles democratic patrons; for, disgusted by which I held in abhorrence, — (for it was their infidelity, and their adoption of 35 part of my political creed, that whoever French morals with French psilosophy ; ceased to act as an individual by making and perhaps thinking, that charity ought himself a member of any society not to begin nearest home ; instead of abus- sanctioned by his Government, forfeited ing the government and the Aristocrats the rights of a citizen) — a vehement chiefly or entirely, as had been expected 40 Anti-Ministerialist, but after the inva- of me, I leveled my attacks at ' modern sion of Switzerland, a more vehement patriotism,' and even ventured to declare Anti-Gallican, and still more intensely an my belief, that whatever the motives of Anti-Jacobin, I retired to a cottage at ministers might have been for the sedi- Stowey, and provided for my scanty tion, or as it was then the fashion to call 45 maintenance by writing verses for a them, the gagging bills, yet the bills them- London morning paper, I saw plainly, selves would produce an effect to be de- that literature was not a profession, by sired by all the true friends of freedom, which I could expect to live ; for I could as far as they should contribute to deter not disguise from myself, that, whatever men from openly declaiming on subjects, 50 my talents might or might not be in other the principles of which they had never respects, yet they were not of the sort bottomed and from 'pleading to the poor that could enable me to become a pop- and ignorant, instead of pleading for ular writer, and that whatever my opin- them.' At the same time I avowed my ions might be in themselves, they were conviction, that national education and 55 almost equi-distant from all the three a concurring spread of the Gospel were prominent parties, the Pittites, the Fox- the indispensable condition of any true ites, and the Democrats. Of the unsal- 548 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE able nature of my writings I had an surveillance of myself and friend. There annising memento one morning from our must have been not only abundance, but own servant girl. For hai)pening to rise variety of those ' honorable men ' at at an earlier hour than usual, I observed the disposal of Ministers; for this proved her putting an extravagant quantity of 5 a very honest fellow. After three weeks' paper into the grate in order to light truly Indian perseverance in tracking us, the fire, and mildly checked her for her (for we were commonly together,) dur- wastefulness; 'La, Sir!' (replied poor ing all which time seldom were we out Nanny) 'why, it is only Watchmen.' of doors, but he contrived to l)e within I now devoted myself to poetry and 10 hearing, — and all the while utterly un- to the study of ethics and psychology ; suspected ; how indeed could such a sus- and so profound was my admiration at picion enter our fancies ? — he not only this time of Hartley's Essay on Man, rejected Sir Dogberry's request that he that I gave his name to my first-born. would try yet a little longer, but declared In addition to the gentleman, my neigh- 15 to him his belief, that both my friend bor, whose garden joined on to my and myself were as good subjects, for little orchard, and the cultivation of aught he could discover to the contrary, whose friendship had been my sole motive as any in His Majesty's dominions. He in choosing Stowey for my residence, I had repeatedly hid himself, he said, was so fortunate as to acquire, shortly 20 for hours together behind a bank at the after my settlement there, an invaluable sea-side, (our favorite seat,) and over- blessing in the society and neighborhood heard our conversation. At first he of one, to whom I could look up with fancied, that we were aware of our dan- equal reverence, whether I regarded him ger; for he often heard me talk of one as a poet, a philosopher, or a man. His 25 Spy No::y, which he was inclined to in- conversation extended to almost all suli- terpret of himself, and of a remarkable jects, except physics and politics; with feature belonging to him; but he was the latter he never troubled himself. speedily convinced that it was the name Yet neither my retirement nor my utter of a man who had made a book and lived abstraction from all the disputes of the 30 long ago. Our talk ran most upon books, day could secure me in those jealous times and we were perpetually desiring each from suspicion and obloquy, which did not other to look at this, and to listen to that; stop at me, but extended to my excellent but he could not catch a word about friend, whose perfect innocence was even politics. Once he had joined me on the adduced as a proof of his guilt. One of 35 road; (this occurred, as I was returning the many busy sycophants of that day, — home alone from my friend's house, (I here use the word sycophant in its which was about three miles from my original sense, as a wretch who flatters own cottage,) and, passing himself off the prevailing party by informing against as a traveler, he had entered into con- his neighbors, under pretence that they 40 versation with me, and talked of purpose are exporters of prohibited figs or fancies, in a democrat way in order to draw me — for the moral application of the term out. The result, it appears, not only it matters not which) — one of these convinced him that I was no friend of sycophantic law-mongrels, discoursing on Jacobinism; but, (he added,) I had the politics of the neighborhood, uttered 45 'plainly made it out to be such a silly as the following deep remark: 'As to well as wicked thing, that he felt Coleridge, there is not so much harm in ashamed though he had only put it on.' him, for he is a whirl-brain that talks I distinctly remembered the occurrence, whatever come uppermost; but that ! and had mentioned it immediately on he is the dark traitor. Yon never hear so my return, repeating what the traveler HIM say a syllable on the subject.' with his Bardolph nose had said, with * * * my own answer ; and so little did I sus- The dark guesses of some zealous Quid- pect the true object of my ' tempter ere nunc met with so congenial a soil in the accuser,' that I expressed with no small grave alarm of a titled Dogberry of our 55 pleasure my hope and belief that the con- neighborhood, that a spy was actually versation had been of some service to the sent down from the government pour poor misled malcontent. This incident BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA 549 therefore prevented all doubt as to the eminent. What have you heard? L. truth of the report, which through a Why, folks do say, your Honor! as how friendly medium came to me from the that he is a Poet, and that he is going master of the village inn, who had been to put Quantock and all about here in ordered to entertain the Government sprint; and as they be so much together, gentleman in his best manner, but above I suppose that the strange gentleman has all to be silent concerning such a person some consarn in the lousiness. — So ended being in his house. At length he received this formidable inquisition, the latter part Sir Dogberry's commands to accompany of which alone requires explanation, and his guest at the final interview; and, after 10 at the same time entitles the anecdote the absolving suffrage of the gentleman to a place in my literary life. I had con- Jionored zvith the confidence of Ministers, sidered it as a defect in the admirable answered, as follows, to the following poem of The Task, that the subject, queries: D. Well, landlord! and what which gives the title to the work, was do you know of the person in question ? 15 not, and indeed could not be, carried on L. I see him often pass by with maister beyond the three or four first pages, and , my landlord, {that is, tJie ozvncr that, throughout the poem, the connec- of the house,) and sometimes with the tions are frequently awkward, and the new-comers at Holford; but I never said transitions abrupt and arbitrary. I a word to him or he to me. D. But do 20 sought for a subject that should give you not know, that he has distributed equal room and freedom for descrip- papers and hand-bills of a seditious na- tion, incident, and impassioned reflections ture among the common people? L. No, on men, nature, and society, yet supply your Honor ! I never heard of such a in itself a natural connection to the parts, thing. D. Have you not seen this Mr. 25 and unity to the whole. Such a subject Coleridge, or heard of, his haranguing I conceived myself to have found in a and talking to knots and clusters of the stream, traced from its source in the inhabitants? — What are you grinning at, hills among the yellow-red moss and coni- sir? L. Beg your Honor's pardon! but I cal glass-shaped tufts of bent, to the first was only thinking, how they'd have 30 break or fall, where its drops become stared at him. li what I have heard be audible, and it begins to form a channel; true, your Honor ! they would not have thence to the peat and turf barn, itself understood a word he said. When our built of the same dark squares as it shel- Vicar was here, Dr. L. the master of the tered; to the sheepfold; to the first cul- great school and Canon of Windsor, there 35 tivated plot of ground ; to the lonely was a great dinner party at maister cottage and its bleak garden won from the 's; and one of the farmers, that heath; to the hamlet, the villages, the was there, told us that he and the Doctor market-town, the manufactories, and the talked real Hebrew Greek at each other seaport. My walks therefore were al- for an hour together after dinner. D. 40 most daily on top of Quantock. and Answer the question, sir ! does he ever among its sloping coombes. With my harangue the people? L. I hope your pencil and memorandum-book in m\ hand, Honor ain't angry with me. I can say I was making studies, as the artir.ts call no more than I know. I never saw him them, and often monldmg my thoughts talking with any one, but my landlord, 45 into verse, with the objects and imagery and our curate, and the strange gentle- immediately before my senses. Many man. D. Has he not been seen wander- circumstances, evil and good, intervened ing on the hills towards the Channel, and to prevent the completion of the poem, along the shore, with books and papers which was to have been entitled The in his hand, taking charts and maps of 5o Brook. Had I finished the work, it was the country? L. Why, as to that, your my purpose in the heat of the moment Honor ! I own, I have heard ; I am sure, to have dedicated it to our then com- I would not wish to say ill of any body ; mittee of public safety as containing the but it is certain, that I have heard — t). charts and maps, with which I was to Speak out, man ! don't be afraid, you are 55 have supplied the French Government in doing your duty to your King and Gov- aid of their plans of invasion. And these 550 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE too for a tract of coast that, from Cleve- and directing it to the loveHness and the don to Minehead, scarcely permits the wonders of the world before us; an in- ai)proach of a fishing-boat ! exhaustible treasure, but for which, in consequence of the film of familiarity CHAPTER XIV ^ '^"'^ selfish solicitude, we have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts During the first year that Mr. Words- that neither feel nor understand, worth and I were neighl)ors, our con- With this view I wrote the Ancient versations turned frequently on the two Mariner, and was preparing, among other cardinal points of poetry, the power of lo poems, the Dark Ladic, and the Chris- exciting the sympathy of the reader by tabcl, in which I should have more nearly a faithful adherence to the truth of na- realized my ideal than I had done in my lure, and the power of giving the interest first allcmpt. But Mr. Wordsworth's in- of novelty by the modifying colors of dustry had proved so much more success- imagination. The sudden charm, which i5 ful, and the number of his poems so much accidents of light and shade, which moon- greater, that my compositions, instead of light or sunset, diffused over a known forming a balance, appeared rather an and familiar landscape, appeared to rep- interpolation of heterogeneous matter, resent the practicability of combining both. Mr. Wordsworth added two or three These are the poetry of nature. The 20 poems written in his own character, in thought suggested itself (to which of us the impassioned, lofty, and sustained I do not recollect) that a series of poems diction which is characteristic of his might be composed of two sorts. In the genius. In this form the Lyrical Ballads one, the incidents and agents were to were published ; and were presented by be, in part at least, supernatural; and the 25 him, as an experiment, whether subjects, excellence aimed at was to consist in which from their nature rejected the the interesting of the affections by the usual ornaments and extra-colloquial style dramatic truth of such emotions, as of poems in general, might not be so would naturally accompany such situa- managed in the language of ordinary life tions, supposing them real. And real in 30 as to produce the pleasurable interest this sense they have been to every hu- which it is the peculiar business of man being who, from whatever source poetry to impart. To the second edition of delusion, has at any time believed him- he added a preface of considerable length; self under supernatural agency. For the in which, notwithstanding some passages second class, subjects were to be chosen 35 of apparently a contrary import, he was from ordinary life; the characters and understood to contend for the extension incidents were to be such as will be of this style to poetry of all kinds, and found in every village and its vicinity to reject as vicious and indefensible all where there is a meditative and feeling phrases and forms of style that were not mind to seek after them, or to notice 4° included in what he (unfortunately, I them when they present themselves. think, adopting an equivocal expression) In this idea originated the plan of the called the language of real life. From Lyrical Ballads; in which it was agreed this preface prefixed to poems in which that my endeavors should be directed to it was impossible to deny the presence of persons and characters supernatural, or at 45 original genius, however mistaken its least romantic; yet so as to transfer from direction might be deemed, arose the our inward nature a human interest and whole long-continued controversy. For a semblance of truth sufficient to procure from the conjunction of perceived power for these shadows of imagination that with supposed heresy I explain the in- willing suspension of disbelief for the So veteracy, and in some instances, I grieve moment, which constitutes poetic faith. to say, the acrimonious passions, with IMr. Wordsworth, on the other hand, was which the controversy has been conducted to propose to himself as his object, to give by the assailants. the charm of novelty to things of every Had Mr. Wordsworth's poems been the day, and to excite a feeling analogous to 55 silly, the childish things which they were the supernatural, by awakening the mind's for a long time described as being; had attention from the lethargy of custom, they been really distinguished from the J BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA 551 compositions of other poets merely by the privilege of the philosopher to pre- meanness of language, and inanity of serve himself constantly aware that dis- thought; had they indeed contained noth- tinction is not division. In order to ing more than what is found in the paro- obtain adequate notions of any truth, we dies and pretended imitations of them ; 5 must intellectually separate its distin- they must have sunk at once, a dead guishable parts; and this is the technical weight, into the slough of oblivion, and process of philosophy. But having so have dragged the preface along with done, we must then restore them in our them. But year after year increased the conceptions to the unity in which they number of Mr. Wordsworth's admirers. 10 actually coexist; and this is the result of They were found, too, not in the lower philosophy. A poem contains the same classes of the reading public, but chiefly elements as a prose composition; the dif- among young men of strong sensibility ference, therefore, must consist in a dif- and meditative minds; and their admira- ferent combination of them, in conse- tion (inflamed perhaps in some degree 15 quence of a different object proposed, by opposition) was distinguished by its According to the diiTerence of the object intensity, I might almost say, by its re- will be the difference of the combination, ligious fervor. These facts, and the in- It is possible that the object may be tellectual energy of the author, which merely to facilitate the recollection of was more or less consciously felt, where 20 any given facts or observations by arti- it was outwardly and even boisterously ficial arrangement; and the composition denied, meeting with sentiments of aver- will be a poem, merely because it is dis- sion to his opinions, and of alarm at their tinguished from prose by meter, or by consequences, produced an eddy of crit- rime, or by both conjointly. In this, the icism, which would of itself have borne 25 lowest sense, a man might attribute the up the poems by the violence with which name of a poem to the well-known enu- it whirled them round and round. With meration of the days in the several many parts of this preface, in the sense months: ^'"'J^Ti^^'' them, and which the words j^^- ^ ^^^^ September, undoubtedly seem to authorize, I never 30 ^pril, June, and November, etc. concurred; but, on the contrary, objected to them as erroneous in principle, and as and others of the same class and pur- contradictory (in appearance at least) pose. And as a particular pleasure is both to other parts of the same preface found in anticipating the recurrence of and to the author's own practice in the 35 sound and quantities, all compositions that greater number of the poems themselves, have this charm superadded, whatever be Mr. Wordsworth, in his recent collection, their contents, may be entitled poems, has, I find, degraded this prefatory dis- So much for the superficial form. A quisition to the end of his second vol- difference of object and contents supplies ume, to be read or not at the reader's 40 an additional ground of distinction. The choice. But he has not, as far as I can immediate purpose may be the communi- discover, announced any change in his cation of truths: either of truth absolute poetic creed. At all events, considering and demonstrable, as in works of science; it as the source of a controversy, in which or of facts experienced and recorded, as I have been honored more than I de- 45 in history. Pleasure, and that of the serve by the frequent conjunction of my highest and most permanent kind, mav name with his, I think it expedient to result from the attainment of the end; declare, once for all, in what points I but it is not itself the immediate end. coincide with his opinions, and in what In other works the communication of points I altogether differ. But in order so pleasure may be the immediate purpose; to render myself intelligible, I must and though truth, either moral or intel- previously, in as few words as possible, lectual, ought to be the ultimate end, yet explain my ideas, first, of a poem ; and this will distinguish the character of the secondly, of poetry itself, in kind and in author, not the class to which the work essence. 55 belongs. Blest indeed is that state of The oflSce of philosophical disquisition society, in which the immediate purpose consists in just distinction; while it is would be baffled by the perx-ersion of the 552 SAMUICL TAYLOR COLERIDGE proper ultimate end; in which no charm the ultimate judgment of all countries, of diction or imagery could exempt the in equally denying the praises of a just Bathyllus even of an Anacreon, or the poem, on the one hand to a scries of Alexis of Virgil, from disgust and aver- striking lines or distichs, each of which sion ! 5 absorbing the whole attention of the But the communication of pleasure may reader to itself, disjoins it from its con- be the immediate object of a work not text, and makes it a separate whole, in- metrically composed ; and that object may stead of a harmonizing part ; and on the have been in a high degree attained, as other hand, to an unsustained composi- in novels and romances. Would then the lo tion, from which the reader collects mere superaddition of meter, with or rapidly the general result unattracted by without rime, entitle these to the name the component parts. The reader should of poems? The answer is, that nothing be carried forward, not merely or chiefly can permanently please, which does not by the mechanical impulse of curiosity, or contain in itself the reason why it is so, 15 by a restless desire to arrive at the final and not otherwise. If meter be super- solution; but by the pleasurable activity added, all other parts must be made con- of mind excited by the attractions of the sonant with it. Thev must be such as to journey itself. Like the motion of a ser- justify the perpetual and distinct atten- pent, which the Egyptians made the em- tion to each part, which an exact cor-2oblem of intellectual power; or like the respondent recurrence of accent and path of sound through the air, at ever} sound are calculated to excite. The step he pauses and half recedes, and from final definition then, so deduced, may be the retrogressive movement collects the thus worded. A poem is that species of force which again carries him onward, composition, which is opposed to works 25 Praecipitandus est liber spiritus [The free of science, by proposing for its im- spirit must be urged onward], says Pe- mediate object pleasure, not truth; and tronius Arbiter most happily. The epi- from all other species (having this object thet, liber, here balances the preceding in common with it) it is discriminated verb: and it is not easy to conceive more by proposing to itself such delight from 3° meaning condensed in fewer words. the whole, as is compatible with a dis- But if this should be admitted as a tinct gratification from each component satisfactory character of a poem, we have part. still to seek for a definition of poetry. Controversy is not seldom excited in The writings of Plato, and Bishop Taylor, consequence of the disputants attaching 35 and the Thcoria Sacra of Burnet, furnish each a different meaning to the same undeniable proofs that poetry of the word ; and in few instances has this been highest kind may exist without meter, more striking than in disputes concerning and even without the contra-distinguish- the present subject. If a man chooses to ing objects of a poem. The first chapter call every composition a poem, which is 4° of Isaiah (indeed a very large proportion rime, or measure, or both, I must leave of the whole book) is poetry in the most his opinion uncontroverted. The dis- emphatic sense; yet it would be not less tinction is at least competent to charac- irrational than strange to assert, that terize the writer's intention. If it were pleasure, and not truth, was the imme- subjoined, that the whole is likewise en-45diate object of the prophet. In short, tertaining or affecting as a tale, or as a whatever specific import we attach to the series of interesting reflections, I of word poetry, there will be found involved course admit this as another fit ingredi- in it, as a necessary consequence, that a ent of a poem, and an additional merit, poem of any length neither can be, nor But if the definition sought for be that 50 ought to be, all poetry. Yet if a har- of a legitimate poem, I answer, it must monious whole is to be produced, the re- be one the parts of which mutually sup- maining parts must be preserved in keep- port and explain each other; all in their ing with the poetry; and this can be no proportion harmonizing with, and sup- otherwise effected than by such a studied porting the purpose and known influences 55 selection and artificial arrangement as of metrical arrangement. The philo- will partake of one. though not a pecul- sophic critics of all ages coincide with iar property of poetry. And this again THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARI- NER IN SEVEN PARTS THE ANCIENT MARINER 553 can be no other than the property of From their gross matter she abstracts their exciting a more continuous and equal at- forms, tention than the language of prose aims And draws a kind of quintessence from at, whether colloquial or written. things; My own conclusions on the nature of S Which to her proper nature she transforms poetry, in the strictest use of the word, To bear them light on her celestial wings. have been in part anticipated in the pre- ceding disquisition on the fancy and im- Thus does she, when from individual states agination. What is poetry? is so nearly She doth abstract the universal kinds; the same question with, what is a poet? 10 Which then re-clothed in divers names and that the answer to the one is involved in fates the solution of the other. For it is a ^*^^' ^^^^^^ through our senses to our minds, distinction resulting from the poetic t- n j • , 1 , r genius itself, which sustains and modifies Finally, good sense is the body of poetic the images, thoughts, and emotions of the .5 g^"'"^' fa"cy its drapery motion its life, poet's own mind. The poet, described ^"^ imagination the sou that is every- in ideal perfection, brings the whole soul ^''^^^^' ^"^ '" ^ch; and forms all into of man into activity, with the subordi- °"^ graceful and intelligent whole nation of its faculties to each other, ac- i^^^7) cording to their relative worth and dig- 20 nity. 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 exclu- sively appropriated the name of imagina- ^^ tion. This power, first put in action by Part I the will and understanding, and retained it is an ancient Mariner, under their irremissive, though gentle And he stoppeth one of three, and unnoticed, control (laxis effcrtur ' By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, hahenis [he is borne with loose reins]), 30 Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? reveals itself in the balance or reconcil- iation of opposite or discordant qualities : ' The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, s of sameness, with difference ; of the gen- And I am next of kin ; eral, with the concrete ; the idea, w^ith The guests are met, the feast is set : the image ; the individual, with the repre- 35 JNIay'st hear the merry din.' sentative; the sense of novelty and freshness, with old and familiar objects; He holds him with his skinny hand, a more than usual state of emotion, with 'There was a ship,' quoth he. 10 more than usual order; judgment ever 'Hold off! unhand me, graybeard loon!' awMke and steady self-possession, with 40 Eftsoons his hand dropt he. enthusiasm and feeling profound or vehe- tt 1 , 1 , • •■,■,■ ment; and while it blends and harmo- S ^^l"^' '?'"' ^^'^^ ^'' glittering eye- nizes the natural and the artificial, still T^^, )Vedding-Guest stood still subordinates art to nature; the manner ^"^ ^f ^."^ like a three years child: :5 to the matter; and our admiration of the 45 ^h^ Manner hath his will, poet to our sympathy woth the poetry. ^he Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: Doubtless, as Sir John Davies observes j^e cannot choose but hear; of the soul (and his words may with ^.^^ ^^us spake on that ancient man. slight alteration be applied, and even -pi^^ bright-eyed Mariner, more appropriately, to the poetic imagina- 5o tion), 'The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared. Merrily did we drop Doubtless this could not be, but that she Below the kirk, below the hill, turns ^ ^ Below the lighthouse top. Bodies to spirit by sublimation strange, 55 As fire converts to fire, the things it burns, ' The sun came up upon the left, 25 As we our food into our nature change. Out of the sea came he ! 554 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. 'Higher and higher every day,^ Till over the mast at noon — ' 3° The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The 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: 4o ' 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 roared the blast, And southward aye we fled. so ' 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: 6o It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound ! ' At length did cross an Albatross : Thorough the fog it came : As if it had been a Christian soul, 6$ We hailed 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 steered us through ! 7° 'And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo! ' In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 75 It perched for vespers nine ; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white moon-shine.' ' God save thee, ancient Mariner ! From the fiends, that plague thee thus! — 8o 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 8s Went down into the sea. ' And the good south wind still blew be- hind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day, for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo ! 9o ' And I had done a hellish thing. And it would work 'em woe ; For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah, wretch ! said they, the bird to slay 95 That made the breeze to blow ! ' Nor dim nor red, like God's own head. The glorious Sun uprist : Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. '0° 'T was right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. ' The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. The furrow followed free : We were the first that ever burst ^°s Into that silent sea. ' Down dropt the breeze, the sails down, 'T was 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 bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. dropt THE ANCIENT MARINER 555 'Day after day, day after day, ''S We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. ' Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink; '^o Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. ' The very deep did rot : O Christ ! That ever this should be ! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs '^s Upon the slimy sea. ' 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. '3o ' And some in dreams assured were Of the Spirit that plagued us so: Nine fathom deep he had followed us. From the land of mist and snow. ' And every tongue, through utter drought. Was withered at the root; '36 We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. 'Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! >4o Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. Part III 'There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time ! A weary time ! US How glazed each weary eye! When looking westward I beheld A something in the sky. ' At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist: '5o It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. ' A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! And still it neared and neared : As if it dodged a water-sprite, iss It plunged and tacked and veered. ' 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 sucked the blood, 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, i6s As they were drinking all. "See! see (I cri^d) she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal ; Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel ! " 170 'The western wave was all a-flame: The day was well nigh done : Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun : When that strange shape drove suddenly '75 Betwixt us and the Sun. ' And straight the Sun was flecked with bars. (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) As if through a dungeon grate he peered. With broad and burning face. 180 '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? ' Are those her ribs through which the Sun 185 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, '9° Her locks were yellow as gold : Her skin was as white as leprosy. The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she. Who thicks man's blood with cold. ' The naked hulk alongside came, '95 And the twain were casting dice ; " The game is done ! I 've won, I 've won ! " Quoth she, and whistles thrice. ' The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out : At one stride comes the dark ; ^00 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Off shot the specter-bark. ' We listened and looked sideways up ! Fear at my heart, as at a cup. My life-blood seemed to sip! ^°5 556 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; From the sails the dew did drip — Till clomb above tiic eastern bar The horned Moon with one bright star 21° Within the nether tip. 'One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh. Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. -^'S ' Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one. •The souls did from their bodies fly — 220 They fled to bliss or woe ! And every soul, it passed me by. Like the whiz of my cross-bow ! ' Part IV ' I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! I fear thy skinny hand ! 225 And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand. ' I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown.' — ' Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! This body dropt not down. 231 ' Alone, alone, all, all alone. Alone on a wide wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul 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 looked upon the rotting sea, 240 And drew my eyes away ; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. 'I looked 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. ' 'I'hc cold sweat melted from their limbs. Nor rot nor reck did they: 'i'he look with which they kjoked on me 255 Had never passed 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. ' The moving Moon went up the sky. And nowhere did abide : Softly she was going up, 265 And a star or two beside — ' Her beams bemocked the sultry main. Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay. The charmed water burnt alvvay 270 A still and awful red. ' Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes : They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light 273 Fell off in hoary flakes. ' Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire : Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. They coiled and swam ; and every track 280 Was a flash of golden fire. ' O happy living things ! no tongue Their beauty might declare : A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware ! 28s Sure my kind saint took pity on me. And I blessed them unaware. 'The selfsame moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank 290 Like lead nito the sea. Part V ' Oh, sleep ! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole ! To Mary Queen the praise be given ! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 29s That slid into my soul. THE ANCIENT MARINER 557 ' The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew; And when I awoke, it rained. 300 ' My lips were wet, my throat was cold. My garments all were dank ; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. ' I moved, and could not feci my limbs : I was so light — almost 306 I thought that I had died in sleep. And was a blessed ghost. ' And soon I heard a roaring wind : It did not come anear; 310 But with its sound it shook the sails, That were so thin and sere. ' The upper air burst into life ! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about; S'S And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. * And the coming wind did roar more loud. And the sails did sigh like sedge ; And the rain poured down from one black cloud ; 3~o The Moon was at its edge. ' 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, 325 A river steep and wide. ' The loud wind never reached the ship. Yet now the ship moved on ! Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. 330 ' They groaned, they stirred, they all up- rose. Nor spake nor moved their eyes ; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise. ' The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; Yet never a breeze up-blew ; 336 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. 340 ' The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee : The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me.' ' I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! ' 34> ' Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 'T was not those souls that fled in pain. Which to their corses came again. But a troop of spirits blest: 'For when it dawned — they dropped their arms. And clustered round the mast; 351 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed. * Around, around, flew each sweet sound. Then darted to the Sun ; 35s Slowly the sounds come back again, Now mixed, now one by one. ' Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the skylark sing ; Sometimes all little birds that are, 360 How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning! 'And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute ; And now it is an angel's song, 36s 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, 37o That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. ' Till noon we quietly sailed 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 ofi^ their tune. And the ship stood still also. * The Sun, right up above the mast. Had fixed 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. 558 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ' Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: 39o It tlung 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 full low 400 The harmless Albatross. '"The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow." 4os 'The other was a softer voice. As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, " The man hath penance done. And penance more will do." 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." 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. 42s • " Fly brother, f^y ! more high, more high ! Or we shall be belated: For slow and slow that ship will go. When the Mariner's trance is abated." ' I woke, and we were sailing on, 4^0 As in a gentle weather: 'T was night, calm night, the moon was high ; The dead men stood together. ' All stood together on the deck, For a charncl-dungcon fitter : 435 All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter. ' The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 440 Nor turn them up to pray. 'And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green. And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen — 445 ' Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned 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. 455 ' It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meado.w-gale of spring — It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming. ' Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 460 Yet she sailed softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — On me alone it blew. 'Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed The lighthouse top I see? 4C5 Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree? ' We drifted o'er the harbor-bar, And I with sobs did pray — " O let me be awake, my God ! 470 Or let me sleep alway." ' The harbor-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 ANCIENT MARINER 559 'The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock. 'And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same, 481 Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colors came. ' A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: 485 I turned my eyes upon the deck — Oh, Christ! what saw I there! ' 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, soo I heard the pilot's cheer ; My head was turned 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 '11 shrieve my soul, he '11 wash away The Albatross's blood. Part VII ' This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. 51 S How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. 'He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — He hath a cushion plump : 520 It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. ' The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk, " Why, this is strange, I trow ! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?" s^e ' " Strange, by my faith ! " the Hermit said — "And they answered not our cheer! The planks look warped ! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere ! 530 I never saw aught like to them. Unless perchance it were ' " 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-feared " — " Push on, push on ! " Said the Hermit cheerily. 541 ' The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred ; 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 reached the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead. ' Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, 55' Like one that hath been seven days drowned, My body lay afloat ; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot'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 shrieked. 560 And fell down in a fit ; The holy Hermit raised his ej'es. And prayed where he did sit. ' I took the oars : the Pilot's boy. Who now doth crazy go, 565 Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. " Ha ! ha ! " quoth he, " full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row." 56o SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE And now, all in my t)wn countree, 57o I stood on the firm land ! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he conld stand. ' ■■ O shrieve me, slirievc me, h(jly man ! " The Hermit crossed his brow. 575 " Say quick," quoth he, " I bid thee say — What manner of man art thou?" 'Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woeful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale ; s8o 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. s8s ' I pass, like night, from land to land ; I have strange power of speech ; T'.at moment 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 biddcth 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, 'T is 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-Ciuest 620 Turned from the bridegroom's door. He went like (mk- that lialli And is of sense forlorn : A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn. CHRISTABEL ■en stunned, 625 (1798) Part I 'T is 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, which From her kennel beneath the rock Maketh answer to the clock. Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; 10 Ever and aye, by shine and shower. Sixteen short howls, not over loud ; Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly, but not dark. i5 The thin gray 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 gray : 20 'T is a month before the month of ^lay, 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 misletoe : She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 35 And in silence prayeth she. The lady sprang up suddenly, The lovely lady, Christabel ! CHRISTABEL 561 It moaned as near, as near can be, But what it is she cannot tell. — 40 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 4S 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, 5° Hanging so light, and hanging so high. On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! Jcsu, 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-veined feet unsandaled were; And wildly glittered here and there The gems entangled in her hair. 6s I guess, 't was frightful there to see A lady so richly clad as she — Beautiful exceedingly! ' Mary 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 ! ' Said Christabel, 'How camest thou here? '76 And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, Did thus pursue her answer meet : — ' My sire is of a noble line. And my name is Geraldine : 80 Five warriors seized me yestermorn, 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 spurred amain, their steeds were white: And once wc crossed the shade of night. As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 36 I have no thought what men they be ; 9° 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 weary woman, scarce alive. 95 Some muttered words his comrades spoke : He placed me underneath this oak ; He swore they would return with haste ; Whither they went I cannot tell — • I thought I heard, some minutes past, 1°° Sounds as of a castle bell. Stretch forth thy hand,' thus ended she, ' And help a wretched maid to flee.' Then Christabel stretched forth her hand, And comforted fair Geraldine: '"S 'O well, bright dame, may you command The service of Sir Leoline; And gladly our stout chivalry Will he send forth, and friends withal, To guide and guard you safe and free >io Home to your noble father's hall.' She rose: and forth with steps they passed That strove to be, and were not, fast. Her gracious stars the lady blest. And thus spake on sweet Christabel: I'S ' All our household are at rest, The hall as silent as the cell; Sir Leoline is weak in health, And may not well awakened be, But we will move as if in stealth; 120 And I beseech your courtesy, This night, to share your couch with me.' They crossed the moat, and Christabel Took the key that fitted well; A little door she opened straight, '-5 All in the middle of the gate; The gate that was ironed within and with- out. Where an army in battle array had marched out. The lady sank, belike through pain, And Christabel with might and main 13° Lifted her up, a weary weight, Over the threshold of the gate: Then the lady rose again. And moved, as she were not in pain. So, free from danger, free from fear, 133 They crossed the court : right glad they were. And Christabel devoutly cried To the Lady by her side ; ' Praise we the Virgin all divine. Who halh rescued thee from thy distress!' 562 SAMUFX TAYLOR COLERIDGE 141 ' Alas, alas ! ' said Geraldine, ' I cannot speak for weariness.' So, free from danger, free from fear, They crossed the court : right glad they were. Outside her kennel the mastiff old MS Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. The mastiff old did not awake. Yet she an angry moan did make. And what can ail the mastiff bitch? Never till now she uttered yell iSo Beneath the eye of Christabel. Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch : For what can ail the mastiff bitch? They passed the hall, that echoes still. Pass as lightly as you will. 'SS The brands were flat, the brands were dying, Amid their own white ashes lying ; But when the lady passed, there came A tongue of light, a fit of flame; And Christabel saw the lady's eye, 160 And nothing else saw she thereby, Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. * O softly tread,' said Christabel, 'My father seldom sleepeth well:' 165 Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare. And, jealous of the listening air, They steal their way from stair to stair, Now in glimmer, and now in gloom. And now they pass the Baron's room, 170 As still as death, with stifled breath! And now have reached her chamber door; And now doth Geraldine press down The rushes of the chamber floor. The moon shines dim in the open air, i75 And not a moonbeam enters here. But they without its light can see The chamber carved so curiously. Carved with figures strange and sweet, All made out of the carver's brain, 180 For a lady's chamber meet : The lamp with twofold silver chain Is fastened to an angel's feet. The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; But Christabel the lamp will trim. i8s She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, And left it swinging to and fro, While Geraldine, in wretched plight, Sank down upon the floor below. weary lady, Geraldine, 190 I pray you, drink this cordial wine ! It is a wine of virtuous powers; My mother made it of wild flowers.' ' And will your mother pity me, Who am a maiden most forlorn?' 195 Christabel answered —' Woe is me! She died the hour that I was born. I have heard the gray-haired friar tell, How on her death-bed she did say. That she .should hear the castle-bell 20° Strike twelve upon my wedding day. mother dear! that thou wert here!' 'I would,' said Geraldine, 'she were!' But soon, with altered voice, said she — 'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine! 1 have power to bid thee flee.' 206 Alas! what ails poor Geraldine? Why stares she with unsettled eye? Can she the bodiless dead espy? And why with hollow voice cries she, 210 'Off, woman, off! this hour is mine — 71iough thou her guardian spirit be. Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me.' Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side. And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 215 'Alas!' said she, 'this ghastly ride — Dear lady! it hath wildered you!' The lady wiped her moist cold brow, And faintly said, ' 'T is over now ! ' Again the wild-flower wine she drank: 220 Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, And from the floor, whereon she sank, 'Jlie lofty lady stood upright : She was most beautiful to see, Like a lady of a far countree. 225 And thus the lofty lady spake — ' All they, who live in the upper sky, Do love you, holy Christabel ! And you love them, and for their sake. And for the good which me befell, 230 Even I in my degree will try. Fair maiden, to requite you well. But now unrobe yourself; for I Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.' Quoth Christabel, 'So let it be!' 235 And as the lady bade, did she. Her gentle limbs did she undress And lay down in her loveliness. But through her brain, of weal and woe. So many thoughts moved to and fro, 240 That vain it were her lids to close ; So half-way from the bed she rose, And on her elbow did recline. To look at the lady Geraldine. CHRISTABEL 563 Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, -245 And slowly rolled her eyes around ; Then drawing in her breath aloud, Like one that shuddered, she unbound ' The cincture from beneath her breast : I Her silken robe, and inner vest, ^5° j Dropt to her feet, and full in view. Behold! her bosom and half her side — A sight to dream of, not to tell ! O shield her! shield sweet Christabel ! Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs : 25s Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! Deep from within she seems half-way To lift some weight with sick assay, And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; Then suddenly, as one defied, -60 Collects herself in scorn and pride, And lay down by the maiden's side ! — And in her arms the maid she took. Ah, well-a-day! And with low voice and doleful look •zes These words did say: ' In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel ! Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to- morrow. This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow ; But vainly thou warrest, 271 For this is alone in Thy power to declare. That in the dim forest Thou heard'st a low moaning, -75 And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair: And didst bring her home with thee, in love and in charity, To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.' The Conclusion to Part I It was a lovely sight to see The lady Christabel, when she 280 Was praying at the old oak tree. Amid the jagged shadows Of mossy leafless boughs, Kneeling in the moonlight, To make her gentle vows ; 28s Her slender palms together prest. Heaving sometimes on her breast ; Her face resigned to bliss or bale — Her face, oh, call it fair not pale, And both blue eyes more bright than clear. Each about to have a tear. 291 With open eyes (ah, woe is me!) Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis, Dreaming that alone, which is — 29s O sorrow and shame ! Can this be she, The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree? And lo ! the worker of these harms. That holds the maiden in her arms, Seems to slumber still and mild, 300 As a mother with her child. A star hath set, a star hath risen, O Geraldine ! since arms of thine Have been the lovely lady's prison. O Geraldine ! one hour was thine — 305 Thou'st had thy will ! By tairn and rill, The night-birds all that hour were still. But now they are jubilant anew, From cliff and tower, tu-whoo ! tu-whoo ! Tu-whoo! tu-whoo! from wood and fell! 310 And see ! the lady Christabel Gathers herself from out her trance; Her limbs relax, her countenance Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds — Large tears that leave the lashes bright ! And oft the while she seems to smile 317 As infants at a sudden light! Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep. Like a youthful hermitess, 320 Beauteous in a wilderness, Who, praying always, prays in sleep. And, if she move unquietly, Perchance, 't is but the blood so free Comes back and tingles in her feet. 3^5 No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. What if her guardian spirit 'twere, What if she knew her mother near? But this she knows, in joys and woes. That saints will aid if men will call: 330 For the blue sky bends over all. Part II Each matin bell, the Baron saith. Knells us back to a world of death. These words Sir Lcoline first said, When he rose and found his lady dead : 335 These words Sir Leoline will say ]\Iany a morn to his dying day! And hence the custom and law began That still at dawn the sacristan. Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 34o Five and forty beads must tell Between each stroke — a warning knell, Which not a soul can choose but hear From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. 5^4 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE Saith Bracy the bard, ' So let it knell ! 345 And let the drowsy sacristan Still count as slowly as he can ! ' There is no lack of such, I ween, As well fill up the space between. In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 35o And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent. With ropes of rock and bells of air Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, Who all give back, one after t' other. The death-note to their living brother; 355 And oft too, by the knell offended. Just as their one! two! three! is ended. The devil mocks the doleful tale With a merry peal from Borrowdale. The air is still ! through mist and cloud 360 That merry peal comes ringing loud; And Geraldine shakes ofif her dread. And rises lightly from the bed; Puts on her silken vestments white. And tricks her hair in lovely plight, 365 And nothing doubting of her spell Awakens the lady Christabel. * Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel ? I trust that you have rested well.' And Christabel awoke and spied 370 The same who lay down by her side — O rather say, the same whom she Raised up beneath the old oak tree! Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair ! For she belike hath drunken deep 375 Of all the blessedness of sleep! And while she spake, her looks, her air. Such gentle thankfulness declare, That (so it seemed) her girded vests Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 380 ' Sure I have sinned ! ' said Christabel, 'Now heaven be praised if all be well!' And in low faltering tones, yet sweet. Did she the lofty lady greet With such perplexity of mind 385 As dreams too lively leave behind. So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed Her maiden limbs, and having prayed That He, who on the cross did groan. Might wash away her sins unknown, 390 She forthwith led fair Geraldine To meet her sire, Sir Leoline. The lovely maid and the lady tall Are pacing both into the hall. And pacing on through page and groom, 395 Enter the Baron's presence-room. The Baron rose, and while he prest His gentle daughter to his breast. With cheerful wonder in his eyes The lady Geraldine espies, 400 And gave such welcome to the same, As might beseem so bright a dame ! But when he heard the lady's tale. And when she told her father's name, Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 40s Murmuring o'er the name again. Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine? Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; But whispering tongues can poison truth ; And constancy lives in realms above; 410 And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine. With Roland and Sir Leoline. 415 Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother: They parted — ^ ne'er to meet again! But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining — They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 421 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between. But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. Shall wholly do away, I ween, 425 The marks of that which once hath been. Sir Leoline, a moment's space, Stood gazing on the damsel's face : And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine Came back upon his heart again. 430 then the Baron forgot his age, His noble heart swelled high with rage ; He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side He would proclaim it far and wide, With trump and solemn heraldry, 435 That they, who thus had wronged the dame Were base as spotted infamy! 'And if they dare deny the same. My herald shall appoint a week. And let the recreant traitors seek 44° My tourney court — that there and then 1 may dislodge their reptile souls From the bodies and forms of men ! ' He spake: his eye in lightning rolls! For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and he kenned 445 In the beautiful lady the child of his friend! And now the tears were on his face. And fondly in his arms he took Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, Prolonging it with joyous look. 45o Which when she viewed, a vision fell LIpon the soul of Christabel, The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again — (Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee, 455 Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?) FROST AT MIDNIGHT 565 Again she saw that bosom old, Again she felt that bosom cold, And drew in her breath with a hissing sound : Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, 460 And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. The touch, the sight, had passed away. And in its stead that vision blest. Which comforted her after-rest, 465 While in the lady's arms she lay. Had put a rapture in her breast, And on her lips and o'er her eyes Spread smiles like light ! With new surprise, 'What ails then my beloved child?' 470 The Baron said — His daughter mild Made answer, ' All will yet be well ! ' I ween, she had no power to tell Aught else : so mighty was the spell. (1816) KUBLA KHAN 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. 5 So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills 8 Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, 1° 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 By woman wailing for her demon-lover! 16 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 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 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 26 Then reached 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 pleas- ure Floated midway on the waves ; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, 35 A sumiy pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw : It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, 40 Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song. To such a deep delight 't would 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 should 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. (1816) FROST AT MIDNIGHT The frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as be- fore. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits s Abstruser musings : save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'T is calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 10 This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood. With all the numberless goings on of life Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; 566 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. '6 Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 20 By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought. But O ! how oft, How oft, at school, with most believing mind, -5 Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft With unclosed lids, already had I drcan>t Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church - tower. Whose bells, the poor man's only nuisic, rang 3o From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams ! 36 And so I brooded all the following morn, Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: Save if the door half opened, and I snatched A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 41 For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, My play-mate when we both were clothed alike! Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, 45 Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought ! My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, so And think that thou shalt learn far other lore And in far other scenes ! For T was reared In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim. And saw naught lost-ly hut the sky and stars. But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a brieve 55 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds. Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores And mountain crags: so shnlt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 60 Of that eternal language, which thy God Utters, who from eternity doth teach Himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal Teacher! he shall mold Thy. spirit, and by giving make it ask. 65 Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee. Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave- drops fall 71 Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles. Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 75 (1798) HUMILITY THE MOTHER OF CHARITY Frail creatures are we all ! To be the best Is but the fewest faults to have: — Look thou then to thyself, and leave the rest To God, thy conscience, and the grave. (1830) EPITAPH Stop, Christian passer-by! — Stop, child of God, And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod A poet lies, or that which once seemed he. — O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. ; That he who many a year with toil of breath Found death in life, may here find life in death ! ^ Mercy for praise — to be forgiven for fame He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same ! (Nov. 9, 1833) CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834) There are few English authors with whose charat-tcr aiul circumstances we may become so closely acquainted as with Cliarles Lamb's, on account o£ his habit of self-confession in his essays, his skill and charm as a letter-writer, and his many literary friendships. The first seven years of bis life were spent at the Inner Temple, where bis father bad rooms as clerk and confidential servant to one of the barristers ; for the next seven he was a ' blue coat boy ' at Christ's Hospital, along with Coleridge. Lamb was passionately fond of London, where be passed nearly all his days, but in Mackcrij End in Hcrtfordsliire and other essays be has given us delightful glimpses of holiday visits to the country home of bis grandmother Field. It was on one of these visits that he fell in love with the 'fair Alice' of Dream Children, but this youthful romance was cruelly cut short. There was a strain of mental weakness in the family, and Lamb's mind gave way. Not long after his restoration, his sister Mai-y, the ' Bridget Elia ' of the essays, in a sudden fit of insanity, was the cause of her mother's death ; on her recovery it was necessary that some one should be responsible for her safe keeping, and to this task Charles devoted the rest of his life. At this time he was earning a small salary as a clerk in the ofKce of the East India Company and his first efforts in literature, apart from a few sonnets and other short poems, were directed to eking out their scanty income. A Tale of Rosamund Gray, published in 1798, had no great success; he could not get his tragedy, John ^Yoodvil, put on the stage ; bis comedy, Mr. H., was acted at Drury Lane and failed. He contributed ' witty paragraphs ' to the morning papers at the rate of ' sixpence a joke, and it was thought pretty high, too,' as he tells us in the essay on Newspapers Thirty-five Years Ago. Fortune first smiled upon them in the Tales from Shakspcre, written for children by the brother and sister together, Charles taking the tragedies and Mary the comedies. His Specimens of English Dramatists con- temporary tvith Shakspere was an important contribution to the criticism of the Elizabethan drama, and his position in the world of letters was now well established. Leigh Hunt, Wordsworth, Southcy, Keats, Ilazlitt, De Quincey, and many other famous men of the time were among his friends, and much of his leisure was spent in conversation and con- vivial meetings, from which he sometimes returned, as bis sister says, ' very smoky and drinky.' His ready wit and unfailing kindliness of heart endeared him to his friends, as the charm of his personality and the delicacy of bis humor have to an ever-increasing circle of readers. His most characteristic work is to be found in the Essays of Elia, which appeared in the London Magazine from 1820 to 1826. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES I have had playmates, I have had com- panions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies ; 5 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 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. 9 I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; Like an ingrate. T left my friend abruptly ; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seemed a desert I was bound to trav- erse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. '5 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 familiar faces — i8 How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed ; 20 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. (1798) 567 568 CHARLES LAMB MACKERY END IN HERTFORD- brained, generous Margaret Newcastle. SHIRE It has been the lot of my cousin, oftener I)crhai)s than I could have wished, to have Bridget Elia has been my housekeeper had for her associates and mine, free- for many a long year. I have obligations 5 thinkers — leaders, and disciples, of novel to Bridget, extending beyond the perio5 a pig who obtained his death by whipping {per Hagellationem extremam) super- added a pleasure upon the palate of a man more intense than any possible suffering we can conceive in the animal, is man 20 justified in using that method of putting the animal to death ? ' I forget the de- cision. His sauce should be considered. De- cidedly, a few bread crumbs, done up 2S with his liver and brains, and a dash of mild sage. But, banish, dear Mrs. Cook, I beseech you, the whole onion tribe. Barbecue your whole hogs to your palate, steep them in shalots, stuff them 30 out with plantations of the rank and guilty garlic; you cannot poison them, or make them stronger than they are — but consider, he is a weakling — a flower. (1822) SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832) Scott's birthplace was Edinburgh. His father, a solicitor of creditable standing, had l)('en the first of his family to adopt a town life, and Scott early evinced an innate attraction toward those ancestors who for centuries had linked their history with the stirring life of the Border. 'You will find me a rattle-skulled, half-lawyer, half-sportsman, through whose hoad a regiment of horse has been exercising since he was live years old,' he once wrote to a St ranger. Lameness derived from a fever kept him inactive as a child and he was dreamy and fond of reading. As he grew up he entered robustly into outdoor sports; but his choicest pastime was cruising about the country-side after relics of folklore. Passing through the High-School and the College in Edinburgh, he studied law and, in 1702, became an advocate. His taste for country residence led him to settle on the Esk at Lasswade after his marriage iti 179S, and from here as Sheriff of Selkirkshire, he removed to Ashestiel on the Tweed, in 1S04. His Border Minstrelsy had appeared in 1802, and now his poems. Lay of the Last Minstrel (1S05), Marmion (1S08), Lady of the Lake (ISIO), and others in quick sequence began to supplement his profession as a means of livelihood. In 1812 he succeeded to a salary of £1300 as clerk of session, and he proceeded to materialize his dream of a tJHidal estate by purchasing, as nucleus, a hundred acres of rough land five miles down the Tweed at Abbotsford. Thither he removed with ' twenty-five cartloads of the veriest trash in nature, besides dogs, pigs, ponies, poultry, cows, calves ' ; he gives an amusing and sig- nificant account of ' the procession of my furniture, in which old swords, bows, targets, and lances, made a very conspicuous show. A family of turkeys was accommodated within the helmet of some preux chevalier of ancient border fame; and the very cows, for aught I know, were bearing banners and muskets.' From Abbotsford came the series of historical novels, beginning with ^\'al■erly (1814) and closing with Castle Dangerous (1831, — twenty-nine novels in half as many years. The quantity of energy which Scott poured into these works of fiction, — to say nothing of his Edition of Swift and Life of Napoleon, — while discharging his official duties and engaging in all the activities of a country-gentleman, is almost incon- ceivable. In addition, the work of his last years was done in sharp adversity. Soon after his marriage he had entered into a secret partnership with James and John Ballantyne, publishers of Edinburgh, and this business had been complicated with that of Constable and Co. His partners were feeble managers ; only the extraordinary success of the novels had tided over a crisis for several years. It is estimated that Scott's writings earned him. during his lifetime, nearly a million dollars; but his outlay at Abbotsford and in other directions had been excessively lavish, and greatly increased after he was knighted in 1820. The crash came in 1825; Constable, the Ballantynes, and Scott went down together. From the age of fifty-five to sixty, in spite of breaking health and failing imagination, he wrought doggedly with his pen to pay off £117.000 of debt. When the end came nearly half the debt remained ; but this was extinguished by his copyrights after his death. In any event, Scott's character would have lived as one signally illustrious and lovable : his last years conferred upon it the quality of heroism. The real sweep and variety of his genius is denoted in his novels. His poetry is, nevertheless, animated and stirring, and well exemplifies his power of delineating, with bold, free strokes, scenic background and enterprising action. From MARMION, CANTO VI Not far advanced was morning day When Marmion did his troop array To Surrey's camp to ride ; He had safe-conduct for his band Beneath the royal seal and hand, And Douglas gave a guide. The ancient ?arl w^tb stately grace Would Clara on her palfrey place. And whispered in an undertone, • Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.' The train from out the castle drew. But Marmion stopped to bid adieu : ' Though something I might plain." said. ' Of eold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your king's behest, he 579 58o SIR WALTER SCOTT While in Tantallon's towers I stayed, Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble earl, receive my hand.' — But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: — 20 ' My manors, halls, and bowers shall still Be open at my sovereign's will To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my king's alone, 25 From turret to foundation-stone — The hand of Douglas is his own, And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp.' Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire 30 And shook his very frame for ire, And — 'This to me!' he said, * An 't were not for thy hoary beard. Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head ! 3S And first I tell thee, haughty peer, He who does England's message here. Although the meanest in her state. May well, proud Angus, be thy mate ; And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 40 Even in thy pitch of pride. Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, — Nay, never look upon your lord. And lay your hands upon your sword, — I tell thee, thou 'rt defied I And if thou saidst I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here. Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied ! ' On the earl's cheek the flush of rage 50 O'ercame the ashen hue of age : Fierce he broke forth, — ' And darest thou then To beard the lion in his den. The Douglas in his hall ? And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?— 55 No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms — what, warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall, — ' Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need, — And dashed the rowels in his steed, 60 Like arrow through the archway sprung The ponderous grate behind him rung ; To pass there was such scanty room, The bars descending razed his plume. The steed along the drawbridge flies Just as it trembled on the rise; Not lighter does the swallow skim 65 Along the smooth lake's level brim : And when Lord Marmion reached his band, He halts, and turns with clenched hand, 70 And shout of loud defiance pours. And shook his gauntlet at the towers. ' Horse ! horse ! ' the Douglas cried, ' and chase ! ' But soon he reined his fury's pace: ' A royal messenger he came, 75 Though most unworthy of the name. — A letter forged ! Saint Jude to speed ! Did ever knight so foul a deed ? ^ At first in heart it liked me ill When the king praised his clerkly skill. 80 Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine. Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line; So swore ], and I swear it still, Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. — Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! 85 Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. 'T is pity of him too,' he cried: ' Bold can he speak and fairly ride, I warrant him a warrior tried.' 9o With this his mandate he recalls. And slowly seeks his castle halls. The day in Marmion's journey wore; Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er. They crossed the heights of Stanrig-moor. 9S His troop more closely there he scanned, And missed the Palmer from the band. * Palmer or not,' young Blount did say, 'He parted at the peep of day; Good sooth, it was in strange array.' 100 'In what array?' said Marmion quick. 'My lord, I ill can spell the trick; But all night long with clink and bang Close to my couch did hammers clang; At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, 105 And from a loophole while I peep. Old Bell-the-Cat came from the keep, Wrapped in a gown of sables fair. As fearful of the morning air; Beneath, when that was blown aside, "o A rusty shirt of mail I spied, ^ Lest the reader should partake of the Karl's astonishiTient and consider the crime as incon- sistent with the manners of the period, I have to remind him of tlie numerous forgeries (partly executed by a female assistant) devised by Rob- ert of Artois, to forward his suit against tlie Countess Matilda; which, being detected, occa- sioned his flight into England, and proved the remote cause of Edward the Third's memorable wars in France. John Harding, also, was ex- pressly hired by Edward IV to forge such docu- ments as might appear to establish the claim of fealty asserted over Scotland by the English monarchs. MARMION 581 By Archibald won in bloody work Against the Saracen and Turk ; Last night it hung not in the hall ; I thought some marvel would befall. "S And next I saw them saddled lead Old Cheviot forth, the earl's best steed, A matchless horse, though something old, Prompt in his paces, cool and bold. I heard the Sheriff Sholto say 120 The earl did much the Master pray To use him on the battle-day; But he preferred ' — ' Nay, Henry, cease ! Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy peace. — Eustace, thou bear'st a brain — I pray, i^5 What did Blount see at break of day?' ' In brief, my lord, we both descried — For then I stood by Henry's side — The Palmer mount and outwards ride Upon the earl's own favorite steed. uo All sheathed he was in armor bright. And much resembled that same knight Subdued by you in Cotswold fight ; Lord Angus wished him speed.' — The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, '35 A sudden light on Marmion broke : — ' Ah ! dastard fool, to reason lost ! ' He muttered ; ' 'T was nor fay nor ghost I met upon the moonlight wold. But living man of earthly mold. 140 O dotage blind and gross! Had I but fought as wont, one thrust Had laid De Wilton in the dust. My path no more to cross. — How stand we now? — he told his tale MS To Douglas, and with some avail ; 'T was therefore gloomed his rugged brow. — Will Surrey dare to entertain 'Gainst Marmion charge disproved and vain? Small risk of that, I trow. 150 Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun, Must separate Constance from the nun — Oh ! what a tangled web we weave When first we practise to deceive ! A Palmer too ! — no wonder why iSS I felt rebuked beneath his eye ; I might have known there was but one Whose look could quel! Lord Marmion.' Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed His troop, and reached at eve the Tweed, 160 Where Lennel's convent closed their march. There now is left but one frail arch, Yet mourn thou not its cells; Our time a fair exchange has made : Hard by, in hospitable shade 165 A reverend pilgrim dwells, Well worth the whole Bcrnardine brood That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood. Yet did Saint Bernard's abbot there Give Marmion entertainment fair, 170 And lodging for his train and Clare. Next morn the baron climbed the tower, To view afar the Scottish power, Encamped on Flodden edge ; The white pavilions made a show '75 Like remnants of the winter snow Along the dusky ridge. Long Marmion looked : — at length his eye Unusual movement might descry Amid the shifting lines; 180 The Scottish host drawn out appears. For, flashing on the hedge of spears, The eastern sunbeam shines. Their front now deepening, now extend- ing, Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, '85 Now drawing back, and now descending, The skilful Marmion well could know They watched the motions of some foe Who traversed on the plain below. Even so it was. From Flodden ridge 190 The Scots beheld the English host Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post, And heedful watched them as they crossed The Till by Twisel Bridge. High sight it is and haughty, while '95 They dive into the deep defile; Beneath the caverned cliff they fall. Beneath the castle's airy wall. By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree. Troop after troop are disappearing; 200 Troop after troop their banners rearing Upon the eastern bank you see ; Still pouring down the rocky den Where flows the sullen Till, And rising from the dim-wood glen, 205 Standards on standards, men on men, In slow succession still, And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, y\nd pressing on, in ceaseless march, To gain the opposing hill. 210 That morn, to many a trumpet clang, Twisel ! thy rock's deep echo rang. And many a chief of birth and rank, Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see 21s In spring-tide bloom so lavishly. Had then from many an axe its doom. 582 SIR WALTER SCOTT To give the marching columns room. And why stands Scotland idly now, Dark Flodden ! on thy airy brow, 22° Since England gains the pass the while And struggles through the deep defile? What checks the fiery soul of James? Why sits that champion of the dames Inactive on his steed, And sees, between him and his land, 2.',=; Pictween him and Tweed's southern strand, His host Lord Surrey lead? What vails the vain knight-errant's brand ? — O Douglas, for thy leading wand ! Fierce Randolph, for thy speed ! 230 Oh! for one hour of Wallace wight. Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight And cry, ' Saint Andrew and our right ! ' Another sight had seen that morn. From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, 235 And Flodden had been Bannock- bourne ! — The precious hour has passed in vain, And England's host has gained the plain, Wheeling their march and circling still Around the base of Flodden hill. 240 Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye, Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, 'Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum! And see ascending squadrons come Between Tweed's river and the hill, 245 Foot, horse, and cannon ! Hap what hap, My basnet to a prentice cap. Lord Surrey 's o'er the Till ! — Yet more ! yet more ! — how fair arrayed They file from out the hawthorn shade, 250 And sweep so gallant by ! With all their banners bravely spread, And all their armor flashing high. Saint George might waken from the dead. To see fair England's standards fly.'— '55 ' Stint in thy prate,' quoth Blount, ' thou 'dst best, And listen to our lord's behest.' — With kindling brow Lord Marmion said, ' This instant be our band arrayed ; The river must be quickly crossed, 260 That we may join Lord Surrey's host. H fight King James, — as well I trust That fight he will, and fight he must, — The Lady Clare behind our lines Shall tarry while the battle joins.' 265 Himself he swift on horseback threw. Scarce to the abbot bade adieu, Far less would listen to his prayer To leave behind the helpless Clare. Down to the Tweed his band he drew, 270 And muttered as the flood they view, ' The pheasant in the falcon's claw, He scarce will yield to please a daw; Lord Angus may the abbot awe, So Clare shall bide with me.' 275 'Ihen on that dangerous ford and deep Where to the Tweed Leat's eddies creep, He ventured desperately: And not a moment will he bide Till squire or groom before him ride; 280 Headmost of all he stems the tide. And stems it gallantly. Eustace held Clare upon her horse, Old Hubert led her rein. Stoutly they braved the current's course, 285 And, though far downward driven per- force. The southern bank they gain. Behind them straggling came to shore, As best they might, the train : Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore, 290 A caution not in vain ; Deep need that day that every string, By wet unharmed, should sharply ring. A moment then Lord Marmion stayed. And breathed his steed, his men arrayed, 293 Then forward moved his band. Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, He halted by a cross of stone, That on a hillock standing lone Did all the field command. 300 Hence might they see the full array Of either host for deadly fray; Their marshaled lines stretched east and west, And fronted north and south, And distant salutation passed 303 From the loud cannon mouth ; Not in the close successive rattle That breathes the voice of modern battle. But slow and far between. The hillock gained. Lord Marmion stayed: 310 ' Here, by this cross,' he gently said, ' You well may view the scene. Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare: Oh ! think of Marmion in thy prayer ! — Thou wilt not? — well, no less my care 3i5 Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare. — You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard, With ten picked archers of my train ; With England if the day go hard. To Berwick speed amain. — 320 But if we conquer, cruel maid. My spoils shall at your feet be laid. When here wo nii'tt again.' MARMION 583 He waited not for answer there, And would not mark the maid's despair, 325 Nor heed the discontented look From either squire, but spurred amain, And dashing through the battle-plain, His way to Surrey took. ' The good Lord Rlarmion, by my life ! 33" Welcome to danger's hour ! — Short greeting serves in time of strife. — Thus have I ranged my power : Myself will rule this central host. Stout Stanley fronts their right, 335 My sons conmiand the vaward post. With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight ; Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light. Shall be in rearward of the fight. And succor those that need it most. 340 Now gallant Marmion, well I know. Would gladly to the vanguard go ; Edmimd, the Admiral, Tunstall there. With thee their charge will blithely share ; The- fight thine own retainers too 345 Beneath De Burg, thy steward true.' 'Thanks, noble Surrey!' Marmion said, Nor further greeting there he paid, But, parting like a thunderbolt, First in the vanguard made a halt, 35° Where such a shout there rose Of 'Marmion! Marmion!' that the cry, Up Flodden mountain shrilling high, Startled the Scottish foes. Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 355 With Lady Clare upon the hill, On which — for far- the day was spent — The western sunbeams now were bent ; The cry they heard, its meaning knew. Could plain their di.stant comrades view: 360 Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, ' Unworthy office here to stay ! No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — But see ! look up — on Flodden bent The Scottish foe has fired his tent.' 365 And sudden, as he spoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill. All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed and vast, and rolling far, 370 The cloud enveloped Scotland's war As down the hill they broke ; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone. Announced their march ; their tread alone. At times one warning trumpet blown, 375 At times a stifled hum. Told England, from his mountain-throne King James did rushing come. Scarce could they hear or see their foes Until at weapon-point they close. — 380 They close in clouds of smoke and dust, With sword-sway and with lance's thrust ; And such a yell was there, Of sudden and portentous birth, As if men fought upon the earth, 385 And fiends in upper air : Oh! life and death were in the shout. Recoil and rally, charge and rout. And triumph and despair. Long looked the anxious squires ; their eye 390 Could in the darkness nought descry. At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast; And first the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightening cloud appears, 395 And in the smoke the pennons flew. As in the storm the white seamew. Then marked they, dashing broad and far, The broken billows of the war, And plumed crests of chieftains brave 400 Floating like foam upon the wave; But nought distinct they see: Wide raged the battle on the plain ; Spears shook and falchions flashed amain ; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 405 Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again. Wild and disorderly. Amid the scene of tumult, high They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly; And stainless Tunstall's banner white, 4io And Edmund Howard's lion bright. Still bear them bravely in the fight. Although against them come Of gallant Gordons many a one. And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, 415 And many a rugged Border clan. With Huntly and with Home. — Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle, Though there the western mountaineer 420 Rushed with bare bosom on the spear. And flung the feeble targe aside. And with both hands the broadsword plied. 'T was vain. — But Fortune, on the right. With fickle smile cheered Scotland's fight. 4^5 Then fell that spotless banner white. The Howard's lion fell ; Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew With wavering flight, while fiercer grew Around the battle-yell. 430 The Border slogan rent the sky! A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : Loud were the clanging blows; 584 SIR WALTER SCOTT Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high, The pennon sunk and rose ; 435 As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, It wavered mid the foes. No longer Blount the view could bear : ' By heaven and all its saints ! I swear 440 I will not see it lost! Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare May bid your beads and patter prayer, — I gallop to the host.' And to the fray he rode amain, 44S Followed by all the archer train. The fiery youth, with desperate charge. Made for a space an opening large, — The rescued banner rose, — But darkly closed the war around, 450 Like pine-tree rooted from the ground It sank among the foes. Then Eustace mounted too, — yet stayed, As loath to leave the helpless maid. When, fast as shaft' can fly, 455 Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, The loose rein dangling from his head. Housing and saddle bloody red, Lord Marmion's steed rushed by: And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 460 A look and sign to Clara cast To mark he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fight. Ask me not what the maiden feels, Left in that dreadful hour alone: 465 Perchance her reason stoops or reels ; Perchance a courage, not her own, Braces her mind to desperate tone. — The scattered van of England wheels ; — She only said, as loud in air 470 The tumult roared. 'Is Wilton there?' — They fly, or, maddened by despair, Fight but to die,— ' Is Wilton there?' With that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drenched with gore, 475 And in their arms, a helpless load, A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand ; His arms were smeared with blood and sand. Dragged from among the horses' feet, 480 With dinted shield and helmet beat, The falcon-crest and plumage gone, Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . . Young Blount his armor did unlace, And, gazing on his ghastly face, 485 Said, ' By Saint George, he 's gone ! That spear-wound has our master sped, And see the deep cut on his head! Good-night to Marmion.'— ' Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease: 49o He opes his eyes,' said Eustace; 'peace!' When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, Around gan Marmion wildly stare: 'Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where ? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare! 495 Redeem my pennon, — charge again ! Cry, ' Marmion to the rescue ! ' — Vain ! Last of my race, on battle-plain That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! — Yet my last thought is England's — fly, 500 To Dacre bear my signet-ring : Tell him his squadrons up to bring. — Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie: Tunstall lies dead upon the field. His lifeblood stains the spotless shield; 505 Ednumd is down; my life is reft; The Admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, — With Chester charge, and Lancashire, Full upon Scotland's central host, 510 Or victory and England's lost. — Must I bid twice? — hence, varlets fly! — Leave Marmion here alone — to die.' They parted, and alone he lay; Clare drew her from the sight away, 515 Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan. And half he murmured, ' Is there none Of all my halls have nurst. Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring Of blessed water from the spring, 520 To slake my dying thirst ! ' O Woman ! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made ; 525 When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou ! — Scarce were the piteous accents said. When with the baron's casque the maid To the nigh streamlet ran : 530 Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; The plaintive voice alone she hears. Sees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel's side. But in abhorrence backward drew ; 535 For, oozing from the mountain's side Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn? — behold her mark A little fountain cell, 54o Where water, clear as diamond spark. In a stone basin fell. Above, some half-worn letters say, SOLDIER, REST 585 Drtnh. wcarg. pilgrim. J»dnft. anD. pra^. Sov. tbe. ftinO. soul. of. SibgU Greg. Mbo, built, tbis, cross. anO. well. She filled the helm and back she hied, And with surprise and joy espied A monk supporting Marmion's head; A pious man, whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrive the dying, bless the dead. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave — ' Is it the hand of Clare,' he said, sss 'Or injured Constance, bathes my head?' Then, as remembrance rose, — 'Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare ; 560 Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! ' 'Alas!' she said, 'the while. — Oh! think of your immortal weal! In vain for Constance is your zeal ! She — died at Holy Isle.' — 565 Lord Marmion started from the ground As light as if he felt no wound. Though in the action burst the tide In torrents from his wounded side. 'Then it was truth,' he said — 'I knew 570 That the dark presage must be true. — I would the Fiend, to whom belongs The vengeance due to all her wrongs. Would spare me but a day ! For wasting fire, and dying groan, 575 And priests slain on the altar stone. Might bribe him for delay. It may not be! — ^this dizzy trance — Curse on yon base marauder's lance, And doubly cursed my failing brand ! 580 A sinful heart makes feeble hand.' Then fainting down on earth he sunk. Supported by the trembling monk. With fruitless labor Clara bound And strove to stanch the gushing wound : 585 The monk with unavailing cares Exhausted all the Church's prayers. Ever, he said, that close and near, A lady's voice was in his ear, And that the priest he could not hear ; 590 For that she ever sung, ' In the lost battle borne down by the fly- ing. Where mingles zuar's rattle with groans of the dying! ' So the notes rung. — ' Avoid thee. Fiend ! — with cruel hand 595 Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! — Oh ! look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer's grace divine; Oh ! think on faith and bliss ! — By many a death-bed I have been, 600 And many a sinner's parting seen. But never aught like this.' The war, that for a space did fail. Now trebly thundering swelled the gale, And ' Stanley ! ' was the cry ; — 605 A light on Marmion's visage spread. And fired his glazing eye; With dying hand above his head He shook the fragment of his blade, And shouted 'Victory! — 610 Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on ! ' Were the last words of Marmion. * * * (1808) SOLDIER, REST! Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, 5 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. Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here is Mustering clan or squadron tramping. Yet 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 sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here 's no war-steed's neigh and champ- ing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done ; -5 While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun. Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying: 30 Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done ; Think not of the rising sun. For at dawning to assail ye 35 Here no bugles sound reveille. (1810) GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824) Byron's father, a military rake known as ' mad Jack Byron,' had squandered his wife's estate and terminated an ill-spent life within three years after the poet's birth in a Lon- don lodging house. His mother was a ' mad Gordon.' Byron therefore was half Scotch, iind part of his childhood was spent in Scotland. His early training, chiefly at the hands of nurses and tutors, was incoherent and ' shabby-genteel.' When ten years of age he suc- ceeded to the titles and estates of his uncle, ' the wicked Lord Byron ' of Newstead. At Harrow (lSOl-5), in spite of a deformed ankle which the torture of surgeons had failed to correct and which his pride and sensitiveness converted into a curse, he was energetic in sports and laid the basis of those athletic habits which remained with him through life. While at Trinity College, Cambridge, he brought out his first volume of poems, Hours of Idleness (1807). To the ridicule of the Edinburgh Review he retorted angrily and with some vigor in his English Bards and Scotch Revicicers (1809), then left England for two years of travel in Spain, Greece and the Levant, and, on his return, published the first two cantos of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1812). The effect was electrical. Young, proud, traveled, mysteriously unhappy, romantically wicked, with a countenance of wild insolent beauty, a poet and a peer, Byron became the rage. Under such circumstances poetry is not critically scanned for its deeper elements. Byron's powers were sufficient for the occasion. From the midst of the social whirl into which he was caught up he extem- porized tale after tale. The Oiaour, The Bride of Abydos, The Vorsair, Lara, followed each other in swift succession. Scott seemed local and tame, Marmion a schoolboy. Fash- ion followed and the critics fawned. Then came Byron's marriage, and a year later, his separation, and in ' one of those periodical spasms of British morality ' his worshippers suddenly discovered that their idol had been a monster. Byron left England never to return alive. In Switzerland he met Shelley and the two poets spent some mouths together among the Alps, an intimacy of great value to both, which they afterward renewed in Italy. From this time Byron's poetry, though still unequal, showed a deeper quality and his activity increased. The third canto of Childe Harold, The Prisoner of Chillon, and many short pieces of new sincerity and strength were finished, and Manfred begun, in Switzerland. In the autumn of 181G he settled at Venice, and, except for short tours, remained there until in 1819 he removed to Ravenna in order to be near the Countess Guiccioli. He became domiciled with that lady in 1819, and in 1821 they moved to Pisa. Throughout his Italian residence Byron had been greatly interested in the plans for Italian independence, and had constantly given aid and comfort to the Carbonari. In 1823 he resolved to devote his fortune and services to the cause of Greek freedom, and it was while assisting in the organization of the patriot forces in Greece, that he succumbed to a fever at Missolonghi when only thirty- six years of age. During his seven years in Italy Byron had completed Manfred (1817) and written seven other dramas, and had added a fourth canto to Childe Harold. What was more important he had discovered in Beppo (1818) the serio-comic vein in which his real strength lay, had produced in The Vision of Judgment (1821) the sublimest of parodies, and in Don Juan (1819-23) his masterpiece. Few poets are so difficult to represent by selections as Byron. His lyrics do not exhibit him to advantage, and extracts give but a poor idea of his variety, sweep, and vitality. Great faults and great virtues ' antithetically mixed'; a spirit hampered by mal-direction, affectation, and self-sophistication, but when it gets free, giant and fine; an imagination full of clay and crudities, but volleying at times into prodigious passion, reality, and compass ; this is Byron. SONNET ON CHILLON Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons. 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 con- signed — 5 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their mar- tyrdom, 586 CHILDE HAROLD 587 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar — for 't was trod, 10 Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efiface ! For they appeal from tyranny to God. December 5, 1816 From CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO HI Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long de- lighted The stranger fain would linger on his way! Thine is a scene alike where souls united Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey s On self -condemning bosoms, it were here, Where Nature, nor too somber nor too gay. Wild hut not rude, awful yet not austere. Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu! 10 There can be no farewell to scene like thine; The mind is colored by thy every hue; And if reluctantly the eyes resign Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 'T is with the thankful heart of parting praise; is More mighty spots may rise, more glaring shine, But none unite in one attaching maze The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days, The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 20 The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom. The forest's growth and Gothic walls be- tween. The wild rocks shaped as they had tur- rets been. In mockery of man's art ; and these withal A race of faces happy as the scene, 25 Whose fertile bounties here extend to all. Still springing o'er thy banks, though Em- pires near them fall. But these recede. Above me are the Alps, The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 30 Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps. And throned Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow! All that expands the spirit, yet appalls, 33 Gather around these summits, as to show How earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan. There is a spot should not be passed in vain, — Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where man 40 May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain. Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain ; Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host, A bony heap, through ages to remain. Themselves their monument ; the Stygian coast 45 Unsepulchered they roamed, and shrieked each w-andering ghost. While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies, Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; They were true Glory's stainless victories. Won by the unambitious heart and hand 50 Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band. All unbought champions in no princely cause Of vice-entailed Corruption ; they no land Doomed to bewail the blasphemy of laws Making kings' rights divine, by some Dra- conic clause. 55 By a lone wall a lonelier column rears A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days: 'T is the last remnant of the wreck of years. And looks as with the wild-bewildered gaze Of one to stone converted by amaze, 60 Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands Making a marvel that it not decays, When the coeval pride of human hands. Leveled Adventicum hath strewed her sub- ject lands. And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the name ! — 65 Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim s88 LORD BYRON Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave The life she lived in; but the judge was just, 70 And then she died on him she could not save. Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. But these are deeds which should not pass away. And names that must not wither though the earth 75 Forgets her empires with a just decay, The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth; The high, the mountain-majesty of worth Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe. And from its immortality look forth 80 In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, Imperishably pure beyond all things below. Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face. The mirror where the stars and moun- tains view The stillness of their aspect in each trace §5 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 cherished than of old, 90 Ere mingling with the herd had penned me in their fold. To fly 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 95 In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 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. 100 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 color things to come with hues of Night ; The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those who walk in darkness : on the sea 106 The boldest steer but where their ports in- vite ; Rut there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be. Is it not better, then, to be alone, no 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 froward infant her own care, I'S Kissing its cries away as these awake; — Is it not better thus our lives to wear. Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to inflict or bear? I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; and to me 120 High mountains are a feeling, 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. Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee, 125 And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. And thus I am absorbed, and this is life: I look upon the peopled desert past, As on a place of agony and strife, ^3° 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, Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 135 Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. 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 — '4° 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? CHILDE HAROLD 589 Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? '45 Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Of me and of my soul, 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 ISO A tide of suffering, rather than forego Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Of those whose eyes are only turned below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow? But this is not my theme; and I return 155 To that which is immediate, and require Those who find contemplation in the urn. To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, A native of the land where I respire '59 The clear air for a while — a passing guest Where he became a being, — whose desire Was to be glorious ; 't was a foolish quest, The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rous- seau, The apostle of aiifliction, he who threw '65 Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew The breath which made him wretched ; yet he knew How to make madness beautiful and cast O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 170 Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feel- ingly and fast. His love was passion's essence : — as a tree On fire by lightning, with ethereal flame Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be '75 Thus, and enamored, were in him the same. But his was not the love of living dame. Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, But of ideal beauty, which became In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 180 Along his burning page, distempered though it seems. This breathed itself to life in Julie, this Invested her with all that 's wild and sweet ; This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss Which every morn his fevered lip would greet, 185 From hers, who but with friendship his would meet ; But to that gentle touch through brain and breast Flashed the thrilled spirit's love-devouring heat ; In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. 190 His life was one long war with self-sought foes. Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose. For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. 195 But he was phrensied, — wherefore, who may know ? Since cause might be which skill could never find; But he was phrensied by disease or woe. To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show. For then he was inspired, and from him came, 200 As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore. Those oracles which set the world in flame. Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: Did he not this for France? which lay be- fore Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years? 205 Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, Till by the voice of him and his compeers Roused up to too much wrath, which fol- lows o'ergrown fears? They made themselves a fearful monument ! The wreck of old opinions — things which grew, 210 Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. But good with ill they also overthrew, Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild Upon the same foundation, and renew 215 Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled, As heretofore, because ambition was self- willed. 590 LORD BYRON But this will not endure, nor be endured! Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt On one another; pity ceased to melt 222 With her once natural charities. But they Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, They were not eagles, nourished with the day; 225 What marvel then, at times, if they mis- took their prey? What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it ; and they who war With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear 230 Silence, but not submission: in his lair Fixed Passion holds his breath, until the hour Which shall atone for years; none need despair: It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. 235 Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake. With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to for- sake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 240 To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmur- ing Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. ' It is the hush of night, and all between 245 Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear. Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen. Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights ap- pear Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 250 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; He is an evening reveler, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; 25s /u: intervals, .some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill, But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, 260 Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues. Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, 266 Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are d A beauty and a mystery, and create 1 In us such love and reverence from afar. That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. 271 All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep. But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: — All heaven and earth are still : From the high host 275 Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain coast. All is concentered in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost. But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and de- fence. 280 Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone; A truth, which through our being then doth melt. And purifies from self: it is a tone. The soul and source of music, which makes known 285 Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. Binding all things with beauty: — 't would disarm The specter Death, had he substantial power to harm. Not vainly did the early Persian make 290 His altar the high places, and the peak Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek The Spirit, in whose honor shrines arc weak. CHILDE HAROLD 591 Upreared of human hands. Come, and compare ^95 Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With Nature's reahns of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer ! The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh, night. And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong. 300 Yet, lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 30s And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And this is in the night: — Most glorious night ! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 310 I A portion of the tempest and of thee! !| How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, i And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 't is black — and now, the glee I Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain- mirth, 315 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth- quake's birth. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken- hearted; 320 Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted. Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed : Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters, — war within them- selves to wage : 3-^5 Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way. The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand. Flashing and cast around; of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath forked 33' His lightnings, — as if he did understand. That in such gaps as desolation worked. There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, light- nings ! ye! 335 With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices, is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 34o But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me, — could I wreak 34S My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak. All that I would have sought, and all I seek. Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word. And that one word were Lightning, I would speak ; 35o But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. The morn is up again, the dewy morn. With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom. Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 355 And living as if earth contained no tomb, — And glowing into day : we may resume The march of our existence: and thus I. Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room And food for meditation, nor pass by 360 Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly. 592 LORD BYRON Clarens! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love ! Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought ; Thy trees take root in Love; the snows above The very Glaciers have his colors caught, And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought 366 By rays which sleep there lovingly ; the rocks, The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks. 37° Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,— Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne To which the steps are mountains ; where the god Is a pervading life and light, — so shown Not on those summits solely, nor alone 375 In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown. His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. All things are here of him; from the black pmes, 380 Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore. Where the bowed waters meet him, and adore. Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, 38s The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood. Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude ; A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-formed and many colored things, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, 391 And innocently open their glad wings, Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 395 The swiftest thought of beauty, here ex- tend. Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows That tender mystery, will love the more; For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, 401 And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, For 't is his nature to advance or die ; He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 406 'T was not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot. Peopling it with affections ; but he found It was the scene which Passion must allot To the mind's purified beings; 't was the ground 4io Where early Love his Psyche's zone un- bound, And hallowed it with loveliness; 'tis lone. And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound. And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reared a throne. 41s Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes Of names which unto you bequeathed a name ; Mortals, who sought and found, by danger- ous roads, A path to perpetuity of fame: They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 420 Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame Of Heaven again assailed, if Heaven the while On man and man's research could deign do more than smile. The one was fire and fickleness, a child 425 Most mutable in wishes, but in mind A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or , wild, — ^ Historian, bard, philosopher, combined; CHILDE HAROLD 593 He multiplied himself among mankind, The Proteus of their talents: But his own Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, 431 Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, — Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought. And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 43S In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; The lord of irony, — 'that master-spell, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, 440 And doomed him to the zealot's ready Hell, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, n merited, the penalty is paid; It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn; The hour must come when such things shall be made 446 Known unto all, or hope and dread allayed By slumber, on one pillow in the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decayed ; And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 'T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 451 But let me quit man's works, again to read His Maker's, spread around me, and sus- pend This page, which from my reveries I feed, Until it seems prolonging without end. 4SS The clouds above me to the white Alps tend. And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er May be permitted, as my steps I bend To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. 460 I have not loved the world, nor the . world me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud 38 In worship of an echo; in the crowd 465 They could not deem me one of such; I stood Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filled my mind, which thus itself subdued. I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — . 470 But let us part fair foes; I do believe. Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive. And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing; I would also deem 475 O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; That two, or one, are almost what they seem. That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream * * * (1817) From CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO IV Oh 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 5 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. The Niobe of nations! there she stands 'o Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe ; An empty urn within her withered hands. Whose holy dust was scattered long ago; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; The very sepulchers lie tenantless 'S Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow. Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. The Goth, the Christian. Time, War, Flood, and Fire, 594 LORD BYRON Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city's pride ; 2° She sav^ her glories star by star expire, And up the steep barbarian nionarchs ride, Where the car climbed the Capitol ; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, 25 O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, ' here was, or is,' where all is doubly night? The double night of ages, and of her, Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 30 The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map. And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumbling o'er recollection ; now we clap Our hands, and cry ' Eureka! ' it is clear — When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 36 Alas! the lofty city! and alas! The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge sur- pass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! 4° Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, And Livy's pictured page! but these shall be Her resurrection; all beside — decay. Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free ! 4S Oh thou, whose chariot rolled on Fortune's wheel. Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy frown 51 Annihilated senates — Roman, too. With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — The dictatorial wreath — couldst thou divine To what would one day dwindle that which made 56 Thee more than mortal? and that so supine By aught than Romans, Rome should thus be laid? She who was named Eternal, and arrayed Her warriors but to conquer — .she who veiled 60 Earth with her haughty shadow, and dis- played. Until the o'er-canopied horizon failed, Her rushing wings — Oh! she who was Al- mighty hailed. Sylla was first of victors; but our own. The sagcst of usurpers, Cromwell! — he 65 Too swept off senates while he hewed the throne Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See What crimes it costs to be a moment free, And famous through all ages ! but beneath His fate the moral lurks of destiny; 7» His day of double victory and death Beheld him win two realms, and happier, yield his breath. The third of the same moon whose former course Had all but crowned him, on the selfsame day Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 75 And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. And showed not Fortune thus how fame and sway, And all we deem delightful, and consume Our souls to compass through each arduous way. Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom ! 81 And thou, dread statue? yet existent in The austerest form of naked majesty. Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassin's din. At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie, 85 Folding his robe in dying dignity. An offering to thine altar from the queen Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die. And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene? 90 And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ! She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a monument of antique art. CHILDE HAROLD 595 Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart, 9S Which the great founder sucked from thy wild teat, Scorched by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, And thy limbs black with lightning — dost thou yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? Thou dost ; but all thy foster-babes are dead— io° The men of iron ; and the world hath reared Cities from out their sepulchcrs : men bled In imitation of the things they feared, And fought and conquered, and the same course steered, At apish distance: but as yet none have, los Nor could, the same supremacy have neared. Save one vain man, who is not in the grave. But, vanquished by himself, to his own slaves a slave — The fool of false dominion — and a kind Of bastard Csesar, following him of old no With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind Was modeled in a less terrestrial mold, With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, And an immortal instinct which redeemed The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, "5 Alcides with the distaff now he seemed At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beamed, j And came — and saw — and conquered ! But I the man I Who would have tamed his eagles down to i flee, i Like a trained falcon, in the Gallic van, 120 Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, With a deaf heart, which never seemed to be A listener to itself, was strangely framed; With but one weakest weakness — vanity. Coquettish in ambition, still he aimed — 125 At what? can he avouch or answer what he claimed? And would be all or nothing — nor could wait For the sure grave to level him; few years Had fixed him with the Caesars in his fate, On whom we tread : For this the conqueror rears 130 The arch of triumph; and for this the tears And blood of earth flow on as they have flowed, An universal deluge, which appears Without an ark for wretched man's abode, And ebbs but to rcflow ! Renew thy rain- bow, Godl 135 What from this barren being do we reap? Our senses narrow, and our reason frail. Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, And all things weighed in custom's falsest scale ; Opinion an omnipotence, — whose veil 140 AL-mtles the earth with darkness, until right And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale Lest their own judgments should become too bright. And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light. And thus they plod in sluggish misery, mv Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, Bequeathing their hereditary rage To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage War for their chains, and rather than be free, 150 Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage Within the same arena where they see Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. I speak not of men's creeds — they rest be- tween Man and his Maker — but of things al- lowed, Averred, and known, and daily, hourly seen — ,55 The yoke that is upon us doubly bowed, And the intent of tyranny avowed. The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown The apes of him who humbled once the proud, 160 And shook them from their slumbers on the throne ; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be, And Freedom find no champion and no •child Such as Columbia saw arise when she i6s Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undef^led ? Or must such minds be nourished in the wild. Deep in the unpruned forest 'midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 596 LORD BYRON On infant Washington? Has earth no more '7o Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore ? But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, And fatal have her Saturnalia been To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; Because the deadly days which we have seen, '75 And vile Ambition, that built up between Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, And the base pageant last upon the scene, Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his second fall. i8o Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams, like the thunder-storm against the wind ; Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying. The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 'Ss Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth. But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. There is a stern round tower of other days, "90 Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Such as an army's baffled strength delays. Standing with half its battlements alone, And with two thousand years of ivy grown, The garland of eternity, where wave '95 The green leaves over all by time o'er- thrown : — What was this tower of strength? within its cave What treasure lay so locked, so hid? — A woman's grave. But who was she, the lady of the dead, Tombed in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? 200 Worthy a king's or more — a Roman's bed? What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? What daughter of her beauties was the heir? How lived, how loved, how died she? Was she not So honored — and conspicuously there, 205 Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? Was she as those who love their lords, or they Who love the lords of others? such have been Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 2'° Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien. Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen. Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar ^'S Love from amongst her griefs? — for such the affections are. Perchance she died in youth : it may be bowed With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 220 In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom Heaven gives its favorites — early death ; yet shed A sunset charm around her, and illume With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf- like red. 225 Perchance she died in age — surviving all. Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray On her long tresses, which might yet recall, It may be, still a something of the day- When they were braided, and her proud array 230 And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed By Rome — But whither would Conjecture stray ? Thus much alone we know — Metella died. The wealthiest Roman's wife: Behold his love or pride ! I know not why — but standing thus by thee 235 It seems as if I had thine inmate known, Thou Tomb ! and other days come back to me With recollected music, though the tone Is changed and solemn, like a cloudy groan Of dying thunder on the distant wind; 240 CHILDE HAROLD 597 Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone Till I had bodied forth the heated mind Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind ; And from the planks, far shattered o'er the rocks, Built me a little bark of hope, once more To battle with the ocean and the shocks 246 Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar Which rushes on the solitary shore Where all lies foundered that was ever dear : But could I gather from the wave-worn store 250 Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. Then let the winds howl on! their har- mony Shall henceforth by my music, and the night The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, ^55 As I now hear them, in the fading light Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, [ Answering each other on the Palatine, With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright. And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs ? — let me not number mine. 261 Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown Matted and massed together, hillocks heaped On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown In fragments, choked up vaults, and fres- coes steeped 265 In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped. Deeming it midnight : — Temples, baths, or halls? Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning reaped From her research hath been, that these are walls — Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls. 270 There is the moral of all human tales; 'T is but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom and then Glory — when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. And history, with all her volimies vast, 273 Hath but one page — 't is better written here, Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amassed All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away with words! draw near. Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep, — for here 280 There is such matter for all feeling: — Man ! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. Ages and realms are crowded in this span, This mountain, whose obliterated plan The pyramid of empires pinnacled, 285 Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van Till the sun's rays with added flame were filled! Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build? Tully was not so eloquent as thou, Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 290 What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow? Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, Titus or Trajan's? No— 'tis that of Time; Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 295 Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime. Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, And looking to the stars: they had con- tained A spirit which with these would find a home, 300 The last of those who o'er the whole earth reigned, The Roman globe, for after none sustained. But yielded back his conquests: — he was more Than a mere Alexander, and, unstained With household blood and wine, serenely wore 30s His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore. Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line. Would build up all her triumphs in one dome. Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine As 't were its natural torches, for divine 3" Should be the light which streams here, to illume This long-explored but still exhaustless 598 LORD BYRON Of contemplation; ami the azure gloom Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 3iS Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monu- ment, And shadows forth its glory. There is given Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power ^~' And magic in the ruined battlement. For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. Oh, Time! the beautif^er of the dead, 32s Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only healer when the heart hath bled; Time! the corrector where our judgments err. The test of truth, love — sole philosopher, 3^9 For all beside are sophists — from thy thrift. Which never loses though it doth defer — Time, the avenger I unto thee I lift My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift : Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine And temple more divinely desolate, 335 Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, Ruins of years, though few, yet full of fate : If thou hast ever seen me too elate. Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 340 Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn? And thou, who never yet of human wrong Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis! Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long— 345 Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss. And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss For that unnatural retribution — just. Had it but been from hands less near — in this Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! Dost thou not hear my heart? — Awake! thou shalt, and must. 351 It is not that I may not have incurred I'or my ancestral faults or mine the wound I bleed withal, and had it been conferred With a just weapon, it had flowed un- bound ; 355 But now my blood shall not sink in the ground : To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found Which if / have not taken for the sake — But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 360 And if my voice break forth, 't is not that now I shrink from what is suffered : let him speak Who hath beheld decline upon my brow. Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; But in this page a record will I seek. 36s Not in the air shall these my words disperse, Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, And pile on human heads the mountains of my curse! That curse shall be Forgiveness,— Have I not — 370 Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven ! — Have I not had to wrestle with my lot? Have I not suffered things to be forgiven? Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven, Hopes sapped, name blighted, Life's life lied away? 375 And only not to desperation driven. Because not altogether of such clay As rots into the souls of those whom I sur- vey. From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy Have I not seen what human things could do ? 380 From the loud roar of foaming calumny To the small whisper of the as paltry few. And subtler venom of the reptile crew, The Janus glance of whose significant eye, Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 385 CHILDE HAROLD 599 And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. Cut I have lived, and have not lived in vain : My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, And my frame perish even in conquering pain ; 390 But there is that within me which shall tire Torture and Time, and breathe when I ex- pire ; Something unearthly, which they deem not of. Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre, Shall on their softened spirits sink, and move 395 In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power ! Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here Walkest in the shadow of the midnight hour With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 401 Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear That we become a part of what has been, . And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but un- seen. 405 And here the buzz of eager nations ran, In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause. As man was slaughtered by his fellow man. And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws. And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not? 411 What matters where we fall to fill the maws Of worms. — On battle-plains or listed spot? Both are but theaters where the chief actors rot. I see before mc the Gladiator lie: 41s He leans upon his hand — his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony. And his drooped head sinks gradually low — And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one. Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now 4-' I The arena swims around him — he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away ; He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, 426 But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday — 430 All this rushed with his blood — Shall he expire And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam ; And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, And roared or murmured like a mountain stream 435 Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; Here, where the Roman millions' blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays On the arena void — seats crushed — walls bowed — 440 And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. A ruin — yet what ruin ! — from its mass Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared; Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, And marvel where the spoil could have appeared. 445 Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared ? Alas ! developed, opens the decay. When the colossal fabric's form is neared: It will not bear the brightness of the day. Which streams too much on all, years, man have reft away. 450 But when the rising moon begins to climb Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; When the stars twinkle through the loops of time. And the low night-breeze waves along the air The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 4SS Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head ; When the light shines serene but doth not glare, 6oo LORD BYRON Then in this magic circle raise the dead : Heroes have trod this spot— 'tis on their dust ye tread. ' While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; 460 When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall, And when Rome falls — the World.' From our own land Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall In Saxon times, which we are wont to call Ancient; and these three mortal things are still 465 On their foundations, and unaltered all ; Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, The world, the same wide den — of thieves, or what ye will. =K * * (1818) From THE VISION OF JUDGMENT In the first year of freedom's second dawn Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one Who shielded tyrants, till each sense with- drawn Left him nor mental nor external sun; A better farmer ne'er brushed dew from lawn, 5 A worse king never left a realm undone ! He died — but left his subjects still behind, One half as mad — and t'other no less blind. He died! his death made no great stir on earth : His burial made some pomp; there was profusion '° Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion. For these things may be bought at their true worth ; Of elegy there was the due infusion — Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks and banners, '5 Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners. Formed a sepulchral nielodrame. Of all The fools who flocked to swell or see the show. Who cared about the corpse? The funeral Made the attraction, and the black the woe. ^° There throbbed not there a thought which pierced the pall ; And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, It seemed the mockery of hell to fold The rottenness of eighty years in gold. So mix his body with the dust ! It might ^s Return to what it must far sooner, were The natural compound left alone to fight Its way back into earth, and fire, and air; But the unnatural balsams merely blight What nature made him at his birth, as bare 3o As the mere million's base unmummied clay — Yet all his spices but prolong decay. He 's dead — and upper earth with him has done; He 's buried ; save the undertaker's bill. Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 35 For him, unless he left a German will; But where 's the proctor who will ask his son? In whom his qualities are reigning still, Except that household virtue, most uncom- mon. Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 4o ' God save the king ! ' It is a large econ- omy In God to save the like ; but if he will Be saving, all the better; for not one am I Of those who think damnation better still: I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 45 In this small hope of bettering future ill By circumscribing, with some slight restric- tion, The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction, I know this is unpopular ; I know 'T is blasphemous ; I know one may be damned 5° For hoping no one else may e'er be so; I know my catechism ; I know we 've crammed With the best doctrines till we quite o'er- flow ; I know that all save England's church have shammed. And that the other twice two hundred churches 55 And synagogues have made a damned bad purchase. God help us all ! God help me too ! I am, God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish. THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 60 1 And not a whit more difficult to damn, Than is to bring to land a late-hooked fish, 60 Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb; Not that I 'm fit for such a noble dish, As one day will be that immortal fry Of almost everybody born to die. Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, 65 And nodded o'er his keys ; when, lo ! there came A wondrous noise he had not heard of late — A rushing sound of wind, and stream and flame; In short, a roar of things extremely great. Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim ; 70 But he, with first a start and then a wink, Said, ' There 's another star gone out, I think!' But ere he could return to his repose, A cherub flapped his right wing o'er his eyes — At which St. Peter yawned, and rubbed his nose: 75 ' Saint porter,' said the angel, ' prithee rise! ' Waving a goodly wing, which glowed, as glows An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly \ dyes : j To which the saint replied, ' Well, what 's I the matter? Is Lucifer come back with all this clat- I ter?' 80 * No,' quoth the cherub ; ' George the Third is dead.' * And who is George the Third ? ' replied the apostle: 'What George r what Third?' 'The king of England,' said The angel. ' Well ! he won't find kings to jostle Him on his way; but does he wear his head? 8s Because the last we saw here had a tussle. And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces, Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 'He was, if I remember, king of France; That head of his, which could not keep a crown 90 On earth, yet ventured in my face to ad- vance A claim to those of martyrs — like my own ; If I had had my sword, as I had once When I cut ears off, I had cut him down; But having but my keys, and not my brand, 9S I only knock'd his head from out his hand. ' And then he set up such a headless howl, That all the saints came out and took him in ; And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl ; That fellow Paul — the parvenii ! The skin 100 Of St. Bartholomew, which makes his cowl In heaven, and upon earth redeemed his sin, So as to make a martyr, never sped Better than did this weak and wooden head. ' But had it come up here upon its shoul- ders, los There would have been a different tale to tell: The fellow-feeling in the saints' beholders Seems to have acted on them like a spell. And so this very foolish head heaven solders Back on its trunk: it may be very well, ^^° And seems the custom here, to overthrow Whatever has been wisely done below.' The angel answered, ' Peter ! do not pout : The king who comes has head and all entire, And never knew much what it was about — 115 He did as doth the puppet — by its wire. And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt : My business and your own is not to in- quire Into such matters, but to mind our cue — Which is to act as we are bid to do.' 1^0 While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile or Inde, Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an old man 1^5 With an old soul, and both extremely blind. Halted before the gate, and in his shroud Seated their fellow traveler on a cloud. 6o2 LORD BYRON But bringing up the rear of this bright host A Spirit of a different aspect waved 130 His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved ; His brow was like the deep when tempest- tossed ; Fierce and unfathomable thoughts en- graved Eternal wrath on his immortal face, '35 And zvhcrc he gazed a gloom pervaded space. As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate Ne'er to be entered more by him or Sin, With such a glance of supernatural hate, As made Saint Peter wish himself within; He pattered with his keys at a great rate, And sweated through his apostolic skin : Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 14*3 Or some such other spiritual liquor. The very cherubs huddled all together, i4S Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they felt A tingling to the tip of every feather, And formed a circle like Orion's belt Around their poor old charge ; who scarce knew whither His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 150 With royal manes (for by many stories. And true, we learn the angels all arc Tories). As things were in this posture, the gate flew Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges Flung over space an universal hue i5S Of many-colored flame, until its tinges Reached even our speck of earth, and made a new Aurora borealis spread its fringes O'er the North Pole ; the same seen, when ice-bound. By Captain Parry's crew, in * Melville's Sound.' 160 And from the gate thrown open issued beaming A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight : My poor comparisons must needs be teeming With earthly likenesses, for here the night 166 Of clay obscures our best conceptions, sav- ing Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving. 'T was the archangel Michael ; all men know The make of angels and archangels, since There 's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 171 From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince ; There also are some altar-pieces, though | 1 really can't say that they much evince 1 One's inner notions of immortal spirits; '75 lUit let the connoisseurs explain their merits. Michael flew forth in glory and in good; A goodly work of him from whom all glory And good arise; the portal past — he stood; Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary — 180 (I say young, begging to be understood By looks, not years; and should be very sorry To state, they were not older than St. Peter, But merely that they seemed a little sweeter). The cherubs and the saints bowed down be- fore 18s That arch-angelic hierarch, the first Of essences angelical, who wore The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nursed Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core No thought, save for his Master's service, durst 190 Intrude, however glorified and high ; He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. He and the somber, silent Spirit met — They knew each other both for good and ill; Such was their power, that neither could forget J95 His former friend and future foe; but still m There was a high, immortal, proud regret "^ In cither's eye, as if 't were less their will Than destiny to make the eternal years Their date of war, and their ' champ clos ' the spheres. 200 But here they were in neutral space : we know From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay A heavenly visit thrice a year or so; And that the ' sons of God,' like those of clay. I THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 603 Must keep him company ; and we might show 20s From the same book, in how polite a way The dialogue is held between the Powers Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up hours. And this is not a theologic tract, To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic, If Job be allegory or a fact, 211 But a true narrative; and thus I pick From out the whole but such and such an act As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 2' 5 And accurate as any other vision. The spirits were in neutral space, before The gate of heaven ; like eastern thresh- olds is The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er, And souls despatched to that virorld or to this; 220 And therefore Michael and the other wore A civil aspect : though they did not kiss. Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness There passed a mutual glance of great politeness. The Archangel bowed, not like a modern beau, --S But with a graceful Oriental bend, Pressing one radiant arm just where below The heart in good men is supposed to tend ; He turned as to an equal, not too low, But kindly ; Satan met his ancient friend With more hauteur, as might an old Castiiian 231 Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. He merely bent his diabolic brow An instant ; and then raising it, he stood In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 235 Cause why King George by no means could or should Make out a case to be exempt from woe Eternal, more than other kings, endued With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions. Who long have ' paved hell with their good intentions.' 240 Michael began : ' What wouldst thou with this man. Now dead, and brought before the Lord? What ill Hath he wrought since his mortal race be- gan, That thou canst claim him ? Speak ! and do thy will, If it be just: if in this earthly span 245 He hath been greatly failing to fulfil His duties as a king and mortal, say, And he is thine; if not, let him have way.' ' Michael ! ' replied the Prince of Air, ' even here, Before the Gate of him thou servest, must I claim my subject: and will make appear That as he was my worshipper in dust. So shall he be in spirit, although dear 253 To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust Were of his weaknesses ; yet on the throne He reigned o'er millions to serve me alone. ' Look to our earth, or. rather mine ; it was. Once, more thy Master's : but I triumph not In this poor planet's conquest ; nor, alas ! Need he thou servest envy me my lot : 260 With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass In worship round him, he may have for- got Von weak creation of such paltry things: I think few worth damnation save their kings, — ' And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 265 Assert my right as lord : and even had I such an inclination, it were (as you Well know) superfluous; they are grown so bad, That hell has nothing better left to do Than leave them to themselves : so much more mad 270 And evil by their own internal curse. Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. ' Look to the earth, I said, and say again : When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor worm Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign, 275 The world and he both wore a different form. I 6o4 LORD BYRON And much of earth and all the watery plain Of ocean called him king: through many a storm His isles had floated on the abyss of time; For the rough virtues chose them for their 1- 280 clime. 'He came to his scepter young; he leaves it old: Look to the state in which he found his realm, And left it; and his annals too behold, How to a minion first he gave the helm; How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but over- whelm ^^^ The meanest hearts; and for the rest, but glance Thine eye along America and France. "Tis true, he was a tool from first to last (I have the workmen safe), but as a tool So let him be consumed. From out the past ^91 Of ages, since mankind have known the rule Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amassed Of sin and slaughter — from the Caesar's school, Take the worst pupil ; and produce a reign More drenched with gore, more cumbered with the slain. 296 * He ever warred with freedom and the free : Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, So that they uttered the word ' Liberty ! ' Found George the Third their first op- ponent. Whose 300 History was ever stained as his will be With national and individual woes? I grant his household abstinence; I grant His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want; 'I know he was a constant consort; own 305 He was a decent sire, and middli..j lord. All this is much, and most upon a throne ; As temperance, if at Apicius' board, Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. I grant him all the kindest can accord; S'o And this was well for him, but not for those Millions who found him what oppression chose. 'The New World shook him off; the Old yet groans Beneath what he and his prepared, if not Completed : he leaves heirs on many thrones To all his vices, without what begot 316 Compassion for him — his tame virtues; drones Who sleep, or despots who have now for- got A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake Upon the thrones of earth; but let them quake ! 320 ' Five millions of the primitive, who hold The faith which makes ye great on earth implored A part of that vast all they held of old,— Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord. Michael, but you, and you. Saint Peter! cold 325 Must be your souls, if you have not abhorred The foe to Catholic participation In all the license of a Christian nation. ' True ! he allowed them to pray God ; but as A consequence of prayer, refused the law Which would have placed them upon the same base 33 1 With those who did not hold the saints in awe.' But here Saint Peter started from his place. And cried, ' You may the prisoner with- draw : Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph, 335 While I am guard, may I be damned my- self! ' Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange My office (and his is no sinecure) Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure ! ' 34o ' Saint ! ' replied Satan, ' you do well to avenge The wrongs he made your satellites en- dure; And if to this exchange you should be given, I '11 try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven! ' Here Michael interposed : ' Good saint ! and devil I 345 DON JUAN 605 Pray, not so fast; you both outrun dis- cretion. Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil ! Satan, excuse this warmth of his expres- sion, And condescension to the vulgar's level ; Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 35o Have you got more to say ? ' — ' No.' — ' If you please, I '11 trouble you to call your witnesses.' (1822) From DON JUAN, CANTO III [ THE ISLES OF GREECE The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, — Where Delos rose, and Phcebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet, S But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, ' The hero's harp, the lover's lute, i Have found the fame your shores refuse: I Their place of birth alone is mute 1° I To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' ' Islands of the Blest.' The mountains look on Marathon — And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, 15 I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; For standing on the Persian's grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 20 And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations ; — all were his ! ' He counted them at break of day — I And when the sun set, where were they? I And where are they? and where art thou, 25 I My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now — \ The heroic bosom beats no more ! i And must thy lyre, so long divine, I Degenerate into hands like mine? 3° ! 'T is something, in the dearth of fame. Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? 3S For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must tvc but blush? — Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! 40 Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae! What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no; — the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 45 And answer, ' Let one living head, But one arise, — we come, we come ! ' 'T is but the living who are dumb. In vain — in vain : strike other chords : Fill high the cup with Samian wine! 5° Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — How answers each bold Bacchanal ! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet : ss Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave — Think ye he meant them for a slave? 60 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine ; He served — but served Polycrates — A tyrant ; but our masters then 65 Were still, at least, our countrymen. The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades ! Oh ! that the present hour would lend 70 Another despot of the kind ! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line 75 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown. The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks. They have a king who buys and sells ; 80 In native swords and native ranks. The only hope of courage dwells : But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. Would break your shield, however broad. 6o6 LORD BYRON Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 8s Our virgins dance beneath the shade — I see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves. Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 9' Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 95 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung. The modern Greek, in tolerable verse: If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young. Yet in these times he might have done much worse: ^°° His strain displayed some feeling — right or wrong; And feeling, in a poet, is the source Of others' feeling; but they are such liars. And take all colors — like the hands of dyers. But words are things, and a small drop of ink, los Falling like dew, upon a thought, pro- duces That which makes thousands, perhaps mil- lions, think; 'T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link Of ages ; to what straits old Time re- duces 1'° Frail man when paper — even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his! And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank. His station, generation, even his nation. Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank' '5 In chronological commemoration. Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank. Or graven stone found in a barrack's station In digging the foundation of a closet, May turn his name up, as a rare deposit, '-o And glory long has made the sages smile ; 'T is something, nothing, words, illusion wind — Depending more upon the historian's style Than on the name a person leaves be- hind: Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle: J^s The present century was growing blind To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks. Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. Milton's the prince of poets — so we say; A little heavy, but no less divine: 130 An independent being in his day — Learned, pious, temperate in love and wine ; But his life falling into Johnson's way, We 're told this great high priest of all the Nine Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse, 135 For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. All these are, certcs, entertaining facts. Like Shakspere's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes; Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts ; Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes) ; 140 Like Cromwell's pranks: — but although truth exacts These amiable descriptions from the scribes. As most essential to their hero's story, They do not much contribute to his glory. All are not moralists, like Southey, when He prated to the world of ' Pantisocracy : ' Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 147 Seasoned his peddler poems with democ- racy; Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy; When he and Southey, following the same path, 151 Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). Such names at present cut a convict figure, The very Botany Bay in moral geogra- phy: Their royal treason, renegado rigor, "55 Are good manure for their more bare biography. Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger Than any since the birthday of typogra- phy: DON JUAN 607 A drowsy frowzy poem, called the ' Excur- sion,' Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 160 I * * * j T' our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves I gone, j The dwarfs and dancing girls had all re- 1 tired : 1 The Arab lore and poet's song were done, I And every sound of revelry expired; j The lady and her lover, left alone. '6s The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired : Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea, That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worth- iest thee! I Ave Maria! blessed be the hour! The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 170 Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft. While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer. 176 Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer! Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love! Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! Ave Maria! oh, that face so fair! 181 Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove — What though 't is but a pictured image strike. That painting is no idol, — 't is too like. Some kinder casuists are pleased to say. In nameless print — that I have no de- votion; 186 But set those persons down with me to pray, I And you shall see who has the properest i notion 1 Of getting into heaven the shortest way; j My altars are the mountains and the I ocean, 190 j Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the great Whole, Wlio hath produced, and will receive the I soul. 1 Sweet hour of twilight! — in the solitude j Of the pine forest and the silent shore j Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er, ^96 To where the last Caesarean fortress stood. Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me. How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! 200 The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. Making their summer lives one ceaseless song. Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine. And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along; The specter huntsman of Onesti's line, 205 His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng Which learned from this example not to fly From a true lover, shadowed my mind's eye. O Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 210 To the young bird the parent's brooding wings. The welcome stall to the o'erlabored steer ; Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 214 Are gathered round us by thy look of rest; Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 219 Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way As the far bell of vesper makes him start. Seeming to weep the dying day's decay; Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! When Nero perished by the justest doom 225 Which ever the destroyer yet destroyed. Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, Of nations freed, and the world over- joyed, Some hands unseen strewed flowers upon his tomb: 229 Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 6o8 LORD BYRON Of feeling for some kindness done, when power Had left the wretch an uncorruptcd hour. But I'm digressing; what on earth has Nero, Or any such like sovereign buffoons, To do with the transactions of my hero, ^35 More than such madmen's fellow man — the moon's? ^35 Sure my invention must be down at zero; And I grown one of many ' wooden spoons ' Of verse (the name with which we Canta1)s please To dub the last of honors in degrees). 240 * * * DON JUAN, CANTO IV Nothing so difficult as a begmning In poesy, unless perhaps the end; For oftentimes, when Pegasus seems win- ning The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend. Like Lucifer, when hurled from heaven for sinning; S Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend. Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, Till our own weakness shows us what we are. But Time, which brings all beings to their level. And sharp Adversity, will teach at last 'o Man, and — as we would hope — perhaps the devil. That neither of their intellects are vast: While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel. We know not this — the blood flows on too fast ; But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 16 As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, And wished that others held the same opinion ; They took it up when my days grew more mellow, And other minds acknowledged my do- minion : Now my sere fancy ' falls into the yellow Leaf,' and Imagination droops her pinion. And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 2s 'T is that I may not weep; and if I weep, 'T is that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy, for we must steep Our hearts first in the depth of Lethe's spring, Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep : 30 Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx ; A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. Some have accused me of a strange design Against the creed and morals of the land. And trace it in this poem every line : 33 I don't pretend that I quite understand My own meaning when I would be very fine ; But the fact is, that I have nothing planned Unless it were to be a moment merry, A novel word in my vocabulary. 40 To the kind reader of our sober clime. This way of writing will appear exotic : Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme. Who sang when chivalry was more Quix- otic, And reveled in the fancies of the time, 45 True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic ; But all these, save the last, being obsolete, I chose a modern subject as more meet. How I have treated it, I do not know ; Perhaps no better than they have treated me 50 Who have imputed such designs as show Not what they saw, but what they wished to see : But if it gives them pleasure, be it so ; This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free: Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, ss And tells me to resume my story here. Now pillowed cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, Haidee and Juan their siesta took, A gentle slumber, but it was not deep. For ever and anon a something shook 60 Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep ; And Haidee's sweet lips murmured like a brook DON JUAN A wordless music, and her face so fair Stirred with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air; Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 6s Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream. The mystical usurper of the mind — O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem Good to the soul which we no more can bind ; 70 Strange state of being! (for 'tis still to be) Senseless to feel, and with sealed eyes to see. She dreamed of being alone on the sea- shore, Chained to a rock ; she knew not how, but stir She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 75 Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threat- ening her ; And o'er her upper lip they seemed to pour, I Until she sobbed for breath, and soon they were Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high — Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 80 Anon — she was released ; and then she strayed O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, And stumbled almost every step she made : And something rolled before her in a sheet, Which she must still pursue, howe'er afraid ; 'T was white and indistinct, nor stopped to "meet 86 Her glance or grasp, for still she gazed and grasped, And ran, but it escaped her as she clasped. The dream changed : — in a cave she stood, its walls Were hung with marble icicles : the work Of ages on its water-fretted halls, 91 Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk; Her hair was dripping, and the very balls Of her black eyes seemed turned to tears, and mirk The sharp rocks looked below each drop they caught, 95 Which froze to marble as it fell — she thought. I And wet, and cold, and lifeless, at her feet. Pale as the foam that frothed on his dead brow. Which she essayed in vain to clear (how sweet Were once her cares, how idle seemed they now!) 100 Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat Of his quenched heart; and the sea-dirges low Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, And that brief dream appeared a life too long. And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 10s Faded, or altered into something new — Like to her father's features, till each trace More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew — With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace ; And starting, she awoke, and what to view? O Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meets she there? m 'T is — 't is her father's — fixed upon the pair! Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see Him whom she deemed a habitant where dwell 115 The ocean buried, risen from death, to be Perchance the death of one she loved too well : Dear as her father had been to Haidee, It was a moment of that awful kind — I have seen such — but must not call to mind. 120 Up Juan sprang to Haidee's bitter shriek, And caught her falling, and from off the wall Snatched down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak Vengeance on him who was the cause of all; Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, 125 Smiled scornfully, and said, 'Within my call, A thousand scimitars await the word ; Put up, young man, put up your silly sword.' 6io LORD BYRON And Haidee cluny around liim : 'Juan, 't is — 'T is Lanibro — 't is my father ! Kneel with me— '30 He will forgive us — yes — it must be — yes, Oh, dearest father, in this agony Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be That doubt should mingle with my filial joy? '35 Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy.' High and inscrutable the old man stood. Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye — Not always signs with him of calmest mood . He looked upon her, but gave no reply; Then turned to Juan, in whose cheek the blood '41 Oft came and went, as there resolved to die In arms, at least, he stood in act to spring On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring. ' Young man, your sword ! ' So Lambro once more said ; '45 Juan replied, ' Not while this arm is free ! ' The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread. But drawing from his belt a pistol, he Replied, ' Your blood be then on your own head.' Then looked close at the flint, as if to see '5° 'T was fresh — • for he had lately used the lock — And next proceeded quietly to cock. It has a strange, quick jar upon the ear. That cocking of a pistol, when you know A moment more will bring the sight to bear Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so ; A gentlemanly distance, not too near. If you have got a former friend for foe; But after being fired at once or twice, '59 The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice, Lambro presented, and one instant more Had stopped this canto, and Don Juan's breath. When Haidee threw herself her boy be- fore. Stern as her sire : ' On me,' she cried, 'let death Descend — the fault is mine; this fatal shore 165 He found — but sought not. I hava pledged my faith ; I love him — T will die with him: I knew Your nature's firmness — know your daugh- ter's too.' A minute past, and she had been all tears, And tenderness, and infancy; but n(nv '7° She stood as one who championed human fears — Pale, statue-like, and stern, she wooed the blow ; And tall beyond her sex, and their com- peers. She drew up to her height, as if to show A fairer mark ; and with a fixed eye scanned Her father's face — ^but never stopped his hand. 176 He gazed on her, and she on him ; 't was strange How like they looked ! the expression was the same ; Serenely savage, with a little change In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame; '80 For she, too, was as one who could avenge. If cause should be — a lioness, though tame : Her father's blood, before her father's face Boiled up, and proved her truly of his race. I said they were alike, their features and '85 Their stature differing but in sex and years ; Even to the delicacy of their hand There was resemblance, such as true blood wears ; And now to see them, thus divided, stand In fixed ferocity, when joyous tears, '9o And sweet sensations, should have wel- comed both. Show what the passions are in their full growth. The father paused a moment, then withdrew His weapon, and replaced it; but stood still, And looking on her, as to look her through, ■ Not /,' he said, " have sought this stran- ger's ill; '96 Not / have made this desolation ; few Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill; DON JUAN 6ii But I must do my duty — how thou hast Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 200 * Let him disarm ; or, by my father's head, His own shall roll before you like a ball ! ' He raised his whistle, as the word he said, And blew, another answered to the call, And, rushing in disorderly, though led, 205 And armed from boot to turban, one and all. Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank ; He gave the word — 'Arrest or slay the Frank ! ' Then, with a sudden movement, he with- drew His daughter; while compressed within his clasp, 210 'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew; In vain she struggled in her father's grasp — His arms were like a serpent's coil : then flew Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp, The file of pirates; save the foremost, who Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through. 21C The second had his cheek laid open ; but The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took The blows upon his cutlass, and then put His own well in: so well, ere you could look, 2J0 His man was floored, and helpless at his foot, With the blood running like a little brook. From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — . One on the arm, the other on the head. And then they bound him where he fell, I and bore ^^s Juan from the apartment : with a sign. Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine. They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar Until they reached some galliots, placed in line ; 230 On board of one of these, and under hatches, They stowed him, with strict orders to the watches. The world is full of strange vicissitudes, And here was one exceedingly unpleas- ant : A gentleman so rich in the world's goods, Handsome and young, enjoying all the present, 236 Just at the very time when he least broods On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, Wounded and chained, so that he cannot move, And all because a lady fell in love. 240 Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea ! Than whom Cassandra was not more pro- phetic; For if my pure libations exceed three, I feel my heart become so sympathetic. 245 That I must have recourse to black Bo- hea : 'T is pity wine should be so deleterious. For tea and coffee leave us much more serious. Unless when qualified with thee. Cognac ! Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill! Ah, why the liver wilt thou thus attack. And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill? I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack (In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill 254 My mild and midnight beakers to the brim, Wakes me next morning with its synonym. I leave Don Juan for the present, safe — Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded ; Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded ! 260 She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe. And then give way, subdued, because sur- rounded ; Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. There the large olive rains its amber store In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, and fruit, 266 Gush from the earth, until the land runs o'er : But there, too, many a poison tree has root. 6l2 LORD BYRON And midnight listens to the lion's roar, And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot, 270 Or heaving, whelm the helpless caravan: And as the soil is, so the heart of man. Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth Her human clay is kindled : full of power For good or evil, burning from its birth. The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, And like the soil beneath, it will bring forth : Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower; But her large dark eye showed deep Pas- sion's force, 279 Though sleeping like a lion near a source. Her daughter, tempered with a milder ray. Like summer's clouds all silvery smooth and fair, Till slowly charged with thunder, they dis- play Terror to earth, and tempest to the air. Had held till now her soft and milky way, But, overwrought with passion and de- spair, 286 The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins. Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains. The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, And he himself o'ermastered, and cut down ; 290 His blood was running on the very floor, Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own ; Thus much she viewed an instant, and no more — Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan ; On her sire's arm, which, until now, scarce held 295 Her, writhing, fell she, like a cedar felled. A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er ; And her head drooped, as when the lily lies O'ercharged with rain : her summoned handmaids bore 300 Their lady to her couch, with gushing eyes ; Of herbs and cordials they produced their store. But she defied all means they could employ, Like one life could not hold, nor death de- stroy. Days lay she in that state, unchanged. though chill — 305 With nothing livid, still her lips were red : She had no pulse, but death seemed absent still; No hideous sign proclaimed her surely dead; Corruption came not, in each mind to kill All hope ; to look upon her sweet face, bred 310 New thoughts of life, for it seemed full of soul — She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. The ruling passion, such as marble shows When exquisitely chiseled, still lay there. But fixed as marble's unchanged aspect throws 31S O'er the fair Venus, but forever fair; O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes. And ever-dying Gladiator's air. Their energy, like life, forms all their fame. Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 320 Rather the dead, for life seemed some- thing new, A strange sensation which she must partake Perforce, since whatsoever met her view Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, still true, 325 Brought back the sense of pain without the cause. For, for a while, the furies made a pause. She looked on many a face with vacant eye. On many a token, without knowing what ; She saw them watch her, without asking why, 330 And recked not who around her pillow sat: Not speechless, though she spoke not; not a sigh Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 335 DON JUAN 613 Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not ; Her father watched, she turned her eyes away; She recognized no being, and no spot. However dear, or cherished in their day; They changed from room to room, but all forgot, 340 Gentle, but without memory, she lay; At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning Back to old thoughts, waxed full of fearful meaning. And then a slave bethought her of a harp; The harper came and tuned his instru- ment. 345 At the first notes, irregular and sharp. On him her flashing eyes a moment bent. Then to the wall she turned, as if to warp Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent ; 349 And he began a long low island song Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall, In time to his old tune: he changed the theme, And sung of love; the fierce name struck through all 3S4 Her recollection ; on her flashed the dream Of what she was, and is, if ye could call To be so being: in a gushing stream The tears rushed forth from her o'erclouded brain, Like mountain mists, at length dissolved in rain. Short solace, vain relief! — thought came too quick, 360 And whirled her brain to madness ; she arose. As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick. And flew at all she met, as on her foes; But no one ever heard her speak or shriek. Although her paroxysm drew towards its close : — 365 Hers was a frenzy which disdained to rave, i Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. Yet she betrayed at times a gleam of sense; Nothing could make her meet her father's face. Though on all other things with looks in- tense 370 She gazed, but none she ever could re- trace. Food she refused, and raiment ; no pretence Availed for either; neither change of place. Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her Senses to sleep — the power seemed gone forever. 37s Twelve days and nights she withered thus; at last, Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show A parting pang, the spirit from her past: And they who watched her nearest, could not know 379 The very instant, till the change that cast Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — Oh! to possess such luster — and then lack! Thus lived — thus died she; never more on her Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made 385 Through years or moons the inner weight to bear. Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth ; her days and pleasures were Brief but delightful — such as had not stayed 389 Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell. The isle is now all desolate and bare. Its dwellings down, its tenants passed away ; None but her own and father's grave is there, 394 And nothing outward tells of human clay: Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair. No stone is there to show, no tongue to say What was : no dirge, except the hollow sea's, ^lourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 399 (1821) PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822) Shelley was the son of a eoiiutry squire of large means wliose utter inability to comprehend the nature of his son's convictions was an imi)ortant factor in the hitter's history. At lilton ' mad Shelley ' became unpopular with the older boys for heading an insurrection against the school system of ' fagging,' and he had not been long at Uni- versity College, Oxford, when he was expelled for circulating a revolufionary tract entitled The A'ecessity of Atheism. He was only nineteen when out of fancied chivalry he married Harriet Westbrooke, a school girl of sixteen, much below him in social station. Angered by the first indiscretion, his father was permanently estranged by the second. These two children set off for Dublin, Shelley writing to a friend, ' We go to forward as much as we can the Catholic Emancipation.' Before setting out for the scene of destiny he had printed an Address to the Irish People, which he now published by dropping it from windows upon such passers-by as ' looked likely.' Shelley's ingenuous faith that men needed only to be shown the truth in order to follow it was doomed to cruel disillusion. For two or three years he wandered about the British Isles pushing his propaganda of freedom, and prosecuting irregular studies in philosophy and literature. Ilis friend Hogg declared that a splendid library might have been formed out of the books which Shelley left scattered about the three kingdoms. In 1814, he separated from Harriet and. soon after, be fell passionately in love with Mary Godwin, daughter of the author of Political Jus- tice. The feeling was returned and consistently with the tenets of all concerned, except Harriet and Shelley's father, Mary became his mate. Two years later, the wife whom he had abandoned ended her life by drowning. How far Shelley should be held culpable for this unhappy event is a moot point with his biographers. In 1818, he permanently left England for Italy, partially on account of his health and partially out of a fear lest the Lord Chancellor, who had already removed from his custody the children of his first marriage, might pass a similar judgment in regard to those of the second. In Italy, for more reasons than one can pause to enumerate, Shelley's genius flowered; but only four years of it remained. Setting out in a small sailing boat he was overtaken by a squall in the bay of Lerici. A few days later his body was found imbedded in the sand of the shore. In one pocket of his jacket was a volume of Sophocles and in the other a volume of Keats, ' doubled back as if the reader, in the act of reading, had hastily thrust it away.' A narration of the bare acts of Shelley's life leaves an impression of waywardness which is not altogether misleading. Those who were competent to judge agreed that his impulses were noble and high, that a purer spirit never breathed ; but he suffered and made others suffer because he would not bind himself to the code by which society lives. To the common run of his contemporaries he was a fanatical monster; to many since it has seemed that his sufferings and errors were the fault of an irrationally organized world and that he himself belonged to a 'crowning race' of which he was 'a noble type, appearing ere the time was ripe.' All of Shelley's poetry of importance was written after he met Mary Godwin. Queen Mab (1813) was a frantic poetical drama interesting only for its revolutionary doctrines. His genius first declared itself in Alastor (1815), and passages of great promise are scattered through his enormous revolutionary document. The Revolt of Islam (1817). But in Italy he matured with astonishing rapidity. To the year 1819 belonged Prometheus Unbound, his totally different Ccnci which some critics regard as the most distinguished poetical tragedy since the Elizabethans, and numerous fine lyrics, including the Ode to the West Wind. The year 1820 was notable chiefly for its lyrics. To a Skylark among them. In 1821, besides Epipsychidiow, Adonais, and Hellas, came some of the most poignant of the short lyrics. The Triumph of Life was uncompleted when Shelley set out to sea on Monday, July 8, 1822. No one can estimate Shelley for us but ourselves. This is true of all poetry, but preemi- nently so of Shelley's because it is so preeminently poetical. When it is best it has little intellectual content. We do not, narrowly speaking, learn anything from Shelley; we surrender to an element. 614 HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY 615 HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY The awful shadow of some unseen Power Floats though unseen amongst us, — visit- ing 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 starlight 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 all thou dost shine upon Of human thought or form, — where art thou gone? 15 Why dost thou pass away and leave our state, This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and deso- late? 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 25 To sage or poet these responses given — Therefore the names of Daemon, Ghost, and Heaven, Remain the records of their vain endeavor. Frail spells — whose uttered charm might not avail to sever, From all we hear and all we see, 30 Doubt, chance, and mutability. 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, Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art, 40 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 To thee and thine — have I not kept the vow ? 62 With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now I call the phantoms of a thousand hours Each from his voiceless grave: they have in visioned bowers 65 Of studious zeal or love's delight Outwatched 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 luster in its sky, 75 6i6 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 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. (1819) OZYMANDIAS I met a traveler 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 com- mand, s Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, (stamped on these life- less things,) The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear : 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings; 1° 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. (1819) STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright. Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent might. The breath of the moist earth is light, 5 Around its unexpanded buds : Like many a voice of one delight. The winds, the birds, the ocean floods. The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. I see the Deep's untrampled floor 1° With green and purple seaweeds strown : I see the waves upon the shore. Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown : I sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noontide ocean '5 Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion. How sweet ! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas ! I have nor hope nor health. Nor peace within nor calm around, 1° Nor that content surpassing wealth The sage in meditation found. And walked with inward glory crowned — Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround — 25 Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; — To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, 30 And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear. Till death like sleep might steal on me. And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 35 Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. Some might lament that I were cold. As, I when this sweet day is gone. Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan; 40 They might lament — for I am one Whom men love not, — and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set. Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. 45 (1842) PROMETHEUS UNBOUND, ACT IV Scene, a Part of the Forest Near the Cave of Prometheus. Panthea and loNE are sleeping. They awaken gradually during the first song. Voice of Unseen Spirits The pale stars are gone ! For the sun, their swift shepherd. To their folds them compelling, In the depths of the dawn. Hastes, in meteor-eclipsing array, and they flee Beyond his blue dwelling. As fawns flee the leopard. But where are ye? PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 617 A train of dark Forms and Shadows passes They shake with emotion, by confusedly, singing. They dance in their mirth. Here, oh, here: But where are ye? We bear the bier 10 Of the Father of many a canceled year! The pine boughs are singing. Specters we Old songs with new gladness, 50 Of the dead Hours be, The billows and fountains We bear Time to his tomb in eternity Fresh music are flinging. Like the notes of a spirit from land and Strew, oh, strew IS from sea ; Hair, not yew ! The storms mock the mountains Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew With the thunder of gladness. 55 Be the faded flowers But where are ye? Of Death's bare bowers Spread on the corpse of the King of Hours ! lone. What charioteers are these? Panthea. Where are their Haste, oh, haste! 21 chariots? As shades are chased, Trembling, by day, from heaven's bl ue Semichorus of Hours waste. The voice of the Spirits of Air and of We melt away, Earth Like dissolving spray. 25 Have drawn back the figured curtain of From the children of a diviner day, sleep 60 With the lullaby Which covered our being and darkened our Of winds that die birth On the bosom of their own harmony! In the deep. lone A Voice What dark forms were they? 30 In the deep? Panthea Semichorus II The past Hours weak and gray. Oh! below the deep. With the spoil which their toil Raked together Semichorus I From the conquest but One could foil. An hundred ages we had been kept 65 Cradled in visions of hate and care, lone And each one who waked as his brother Have they past? 35 slept, Found the truth — Panthea They have past; Semichorus II They outspeeded the blast, Worse than his visions were! While 'tis said, they are fled: Semichorus I lone We have heard the lute of Hope in sleep; Whither, oh, whither ? We have known the voice of Love in dreams, 7' Panthea We have felt the wand of Power, and To the dark, to the past, to the dead. 40 leap — Voice of Unseen Spirits Semichorus I Bright clouds float in heaven. Dew-stars gleam on earth, As the billows leap in the morning beams ! Waves assemble on ocean. They are gathered and driven Chorus By the storm of delight, by the panic of Weave the dance on the floor of the glee! 45 breeze, Gil PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Pierce with song heaven's silent light, Enchant the day that too swiftly flees, 76 To check its flight ere the cave of night. Once the hungry Hours were hounds Which chased the day like a bleeding deer, And it limped and stumbled with many wounds 80 Through the nightly dells of the desert year. But now, oh, weave the mystic measure Of music and dance, and shapes of light. Let the Hours, and the spirits of might and pleasure. Like the clouds and sunbeams, unite. 85 A Voice Unite ! Panthea. See, where the spirits of the human mind Wrapt in sweet sounds, as in bright veils, approach. Chorus of Spirits We join the throng Of the dance and the song, 90 By the whirlwind of gladness borne along: As the flying-fish leap From the Indian deep. And mix with the sea-birds, half asleep. Chorus of Hours Whence come ye, so wild and so fleet, 95 For sandals of lightning are on your feet, And your wings are soft and swift as thought. And your eyes are as love which is veiled not? Chorus of Spirits We come from the mind Of human kind loo Which was late so dusk, and obscene, and blind. Now 't is an ocean Of clear emotion, A heaven of serene and mighty motion; From that deep abyss los Of wonder and bliss. Whose caverns are crystal palaces; From these skiey towers Where Thought's crowned powers Sit watching your dance, ye happy Hours! From the dim recesses 'i' Of woven caresses. Where lovers catch ye by your loose tresses ; From the azure isles ; Where sweet Wisdom smiles, "5 Delaying your ships with her siren wiles. From the temples high Of Man's ear and eye. Roofed over Sculpture and Poesy; From the murmurings Of the unsealed springs J21 Where Science bedews his Daedal wings. Years after years. Through blood and tears, And a thick hell of hatreds, and hopes, and fears; 125 We waded and flew And the islets were few Where the bud-blighted flowers of happiness grew. Our feet now, every palm. Are sandaled with calm, 130 And the dew of our wings is a rain of balm ; And, beyond our eyes, The human love lies Which makes all it gazes on Paradise. Chorus of Spirits and Hours Then weave the web of the mystic measure; i35 From the depths of the sky and the ends of the earth, Come, swift Spirits of might and of pleasure. Fill the dance and the music of mirth. As the waves of a thousand streams rush by 139 To an ocean of splendor and harmony! Chorus of Spirits Our spoil is won. Our task is done. We are free to dive, or soar, or run; Beyond and around, Or within the bound '45 Which clips the world with darkness round. We '11 pass the eyes Of the starry skies Into the hoar deep to colonize: Death, Chaos, and Night, >so From the sound of our flight. Shall flee, like mist from a tempest's might. PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 619 And Earth, Air, and Light, And the Spirit of Might, Which drives round the stars in their fiery- flight; '55 And Love, Thought, and Breath, The powers that quell Death, Wherever we soar shall assemWe beneath. And our singing shall build In the void's loose field 160 A world for the Spirit of Wisdom to wield; We will take our plan From the new world of man. And our work shall be called the Pro- methean. Chorus of Hours Break the dance, and scatter the song; 165 Let some depart, and some remain. Semichorus I We, beyond heaven, are driven along! Semichorus II Us the enchantments of earth retain; Semichorus I Ceaseless, and rapid, and fierce and free, With the Spirits which build a new earth and sea, 17° And a heaven where yet heaven could never be. Semichorus II Solemn, and slow, and serene and bright, Leading the Day and outspeeding the Night, With the powers of a world of perfect light. Semichorus I We whirl, singing loud, round the gather- ing sphere, ^^i Till the trees, and the beasts, and the clouds appear From its chaos made calm by love, not fear. Semichorus II We encircle the ocean and mountains of earth, 178 And the happy forms of its death and birth Change to the music of our sweet mirth. Chorus of Hours and Spirits Break the dance, and scatter the song. Let some depart, and some remain. Wherever we fly we lead along, In leashes, like starbeams, soft yet strong. The clouds that are heavy with love's sweet rain. 185 Panthea. Ha! they are gone! lone. Yet feel you no delight From the past sweetness? Panthea. As the bare green hill When some soft cloud vanishes into rain. Laughs with a thousand drops of sunny water 191 To the unpavilioned sky ! lone. Even whilst we speak New notes arise. What is that awful sound ? Panthea. 'T is the deep music of the roll- ing world Kindling within the strings of the waved air, 196 ^olian modulations. lone. Listen too, How every pause is filled with under notes. Clear, silver, icy, keen, awakening tones. Which pierce the sense, and live within the soul, 201 As the sharp stars pierce winter's crystal air And gaze upon themselves within the sea. Panthea. But see where through two openings in the forest Which hanging branches overcanopy, 205 And where two runnels of a rivulet, Between the close moss violet-inwoven. Have made their path of melody, like sisters Who part with sighs that they may meet in smiles, Turning their dear disunion to an isle 210 Of lovely grief, a wood of sweet sad thoughts ; Two visions of strange radiance float upon The ocean-like enchantment of strong sound. Which flows intenser, keener, deeper yet Under the ground and through the wind- less air, 215 lone. I see a chariot like that thinnest boat, In which the mother of the months is borne By ebbing night into her western cave. When she upsprings from interlunar dreams, 219 O'er which is curved an orblike canopy Of gentle darkness, and the hills and woods Distinctly seen through that dusk airy veil. Regard like shapes in an enchanter's glass ; Its wheels are solid clouds, azure and gold. 620 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Such as the genii of the thunderstorm 225 Pile on the floor of the illumined sea When the sun rushes under it ; they roll And move and grow as with an inward wind ; Within it sits a winged infant, white Its countenance, like the whiteness of bright snow, 230 Its plumes are as feathers of sunny frost. Its limbs gleam white, through the wind flowing folds Of its white robe, woof of ethereal pearl. Its hair is white, the brightness of white light Scattered in strings; yet its two eyes are heavens 235 Of liquid darkness, which the Deity Within seems pouring, as a storm is poured From jagged clouds, out of their arrowy lashes. Tempering the cold and radiant air around, With fire that is not brightness : in its hand 240 It sways a quivering moonbeam, from whose point A guiding power directs the chariot's prow Over its wheeled clouds, which as they roll Over the grass, and flowers, and waves, wake sounds. Sweet as a singing rain of silver dew. Panthea. And from the other opening in the wood 246 Rushes, with loud and whirlwind harmony, A sphere, which is as many thousand spheres. Solid as crystal, yet through all its mass Flow, as through empty space, music and light : 250 Ten thousand orbs involving and involved. Purple and azure, white, and green, and golden. Sphere within sphere; and every space be- tween Peopled with unimaginable shapes, Such as ghosts dream dwell in the lamp- less deep, 25s Yet each inter-transpicuous, and they whirl Over each other with a thousand motions. Upon a thousand sightless axles spinning. And with the force of self-destroying swift- ness. Intensely, slowly, solemnly roll on, 260 Kindling with mingled sounds, and many tones. Intelligible words and music wild. With mighty whirl the multitudinous orb Grinds the bright brook into an azure mist Of elemental subtlety ; like light : 265 And the wild odor of the forest flowers, The music of the living grass and air. The emerald light of leaf-cntangled beams Round its intense yet self-conflicting speed. Seem kneaded into one aerial mass 270 Which drowns the sense. Within the orb itself. Pillowed upon its alabaster arms, Like to a child o'erwearied with sweet toil, On its own folded wings, and wavy hair. The Spirit of the Earth is laid asleep, 275 And you can see its little lips are moving. Amid the changing light of their own smiles. Like one who talks of what he loves in dream. lone. 'T is only mocking the orb's har- mony. Panthea. And from a star upon its fore- head, shoot, 280 Like swords of azure fire, or golden spears With tyrant-quelling myrtle overtwined. Embleming heaven and earth united now. Vast beams like spokes of some invisible wheel Which whirl as the orb whirls, swifter than thought, 28s Filling the abyss with sun-like lightenings. And perpendicular now, and now trans- verse. Pierce the dark soil, and as they pierce and pass. Make bare the secrets of the earth's deep heart ; Infinite mine of adamant and gold, 290 Valueless stones, and unimagined gems, And caverns on crystalline columns poised With vegetable silver overspread ; Wells of unfathomed fire, and water springs Whence the great sea, even as a child is fed, 295 Whose vapors clothe earth's monarch moun- tain-tops With kingly ermine snow. The beams flash on And make appear the melancholy ruins Of canceled cycles ; anchors, beaks of ships ; Planks turned to marble; quivers, helms, and spears, 300 ,And gorgon-headed targes, and the wheels Of scythed chariots and the emblazonry Of trophies, standards, and armorial beasts. Round which death laughed, sepulchred emblems Of dead destruction, ruin within ruin! 305 PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 621 The wrecks beside of many a city vast, Whose population which the earth grew over Was mortal, but not human; see, they lie, Their monstrous works, and uncouth skeletons. Their statues, homes and fanes: prodigious shapes 310 Huddled in gray annihilation, split, Jammed in the hard, black deep; and over these. The anatomies of unknown winged things, And fishes which were isles of living scale, And serpents, bony chains, twisted around The iron crags, or within heaps of dust 316 To which the tortuous strength of their last pangs Had crushed the iron crags : and over these The jagged alligator, and the might Of earth-convulsing behemoth, which once Were monarch beasts, and on the slimy shores, 321 And weed-overgrown continents of earth, Increased and multiplied like summer worms On an abarrdoned corpse, till the blue globe Wrapt deluge round it like a cloak, and they 32s Yelled, gasped, and were abolished; or some God Whose throne was in a comet, passed, and cried. Be not ! And like my words they were no more. The Earth The joy, the triumph, the delight, the mad- ness ! The boundless, overflowing, bursting glad- ness, 330 The vaporous exultation not to be con- fined ! Ha ! ha ! the animation of delight Which wraps me, like an atmosphere of light. And bears me as a cloud is borne by its own wind. The Moon Brother mine, calm wanderer, 335 Happy globe of land and air. Some Spirit is darted like a beam from thee. Which penetrates my frozen frame. And passes with the warmth of flame, With love, and odor, and deep melody 340 Through me, through me! The Earth Ha ! ha ! the caverns of my hollow mountains. My cloven fire-crags, sound-exulting foun- tains. Laugh with a vast and inextinguishable laughter. The oceans, and the deserts, and the abysses, 345 And the deep air's unmeasured wilder- nesses, Answer from all their clouds and billows, echoing after. They cry aloud as I do. Sceptered curse. Who all our green and azure universe Threatenedst to mufifle round with black de- struction, sending 3So A solid cloud to rain hot thunderstones. And splinter and knead down my chil- dren's bones. All I bring forth, to one void mass, bat- tering and blending. Until each crag-like tower, and storied column, 354 Palace, and obelisk, and temple solemn. My imperial mountains crowned with cloud, and snow, and fire ; My sea-like forests, every blade and blos- som Which finds a grave or cradle in my bosom, Were stamped by thy strong hate into a life- less mire. How art thou sunk, withdrawn, covered, drunk up 360 By thirsty nothing, as the brackish cup Drained by a desert-troop, a little drop for all; And from beneath, around, within, above, Filling thy void annihilation, love Burst in like light on caves cloven by the thunder-ball 365 The Moon The snow upon my lifeless mountains Is loosened into living fountains, My solid oceans flow, and sing, and shine: A spirit from my heart bursts forth. It clothes with unexpected birth 370 My cold bare bosom : Oh ! it must be thine On mine, on mine ! Gazing on thee I feel, I know Green stalks burst forth, and bright flowers grow, 622 PERCY BYSSIIE SHELLEY And living shapes upon my bosom move : Music is in the sea and air, 376 Winged clouds soar here and there, Dark with the rain new buds are dreaming of: 'T is love, all love ! The Earth It interpenetrates my granite mass, 380 Through tangled roots and trodden clay doth pass, Into the utmost leaves and delicatest flowers ; Upon the winds, among the clouds 't is spread. It wakes a life in the forgotten dead. They breathe a spirit up from their obscurest bowers, 38s And like a storm bursting its cloudy and with whirlwind, has caves of unimagined prison With thund arisen Out of the lamplei being: With earthquake shock and swiftness making shiver Thought's stagnant chaos, unremoved for ever, 39° Till hate, and fear, and pain, light-van- quished shadows, fleeing, Leave Man, who was a many-sided mir- ror, Which could distort to many a shape of error, This true fair world of things, a sea re- flecting love ; Which over all his kind as the sun's heaven 395 Gliding o'er ocean, smooth, serene and even Darting from starry depths radiance and life, doth move, ' Leave Man, even as a leprous child is left, Who follows a sick beast to some warm cleft Of rocks, through which the might of heal- ing springs is poured ; 400 Then when it wanders home with rosy smile. Unconscious, and its mother fears awhile It is a spirit, then, weeps on her child re- stored — Man, oh, not men ! a chain of linked thought. Of love and might to be divided not, 405 Compelling the elements with adamantine stress ; As the sun rules, even with a tyrant's gaze, The unquiet republic of the maze Of planets, struggling fierce towards heaven's free wilderness — Man, one harmonious soul of many a soul, 410 Whose nature is its own divine control, Where all things flow to all, as rivers to the sea ; Familiar acts are beautiful through love ; Labor, and pain, and grief, in life's green ' grove Sport like tame beasts, none knew how gentle they could be! 4>5 His will, with all mean passions, bad de- lights, And selfish cares, its trembling satel- lites, A spirit ill to guide, but mighty to obey. Is as a tempest-winged ship whose helm Love rules, through waves which dare not overwhelm, 4-0 Forcing life's wildest shores to own its sovereign sway. All things confess his strength. Through the cold mass Of marble and of color his dreams pass; Bright threads whence mothers weave the robes their children wear ; 4^5 Language is a perpetual orphic song. Which rules with Daedal harmony a throng Of thoughts and forms, which else sense- less and shapeless were. The lightning is his slave; heaven's ut- most deep Gives up her stars, and like a flock of sheep 430 They pass before his eyes, are numbered, and roll on ! The tempest is his steed, he strides the air; And the abyss shouts from her depth laid bare, Heaven, hast thou secrets? Man unveils me; I have none. The Moon The shadow of white death has past 435 From my path in heaven at last, A clinging shroud of solid frost and sleep; And through my newly-woven bowers, PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 623 Wander happy paramours, Less mighty, but as mild as those who keep Thy vales more deep. 441 The Earth As the dissolving warmth of dawn may fold A half unfrozen dew-globe, green and gold, And crystalline, till it becomes a winged mist. And wanders up the vault of the blue day, Outlives the noon, and on the sun's last ray 446 Hangs o'er the sea, a fleece of fire and amethyst. The Moon Thou art folded, thou art lying In the light which is undying. Of thine own joy, and heaven's smile divine; All suns and constellations shower 451 On thee a light, a life, a power Which doth array thy sphere; thou poorest thine On mine, on mine! The Earth ' I spin beneath my pyramid of night, Which points into the heavens dreaming delight. Murmuring victorious joy in my enchanted sleep; 457 As a youth lulled in love-dreams faintly sighing, Under the shadows of his beauty lying, Which round his rest a watch of light and warmth doth keep. 460 The Moon As in the soft and sweet eclipse, When soul meets soul on lovers' lips. High hearts are calm, and brightest eyes are dull ; So when thy shadow falls on me. Then am I mute and still, by thee 46s Covered : of thy love, Orb most beautiful. Full, oh, too full! Thou art speeding round the sun, Brightest world of many a one; Green and azure sphere which shinest 47° With a light which is divinest Among all the lamps of Heaven To whom light and life is given; I, thy crystal paramour, Borne beside thee by a power 475 Like the polar Paradise, Magnet-like of lovers' eyes; L a most enamored maiden Whose weak brain is overladen With the pleasure of her love, 480 Maniac-like around thee move Gazing, an insatiate bride, On thy form from every side Like a Maenad, round the cup Which Agave lifted up 48s In the weird Cadmeian forest. Brother, wheresoe'er thou soarest I must hurry, whirl and follow Through the heavens wide and hollow. Sheltered by the warm embrace 490 Of thy soul from hungry space. Drinking from thy sense and sight Beauty, majesty, and might. As a lover or chameleon Grows like what it looks upon, 495 As a violet's gentle eye Gazes on the azure sky Until its hue grows like what it beholds, As a gray and watery mist Glows like solid amethyst soo Athwart the western mountain it enfolds. When the sunset sleeps Upon its snow. The Earth And the weak day weeps That it should be so. 5os Oh, gentle Moon, the voice of thy delight Falls on me like thy clear and tender light Soothing the seaman, borne the summer night. Through isles for ever calm ; Oh, gentle Moon, thy crystal accents pierce 5«o The caverns of my pride's deep universe, Charming the tiger joy, whose tramplings fierce Made wounds which need thy balm. Panthea. I rise as from a bath of spark- ling water, A bath of azure light, among dark rocks, 51s Out of the stream of sound. lone. Ah me ! sweet sister, The stream of sound has ebbed away from us. And you pretend to rise out of its wave. Because your words fall like the clear, soft dew 5^0 Shaken from a bathing wood-nymph's limbs and hair. Panthea. Peace ! peace ! A mighty Pow- er, which is as darkness. Is rising out of Earth, and from the sky 624 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Is showered like night, and from within the air Bursts, like eclipse which had been gath- ered up 525 Into the pores of sunlight: the bright vis- ions, Wherein the singing spirits rode and shone, Gleam like pale meteors through a watery night. lone. There is a sense of words upon mine ear. Panthca. An universal sound like words: Oh, list! 530 Dcmogorgon Thou, Earth, calm empire of a happy soul, Sphere of divinest shapes and harmonies, Beautiful orb! gathering as thou dost roll The love which paves thy path along the skies : S34 The Earth I hear: I am as a drop of dew that dies. Demogorgon Thou, Moon, which gazest on the nightly Earth With wonder, as it gazes upon thee ; Whilst each to men, and beasts, and the swift birth Of birds, is beauty, love, calm, harmony: The Moon I hear: I am a leaf shaken by thee! 540 Demogorgon Ye kings of suns and stars. Demons and Gods, Ethereal Dominations, who possess Elysian, windless, fortunate abodes Beyond Heaven's constellated wilderness : A Voice from above Our great Republic hears, we are blest, and bless. Deynogorgon Ye happy dead, whom beams of brightest verse Are clouds to hide, not colors to portray. Whether your nature is that universe Which once ye saw and suffered — A Voice from beneath Or as they Whom we have left, we change and pass away. 551 Demogorgon Ye elemental Genii, who have homes From man's high mind even to the cen- tral stone Of sullen lead; from PIcaven's star-fretlcd domes To the dull weed some sea-worm battens on : 5.S.S A confused Voice We hear : thy words waken Oblivion. Demogorgon Spirits, whose homes are flesh : ye beasts and birds, Ye worms, and fish ; ye living leaves and buds ; Lightning and wind ; and ye untamable herds, Meteors and mists, which throng air's solitudes: — 560 A Voice Thy voice to us is wind among still woods. Demogorgon Man, who wert once a despot and a slave; j A dupe and a deceiver; a decay; ' A traveler from the cradle to the grave Through the dim night of this immortal day: 565 All Speak; thy strong words may never pass away. Demogorgon This is the day, which down the void abysm At the Earth-horn's spell yawns for Heaven's despotism. And Conquest is dragged captive through the deep: Love, from its awful throne of patient power 570 In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour Of dead endurance, from the slippery, steep, \ And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs .\nd folds over the world its healing wings. Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endur- ance, 575 ODE TO THE WEST WIND 625 These are the seals of that most firm as- surance Which bars the pit over Destruction's strength ; And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, Mother of many acts and hours, should free The serpent that would clasp her with his length ; 580 These are the spells by which to reassume An empire o'er the disentangled doom. To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite; To forgive wrongs darker than death or night ; To defy Power, which seems omnipotent ; To love, and bear; to hope till Hope cre- ates 586 From its own wreck the thing it contem- plates ; Neither to change, nor falter, nor re- pent ; This, like thy glory. Titan, is to be Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free; This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Vic- tory. 591 (1820) ODE TO THE WEST WIND O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Au- tumn'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, 5 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 [ Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed m air) With living hues and odors plain and hill : 1 Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; ) Destroyer and preserver; hear, O, hear! Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's conmiotion, 15 T.oose clouds like 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 Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge 21 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 sepulcher, 25 \'aulted with all thy congregated might Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst : O, hear! Ill 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 flow- ers 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: O, hear! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 626 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45 The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O, uncontrollable! If even 1 were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven. As then, when to outstrip thy skicy speed 5" 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 like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. 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, 6i 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 man- kind ! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy ! O, wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far be- hind ? 70 (1820) 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 arc shining bright : I arise from dreams of thee, 5 And a spirit in my feet Hath led me — who knows how? To thy chamber wmdow. Sweet ! The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream — The Cbami)ak odors fail Like sweet ihoughls in a dream; The nightingale's complaint. It dies upon her heart; — As I must on thine, O! beloved as thou art I lift me from the grass! 1 die! I faint! I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. 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. (1822) THE CLOUD I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flow- ers. 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, '5 While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bow- ers. 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 purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. Over the lakes and the plains. -6 Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, TO A SKYLARK 627 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 3° 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, 3S 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 ardors of rest and of love, 4° 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, 4S Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. Which only the angels hear, so 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, 55 Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 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 ; 6° The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 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. j 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-colored bow ; 70 The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. While the moist earth was laughing be- low. I am the daughter of earth and water. And the nursling 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 pavilion 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 ram. Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. (1820) TO A SKYLARK Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert. That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. S 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. 10 In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun. O'er which clouds are brightning, Thou dost float and run ; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just be- gun. IS The pale purple even 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. All the earth and air ^6 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 628 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Drops so bright to see With thy clear keen joyance As from thy presence showers a rain of Languor cannot be — melody. 35 Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Like a poet hidden Thou lovest — but ne'er knew love's sad In the hght of thought, satiety. 80 Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought Waking or asleep. To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded Thou of death must deem not : 40 Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Like a high-born maiden Or how could thy notes flow in such a crys- In a palace tower, tal stream? 85 Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour We look before and after With music sweet as love, which overflows And pine for what is not: her bower: 45 Our sinccrest laughter With some pain is fraught ; Like a glow-worm golden Our sweetest songs are those that tell of In a dell of dew, saddest thought. 90 Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Yet if we could scorn Among the flowers and grass which screen Hate, and pride, and fear; it from the view: so If we were things born Not to shed a tear. Like a rose embowered I know not how thy joy we ever should In its own green leaves. come near. 95 By warm winds deflowered. Till the scent it gives Better than all measures Makes faint with too much sweet these Of delightful sound — heavy-winged thieves. 55 Better than all treasures That in books are found — Sound of vernal showers Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the On the twinkling grass. ground ! 100 Rain-awakened flowers. All that ever was Teach me half the gladness Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth That thy brain must know. surpass. 60 Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, Teach us, sprite or bird, The world should listen then — as I am lis- What sweet thoughts are thine; tening now. 105 I have never heard (1820) Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so di- vine : 6s Chorus Hymenaeal, A LAMENT Or triumphal chaunt. Matched with thine, would be all world! life! time! But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hid- On whose last steps I climb Trembling at that where I had stood be- den want. 70 fore ; When will return the glory of your prime? What objects are the fountains No more — Oh, never more ! 5 Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? Out of the day and night What shapes of sky or plain? A joy has taken flight ; What love of thine own kind? what igno- Fresh spring, and summer, and winter rance of pain? 75 hoar. ADONAIS 629 Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more — Oh, never more! 10 (1824) TO Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory — Odors, 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. (1824) 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 compeers, 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, in her Paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamored breath, 'S 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 ! 20 Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning 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 amor- ous 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 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 sub- lime. 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 ! so 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 over- past. 630 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY To that high Capital, where kingly Death ss Keeps his pale court in beauty and de- cay, He came ; and bought, with price of purest breath, A grave among the eternal. — Come away! Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while still He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; 6' 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, 6s The shadow of white Death, and at the door Invisible Corruption waits to trace His extreme way to her dim dwelling- place ; The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to de- face 70 So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw. O, weep for Adonais ! — The quick Dreams, The passion-winged Ministers of thought. Who were his flocks, whom near the liv- ing streams 7S 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, ^0 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 moonlight wings, and cries : * Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead ; 84 See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, 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 't was her own ; as with no stain She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. 9o One from a lucid urn of starry dew Washed his light limbs 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. Another Splendor on his mouth alit, 100 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 lightning and with music : the damp death Quenched its caress upon his icy lips ; los And, as a dymg meteor stains a wreath Of moonlight vapor, which the cold night clips, It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse. And others came . . . Desires and Adorations, Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies, Splendors, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations m Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phanta- sies ; ' And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, I And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam , Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, Came in slow pomp ; — the moving pomp | might seem 116 Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. All mto he had loved, and molded thought, From shape, and hue, and odor, and sweet sound, Lamented Adonais. Morning sought «2o Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound. ADONAIS 631 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, ^i° 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 all sounds; — a drear Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear. i35 Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, i Or they dead leaves ; since her delight is i flown, , For whom should she have waked the sul- len year? To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear 140 Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both Thou, Adonais : wan they stand and sere I Amid the faint companions of their youth. With dew all turned to tears; odor, to sigh- ing ruth. Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale, Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain; 146 I Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale j Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's I domain I Her mighty youth with morning, doth ! complain, , Soaring and screaming round her empty I nest, 150 ' As Albion wails for thee: the curse of ! Cain I Light on his head who pierced thy inno- I cent 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; >56 The ants, the bees, the swallows reap- pear; Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons' bier ; The amorous birds now pair in 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 life from the Earth's heart has burst, 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; DifiFuse 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 splen- dor Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death 17s 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? — the 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! 632 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene The actors or spectators? Great and mean '^s Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow. 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 Misery, ' childless Mother, rise '9i 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, And all the Echoes whom their sister's song "95 Had held in holy silence, cried : ' Arise ! ' Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung. From her ambrosial rest the fading Splen- dor sprung. She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs Out of the East, and follows wild and drear 200 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 ; So saddened round her like an atmos- phere 20s 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 210 Yielding not, wounded the invisible 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 re- pel, 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 Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight. 221 ' 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, 229 With food of saddest memory kept alive, Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 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 filled 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 wings rain contagion ; — how they fled, When like Apollo, from his golden bow. The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 250 ADONAIS 633 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, ^ss And the immortal stars awake again ; So is it in the world of living men : A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light -6° 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, I And love taught grief to fall like music I from his tongue. 270 1 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, Actason-like, and now he fled astray -76 With feeble steps o'er the world's wilder- ness. And his own thoughts, along that rugged way. Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey. A pardlikc Spirit beautiful and swift — 280 A Love in desolation masked; — a Power Girt round with weakness ; — it can scarce uplift The weight of the superincumbent hour ; . It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, A breaking billow ; — even whilst we speak 285 Is it not broken ? On the withering flower The killing sun 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 ever-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 299 Who in another's fate now wept his own ; As, in the accents of an unknown land. 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 like Cain's or Christ's — Oh! that it should be so! What 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 heavy heart heaving without a moan ? If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, Taught, soothed, loved, honored the de- parted one. Let me not vex with inharmonious sighs The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. 315 Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh ! What deaf and viperous murderer could crown Life's early cup with such a draught of woe? The nameless worm would now itself dis- own : It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 320 634 PERCY BYSSHK SHELLEY 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 unstrung. Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame! Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me, 3_.6 Thou noteless blot on a remembered name ! But be thyself, and know thyself to be ! And ever at thy season be thou free To spill 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, A portion of the Eternal, which must glow 340 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 life — 'T is we who, lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, 346 And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings. — IVe decay Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief Convulse 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 ; Envy and calumny and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall de- light. Can touch him not and torture not again ; From the contagion of the world's slow stain 356 He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain ; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn. With sparklcss ashes load an unlamentcd urn. 360 He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, not he ; Alourn not for Adonais. — Thou young Dawn, Turn all thy dew to splendor, for from thee The spirit thou lamentest is not gone ; Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan I Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air, 366 Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair! He is made one with Nature : there is heard 37o 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 lo ely : 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 the unwilling dross that checks its flight ADONAIS 635 To its own likeness, as each mass may- bear; 38s And bursting in its beauty and its might From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light. The splendors 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 mortal 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 approved : 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 in dazzling immortality. ' Thou art become as one of us,' they cry, 410 ' 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, 415 Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright. Clasp with thy panting soul the pendu- lous Earth ; As from a center, dart thy spirit's light Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might Satiate the void circumference: then shrink 4^o Even to a point w'ithin 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 sepulcher, O, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis naught 4^5 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 430 Who waged contention with their time's decay. 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 mountains 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, 44° A light of laughing tiowers along the grass is spread. And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand; And one keen pyramid with wedge sub- lime, 444 Pavilioning the dust of him who planned This refuge for his memory, doth stand 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 ex- tinguished breath. 450 Here pause : these graves are all too young as yet To have outgrown the sorrow which con- signed 636 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Its charge to each; and if the seal is set, Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind. Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou find 455 Thine own well full, if thou returnest home. Of tears and gall. From the world's bit- ter 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-colored glass. Stains the white radiance of Eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die, If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek! 465 Follow where all 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; 475 'T is Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither. No more let Life divide what Death can join together. That Light whose smile kindles the Universe, That Beauty in which all things work and move, That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse 480 Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love Which, 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 'i'iie 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 trem- bling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given ; 49° 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, Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. 495 (1821) 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, S Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. A brighter Hellas rears its mountains From waves serener far; A new Peneus rolls his fountains Against the morning-star. 1° Where fairer Tenipes bloom, there sleep Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. A loftier Argo cleaves the main. Fraught with a later prize ; Another Orpheus sings again, 'S 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! 2° 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, ^5 And to remoter time WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE 637 Bequeath, like sunset to the skies. The splendor 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, 3S 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! (1822) TO NIGHT Swiftly walk over 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, s Which make thee terrible and dear, — Swift be thy flight! Wrap thy form in a mantle gray. Star in-wrought! Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; 1° 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 ; When 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, 20 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, 25 Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me? — And I replied. No, not thee ! 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 ! (1824) 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 call 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? (1824) WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE Ariel to Miranda. — Take This slave of Music, for the sake Of him who is the slave of thee. And teach it all the harmony In which thou canst, and only thou. Make the delighted spirit glow, Till joy denies itself again, And, too intense, is turned to pain ; For by permission and command Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, Poor Ariel sends this silent token Of more than ever can be spoken; Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who. From life to life, must still pursue Your happiness ; — for thus alone Can Ariel ever find his own. From Prospero's enchanted cell, As the mighty verses tell, To the throne of Naples, he Lit you o'er the trackless sea. Flitting on, your prow before, Like a living meteor. When you die, the silent Moon, In her interlunar swoon. Is not sadder in her cell Than deserted Ariel. 638 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY When you live again on earth, Like an unseen star of birth, Ariel guides you o'er the sea Of life from your nativity. 30 Many changes have been run, Since Ferdinand and you begun Your course of love, and Ariel still Has tracked your steps, and served your will; Novir, in humbler, happier lot, 3S This is all remembered not; And now, alas ! the poor sprite is Imprisoned, for some fault of his, In a body like a grave; — From you he only dares to crave, 4o For his service and his sorrow, A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. The artist who this idol wrought, To echo all harmonious thought, Felled a tree, while on the steep 45 The woods were in their winter sleep. Rocked in that repose divine On the wind-swept Apennine ; And dreaming, some of Autumn past, And some of Spring approaching fast, so And some of April buds and showers. And some of songs in July bowers. And all of love; and so this tree, — Oh, that such our death may be ! — Died in sleep, and felt no pain, 55 To live in happier form again : From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star. The artist wrought this loved Guitar, And taught it justly to reply. To all who question skilfully, 60 In language gentle as thine own; Whispering in enamored tone Sweet oracles of woods and dells, And summer winds in sylvan cells; For it had learnt all harmonies 65 Of the plains and of the skies. Of the forests and the mountains, And the many-voiced fountains; The clearest echoes of the hills. The softest notes of falling rills, 7° The melodies of birds and bees. The murmuring of summer seas. And pattering rain, and breathing dew And airs of evening ; and it knew That seldom-heard mysterious sound, 75 Which, driven on its diurnal round. As it floats through boundless day. Our world enkindles on its way — All this it knows, but will not tell To those who cannot question well 80 The spirit that inhabits it ; It talks according to the wit Of its companions; and no more Is heard than has been felt before. By those who tempt it to betray 85 These secrets of an elder day: But sweetly as its answers will Flatter hands of perfect skill, It keeps its highest, holiest tone For our beloved Jane alone. 90 (1832-1833) LINES: WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead — When the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, 5 Sweet tones are remembered not ; When the lips have spoken. Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendor Survive not the lamp and the lute, «o The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute : — No song but sad dirges. Like the wind through a ruined cell. Or the mournful surges '5 That ring the dead seaman's knell. When hearts have once mingled Love first leaves the well-built nest. The weak one is singled To endure what it once possessed. 20 O Love ! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier? Its passions will rock thee -^s As the storms rock the ravens on high : Bright reason will mock thee. Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home 3o Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come. (1824) A DIRGE Rough wind, that meanest loud Grief too sad for song; Wild wind, when sullen cloud Knells all the night long; Sad storm, whose tears are vain, 5 Bare woods, whose branches strain, Deep caves and dreary main, Wail, for the world's wrong ! (1824) JOHN KEATS (1795-1821). Tbe parents of John Keats were living, at the time of his birth, at the Swan-and-Hoop stable iu Finsbury, London. As a boy Keats was a sturdy fellow, with a hoi temper, loud of lighting, fond of 'gold-finches, tomtits, minnows, mice, tickle-backs, dace, cock-salmons, and all the whole tribe of the bushes and the brooks.' It was toward the end of his school- days that he was set dreaming by Spenser's Faery Queen. He persevered, however, in his medical studies, passed his surgeon's examination with credit in 1815, and proved a skilful operator. But he was excessively sensitive to the nervous strain incident to surgery and, also, he was pining for a poetic career, ' Like a sick eagle looking at tin- sky.' Early in 1816 he met Leigh Hunt and through him numerous poets and artists, includ- ing Shelley, Wordsworth, and the painter Haydon. Shelley took a lively interest in him and attempted to show him hospitality. Wordsworth, whom he admired highly, is said to have chilled him by remarking after Keats had recited his Hymn to Pan for the benelit of a company: 'A pretty piece of Paganism!' To Haydon he owed something of an initiation into art and an opportunity to lend thirty pounds. In May, 1810, Hunt pub- lished in his Examiner the sonnet ' O Solitude ! If I with thee must dwell.' and Keats had, so to speak, his first taste of blood. He now gave himself with increasing constancy to composition. His first volume came in March, 1817, and a year later Endymion. Chielly because of Keats's friendship with Hunt, who was hated for his political opinions, these earlier volumes were sneeringly reviewed. Though Keats was indignant, it was by no means, ' The Quarterly, so savage and tartarly ' that killed him. Partially from nursing his brother Tom through his last illness and partially, perhaps, from inherited susceptibility he became a victim of consumption. A few months snatched from the grave, harassed by insufficient means, ' the law's delay,' and ' the pangs of disprized love,' produced the more mature and discreet work which lies between Endymion and his last sonnet (' Bright Star would I were steadfast as thou art'), composed on shipboard as he was leaving for Italy to die. Brief as was Shelley's career, all his poems of real importance were written between his twenty-sixth and thirtieth years; the corresponding years Keats never knew. Yet his poetry is far more than the poetry of promise. Some of it is ' as final as Shakspere.' KEEN, FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHIS- PERING HERE AND THERE Keen, fitful gusts are whispering here and there Among the bushes half leafless, and dry; The stars look very cold about the sky, And I have many miles on foot to fare. Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air, 5 Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, Or of those silver lamps that burn on high. Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair : For I am brimful of the friendliness That in a little cottage I have found ; 'o Of fair-haired Milton's eloquent distress. And all his love for gentle Lycid drowned ; Of lovely Laura in her light green dress. And faithful Petrarch gloriously crowned. Ci8i6) ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAP- MAN'S HOMER Much have I traveled 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-browed Homer ruled as his de- mesne ; 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;'o Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific — and all his men Looked at each other with a wild sur- mise — Silent, upon a peak in Darien. (i8i6) 639 640 JOHN KEATS From ENDYMION. BOOK I A thing of beauty is a joy for ever : Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 5 Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreath- ing 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'cr-darkencd ways '0 Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all. Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon. Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep: and such are daffodils '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 We have imagined for the mighty dead; -' All lovely tales that we have heard or read : An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. Nor do we merely feel these essences 25 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. Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I Will trace the story of Endymion. 35 The very music of the name has gone Into my being, and each pleasant scene Is growing fresh before me as the green Of our own valleys: so I will begin Now while I cannot hear the city's din ; 40 Now while the early budders are just new, And run in mazes of the youngest hue About old forests; while the willow trails Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails Pifing home increase of milk. And, as the year 45 Crows lush in juicy stalks, I 'II smoothly steer My little boat, for many quiet hours. With streams that deepen freshly into bow- ers. Many and many a verse I hope to write, Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white, so Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the bees Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, I must be near the middle of my story. O may no wintry season, bare and hoary. See it half finished; but let Autumn bold, 55 With universal tinge of sober gold. Be all about me when I make an end. And now at once, adventuresome, I send My herald thought into a wilderness : There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress My uncertain path with green, that 1 may speed 61 Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed. (1818) THE EVE OF ST. AGNES St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limped 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. Seemed taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 10 His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meager, barefoot, wan. Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, 15 Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails : 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. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 641 Northward he turneth through a little door, i And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden : tongue -' I Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ; j But no — already had his deathbell rung; The joys of all his life were said and sung: I His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : I Another way he went, and soon among 26 ! Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, I And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake i to grieve. That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude j soft; And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, 30 j From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 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, 35 Stared where upon their heads the cornice rests. With hair blown back, and wings put cross- wise on their breasts. At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array. Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 40 The brain, new stuffed, in youth, with tri- umphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away. And turn, sole-thoughted, 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. 46 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 50 H ceremonies due they did aright; I As, supperless to bed they must retire, I And couch supine their beauties, lily white; j Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require I Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that ' they desire. 5S Full of this whim was thoughtful Made- j line; j The music, yearning like a God in pain, She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes di- vine, Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by — she heeded not at all: in vain <>o 41 Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. And back retired ; not cooled by high dis- dain, P)Ut she saw not : her heart was other- where : She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, 65 Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short : The hallowed hour was near at hand : she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the thronged re- sort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 7Q Hoodwinked with faery fancy ; all amort. 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 lingered still. Meantime, across the moors, 75 Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours, 80 That he might gaze and worship all un- seen ; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have been. He ventures in : let no buzzed whisper tell : All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous cita- del : 8s For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes. Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage: not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, 90 Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 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 95 The sound of merriment and chorus bland: 642 JOHN KEATS He startled her; but soon she knew his face, And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand, Saying, 'Mercy, Porphyro ! hie ihee from this place ; They are all here to-night, the whole blood- thirsty race! »oo Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hil- debrand ; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land : Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me! fiit! i°S Flit like a ghost away.' — ' Ah, Gossip dear. We 're safe enough ; here in this armchair sit. And tell me how ' — ' Good Saints ! not here, not here; 'Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.' He followed through a lowly arched way, "° Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; And as she muttered ' Well-a — well-a- day!' He found him in a little moonlight room, Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. ' Now tell me where is Madeline,' said he, 'O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 116 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: 120 Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 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 '^5 This very night; good angels her deceive! But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time to grieve.' Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, While Porphyro upon her face doth look. Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone >3o Who keepcth closed a wond'rous riddle- book, As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 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, '35 And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 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: '4' 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.' 145 ' I 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. If one of her soft ringlets I displace, Or look with ruffian passion in her face: iso Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; Or I will, even in a moment's space. Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears. And beard them, though they be more fanged than wolves and bears.' ' Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken churchyard thing, 156 Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. Were never missed.' Thus plaining, doth she bring i59 A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy '66 That he might see her beauty unespied. And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, While legioned fairies paced the coverlet. And pale enchantment held her sleepy- eyed. '70 Never on such a night have lovers met, THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 643 Since Merlin paid his Demon all the mon- strous debt. ' It shall be as thou wishest,' said the Dame : ' All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night : by the tambour frame 17s Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to spare, For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed, 180 Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.' So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly passed ; The dame returned, and whispered in his ear To follow her; with aged eyes aghast 185 From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, and chaste ; Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 190 Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade 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, 195 She turned, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare. Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove frayed and fled. Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 200 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, 205 Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 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 210 Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- grass. And diamonded with panes of quaint de- vice. Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-mouth's deep-damasked wings ; And in the midst, 'niong thousand herald- ries, 215 And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings. 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 ; 220 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint : She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven : Porphyro grew faint: 225 She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. Anon his heart revives : her vespers done, Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees 230 Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees; Half-hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed. Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 235 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay. Until the poppied warmth of sleep op- pressed Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; Flown, like a thought, until the morrow- day ; 240 Blissfully havened both from joy and pain ; Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 245 Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress. 644 JOHN KEATS And listened to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a skimberous tenderness ; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breathed himself: then from the closet crept, 250 Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. And over the hushed carpet, silent, stepped, And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo! — how fast she slept. Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 255 A table, and, half-anguished, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 260 Affray his ears, though but in dying tone: — The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered. While he from forth the closet brought a heap 26s Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; With jellies soother than the creamy curd. And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; Manna and dates, in argosy transferred From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, 270 From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. These delicates he heaped with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night, 275 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.' 280 Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains : — 't was a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream : The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam : 285 Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: It seemed he never, never could redeem From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes; So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phan- tasies. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 291 He played an ancient ditty, long since mute. In Provence called, ' La belle dame sans mercy : ' Close to her ear touching the melody; — Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan : 295 He ceased — she panted quick — and sud- denly Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- sculptured stone. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : i°° There was a painful change, that nigh ex- pelled The blisses of her dream so pure and deep At which fair Madeline began to weep. And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 3os Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye. Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingly. ' Ah, Porphyro ! ' said she, ' but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ; 310 And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear ! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! Oh, leave me not in this eternal woe, 31s For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.' Beyond a mortal man impassioned far At these voluptuous accents, he arose. Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep re- pose; 320 Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odor with the violet, — Solution sweet: meantime the frost wind blows Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 325 'T is dark ; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet : ODE 645 ' This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! ' 'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat : ' No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.— 330 Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.' ' My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride! 33i Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and ver- meil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famished pilgrim, — saved by a miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 341 Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. ' Hark ! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land. Of haggard seerhing, but a boon indeed: 345 Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; — The bloated wassailers will never heed : — Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead; 350 Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, 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 around. At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — 355 Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. — In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door ; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar ; 360 And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide ; Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, With a huge empty flagon by his side: 365 The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : — The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; — The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 37° And they are gone : ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin- worm, 375 Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old Died palsy-twitched, with meager face de- form ; The Beadsman, after thousand aves told. For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold. (1820) ODE Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth ! Have ye souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new? Yes, and those of heaven commune 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 Seated on Elysian lawns Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented. And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing. But divine melodious truth ; Philosophic numbers smooth; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries. Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; An the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you. Where your other souls are joying. 646 JOHN KEATS Never slumbered, never cloying. And if Robin should be cast Here, your earth-born souls still speak- Sudden from his turfed grave. To mortals, of their little week; 3o And if Marian should have 40 Of their sorrows and delights; Once again her forest days, Of their passions and their spites; She would weep, and he would craze : Of their glory and their shame; He would swear, for all his oaks. What doth strengthen and what maim. Fallen beneath the dockyard strokes, Thus ye teach us, every day, 35 Have rotted on the briny seas ; 45 Wisdom, though fled far away. She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her — strange! that honey Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Can't be got without hard money! Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, So it is : yet let us sing. Double-lived in regions new! 4o Honor to the old bow-string! so (1820) Honor to the bugle-horn! Honor to the woods unshorn ! Honor to the Lincoln green ! ROBIN HOOD Honor to the archer keen ! Honor to tight Little John, 55 No! those days are gone away. And the horse he rode upon ! And their hours are old and gray. Honor to bold Robin Hood, And their minutes buried all Sleeping in the underwood ! Under the down-trodden pall Honor to Maid Marian, Of the leaves of many years: s And to all the Sherwood-clan ! 60 Many times have winter's shears, Though their days have hurried by. Frozen North, and chilling East, Let us two a burden try. Sounded tempests to the feast (1820) Of the forest's whispering fleeces. Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 1° LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN No, the bugle sounds no more, Souls of Poets dead and gone. And the twanging bow no more ; What Elysium have ye known. Silent is the ivory shrill Happy field or mossy cavern. Past the heath and up the hill; Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? There is no mid-forest laugh, '5 Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine? 5 Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight, amazed to hear Or are the fruits of Paradise Jesting, deep in forest drear. Sweeter than those dainty pies Of venison? generous food! On the fairest time of June Drest as though bold Robin Hood 10 You may go, with sun or moon, 20 Would, with his maid Marian, Or the seven stars to light you, Sup and bowse from horn and can. Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold I have heard that on a day Little John, or Robin bold; Mine host's sign-board flew away, Never one, of all the clan, Nobody knew whither, till IS Thrumming on an empty can An astrologer's old quill Some old hunting ditty, while To a sheepskin gave the story. He doth his green way beguile Said he saw you in your glory. To fair hostess Merriment, Underneath a new old-sign Down beside the pasture Trent; 3° Sipping beverage divine, 20 For he left the merry tale And pledging with contented smack Messenger for spicy ale. The Mermaid in the Zodiac. Gone, the merry morris din; Souls of Poets dead and gone. Gone, the song of Gamelyn ; What Elysium have ye known. Gone, the tough-belted outlaw 3S Happy field or mossy cavern. 23 Idling in the ' grene shawe;' Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? All are gone away and past! (1820) ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 647 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN Thou still unravished bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape s Of deities or mortals, or of both. In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maid- ens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to es- cape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Jo Heard melodies are sweet, but those un- heard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more en- deared. Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave is 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, For ever 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, For ever piping songs for ever new ; More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! ! For ever warm and still to be enjoyed, ^6 I For ever panting, and for ever young; I All breathing human passion far above, ! That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and ' cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30 I ! Who are these coming to the sacrifice? i To what green altar, O mysterious priest, I Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? I 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 Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er re- turn. 40 O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens over wrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed ; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 4S 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 all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. so (1820) 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 : 'T is not through envy of thy happy lot, 5 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. 10 O for a draught of vintage ! that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green. Dance, and Provengal song, and sun- burnt mirth ! O for a beaker full of the warm South, '5 Full of the true, the blushful Hippo- crene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. And purple-stained mouth; 648 JOHN KEATS That 1 might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the for- est 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 gray hairs, 25 Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies ; Where but to think is to be full of sor- row 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, 3S And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne. Clustered around by all her starry Fays ; But here there is no light. Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 40 I 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 ; 45 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglan- tine; Fast fading violets covered up in leaves ; And mid-May's eldest child. The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on sum- mer eves. so Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rime. To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, SS To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 61 No hungry generations tread thee down : The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 65 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home. She stood in tears amid the alien corn : The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 71 To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf, Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side ; and now 't is buried deep In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep? 80 (1819) ODE ON MELANCHOLY No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poison- ous wine ; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 5 Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; HYPERION 649 For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 10 But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all. And hides the green hill in an April shroud : Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of a salt sandwave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Eniprison her soft hand, and let her rave. And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. 20 She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight 25 Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine ; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might. And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 30 (1820) 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-eves run ; To bend with apples the mossed cottage- trees, 5 And fill all 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, 10 For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells. 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; 16 Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep. Drowsed 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, 20 Steady thy laden head across a brook; 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, — 2S 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 sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 30 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; Hedge-crickets sing: and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden- croft ; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. (1820) HYPERION A FRAGMENT BOOK I Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star. Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone. Still as the silence round about his lair ; Forest on forest hung about his head 6 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 feathered grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. 10 650 JOHN KEATS A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more By reason of his fallen divinity Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds Pressed her cold finger closer to her lips. Along the margin-sand large footmarks went, '5 No further than to where his feet had strayed And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead. Unsceptered ; and his realmless eyes were closed ; While his bowed head seemed list'ning to the Earth, 20 His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. It seemed no force could wake him from his place ; But there came one, who with a kindred hand Touched his wide shoulders, after bending low With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 25 She was a Goddess of the infant world ; By her in stature the tall Amazon Had stood a pigmy's height : she would have ta'en Achilles by the hair and bent his neck; Or with a finger stayed Ixion's wheel. 30 Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, Pedestaled haply in a palace court, When sages looked 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 laboring up. One hand she pressed upon that aching spot Where 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 frail so To that large utterance of the early Gods! 'Saturn, look up! — though wherefore, poor old King? I have no comfort for thee, no, not one : I cannot say, "O wherefore slecpcst thou?" For heaven is parted from tiice, and the earth 55 Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God ; And ocean too, with all its solemn noise. Has from thy scepter passed ; and all the air Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. Thy thunder, conscious of the new com- mand, 60 Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house; And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands Scorches and burns our once serene do- main. O aching time ! O moments big as years ! All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth, 6s And press it so upon our weary griefs That unbelief has not a space to breathe. Saturn, sleep on : — O thoughtless, why did I Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude? Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes? 7" Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I weep.' As when, upon a tranced summer night, Those green-robed senators of mighty woods. Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars. Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, 75 Save from one gradual solitary gust 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 touched her fair large forehead to the ground, 80 Just where her falling hair might be out- spread 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 motion- less, *S Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ; HYPERION 651 The frozen God still couchant on the earth, And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet : Until at length old Saturn lifted up 89 His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone. And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, And that fair 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 99 Of Saturn ; tell me, if this wrinkling brow, 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 nurtured to such bursting forth. While Fate seemed strangled in my nervous grasp? los But it is so; and I am smothered up, And buried from all godlike exercise Of influence benign on planets pale, Of admonitions to the winds, and seas, 109 Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting. 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, us 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 Upon all space : space starred, and lorn of light ; Space regioned with life-air; and barren void; 119 Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell. — Search, Thea, search! and tell me, if thou seest A certain shape or shadow, making way With wings or chariot fierce to repossess A heaven he lost erewhile: it must — it must Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be King, 125 Yes, there must be a golden victory; There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets 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 com- mand : Thea! Thea! Thea! where is Saturn?' 134 This passion lifted him upon his feet, And made his hands to struggle in the air. His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat. His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease. He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbing deep; 139 A little time, and then again he snatched Utterance thus. — 'But cannot I create? Cannot I form? Cannot I fashion forth Another world, another universe. To overbear and crumble this to nought? Where is another chaos? Where?' — That word 145 Found way unto Olympus, and made quake The rebel three. — Thea was startled up. And in her bearing was a sort of hope. As thus she quick-voiced spake, yet full of awe. ' This cheers our fallen house : come to our friends, iso Saturn ! come away, and give them heart : 1 know the covert, for thence came I hither.' Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she went With backward footing through the shade a space : He followed, and she turned to lead the way 15s Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist Which eagles cleave upmounting from their nest. Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed, More sorrow like to this, and such like woe, Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe; 160 The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound, Groaned for the old allegiance once more. And listened in sharp pain for Saturn's voice. But one of the whole mammoth-brood still kept 164 His sov'reignty, and rule, and majesty; — 652 JOHN KEATS Blazing Hypt-riDii on his orbed fire Still sat, snuffed the incense, teeming up From man to the sun's God; yet un- secure : For as among us mortals omens drear '69 Fright and perplex, so also shuddered he — Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated screech. Or the familiar visiting of one Upon the first toll of his passing-bell, Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp; i74 But horrors, portioned to a giant nerve. Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace bright Bastioned with pyramids of glowing gold. And touched with shade of bronzed obe- lisks, Glared a blood-red through all its thou- sand courts, Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries; 180 And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds Flushed angerly: while sometimes eagle's wings, Unseen before by Gods or wondering men, Darkened the place; and neighing steeds were heard. Not heard before by Gods or wondering men. '^s Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths Of incense, breathed aloft from sacred hills. Instead of sweets, his ample palate took Savor of poisonous brass and metal sick: And so, when harbored in the sleepy west, 190 After the full completion of fair day, — For rest divine upon exalted couch And slumber in the arms of melody. He paced away the pleasant hours of ease With stride colossal, on from hall to hall ; While far within each aisle and deep re- cess, 196 His winged minions in close clusters stood, Amazed and full of fear; like anxious men Who on wide plains gather in panting troops, When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers, 200 Even now, while Saturn, roused from icy trance, Went step for step with Thea through the woods, Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear, Came slope upon the threshold of the west; Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope 20s In smoothest silence, save what solemn tubes, Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melo- dies ; And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape, In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye. That inlet to severe magnificence 2" Stood full blown, for the God to enter in. He entered, but he entered full of wrath ; His flaming robes streamed out beyond his heels. And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire. 215 That scared away the meek ethereal Hours And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared, From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault, Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light, 219 And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades. Until he reached the great main cupola ; There standing fierce beneath, he stamped his foot, And from the basements deep to the high towers Jarred his own golden region; and before The quavering thunder thereupon had ceased, 225 His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb, To this result : * O dreams of day and night ! O monstrous forms! O effigies of pain! O specters busy in a cold, cold gloom! lank-eared Phantoms of black-weeded pools ! 230 Why do I know ye? why have I seen ye? why Is my eternal essence thus distraught To see and to behold these horrors new? Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall? 234 Am I to leave this haven of my rest. This cradle of my glory, this soft clime, • This calm luxuriance of blissful light. These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes, Of all my lucent empire? It is left Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine. 240 The blaze, the splendor, and the symmetry, 1 cannot see — but darkness, death and dark- ness. Even here, into my center of repose, The shady visions come to domineer, 244 Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp. — Fall ! — No, by Tellus and her briny robes ! Over the fiery frontier of my realms I will advance a terrible right arm, 248 Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel Jove, I HYPERION 653 And bid old Saturn take his throne again.'— He spake and ceased, the while a heavier threat Held struggle with his throat but came not forth : For as in theaters of crowded men 253 Hubbub increases more they call out ' Hush ! ' So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms pale Bestirred themselves, thrice horrible and cold ; And from the mirrored level where he stood A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh. At this, through all his bulk an agony Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crown, 260 Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular Making slow way, with head and neck con- vulsed From over-strained might. Released, he fled To the eastern gates, and full six dewy hours 264 Before the dawn in season due should blush. He breathed fierce breath against the sleepy portals. Cleared them of heavy vapors, burst them wide Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams. The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode Each day from east to west the heavens through, -270 Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds ; Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and hid, But ever and anon the glancing spheres, Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure. Glowed through, and wrought upon the mufflmg dark 27s Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir deep Up to the Zenith, — hieroglyphics old. Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers Then living on the earth, with labormg thought I Won from the gaze of many centuries: 280 I Now lost, save what we find in remnants j huge Of stone, or marble swart ; their import I gone, I Their wisdom long since fled. Two wings this orb Possessed for glory, two fair argent wings, I Ever exalted at the God's approach : 285 I And now, from forth the gloom their plumes I immense ! Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were ; While still the dazzling felobe maintained eclipse, Awaiting for Hyperion's command. Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne 290 And bid the day begin, if but for change. He might not: — No, though a primeval God: The sacred seasons might not be disturbed. Therefore the operations of the dawn Stayed in their birth, even as here 't is told. Those silver wings expanded sisterly, 296 Eager to sail their orl); the porches wide Opened upon the dusk demesnes of night ; And the bright Titan, phrenzied with new woes, Unused to bend, by hard compulsion bent His spirit to the sorrow of the time; 301 And all along a dismal rack of clouds. Upon the boundaries of day and night. He stretched himself in grief and radiance faint. There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars Looked down on him with pity, and the voice 306 Of Coelus, from the universal space. Thus whispered low and solemn in his ear. ' O brightest of my children dear, earth- born And sky-engendered. Son of Mysteries 310 All unrevealed even to the powers Which met at thy creating; at whose joy And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft, I, Coelus, wonder, how they came and whence ; And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be, 31S Distinct, and visible; symbols divine, Manifestations of that beauteous life Ditfused unseen throughout eternal space; Of these new-formed art thou, oh brightest child! 319 Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses ! There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion Of son against his sire. I saw him fall, I saw my first-born tumbled from his throne ! To me his arms were spread, to me his voice Found way from forth the thunders round his head ! 325 Pale wox I and in vapors hid my face. Art thou, too, near such doom? vague fear there is : For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods. Divine ye were created, and divine In sad demeanor, solemn, undisturbed, 330 Unruffled like high Gods, ye lived and ruled: Now I behold in you fear, hope, and wrath ; Actions of rage and passion : even as I see them, on the mortal world beneath, In men who die.— This is the grief, O Son! 654 JOHN KEATS Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall! Yet do thou strive ; as thou art capable. As thou canst move about, an evident God ; And canst oppose to each malignant hour Ethereal presence : — I am but a voice ; 340 My life is but the life of winds and tides, No more than winds and tides can I avail : — But thou canst. — Be thou therefore in the van Of circumstance; yea, seize the arrow's barb Before the tense string murmur. — To the earth ! 345 For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his woes. Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright sun, And of thy seasons be a careful nurse.' — Ere half this region-whisper had come down, Hyperion arose, and on the stars 35o Lifted his curved lids, and kept them wide Until it ceased ; and still he kept them wide : And still they were the same bright, patient stars. Then with a slow incline of his broad breast, Like to a diver in the pearly seas, 355 Forward he stooped over the airy shore. And plunged all noiseless into the deep night. (1820) IN A DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them, With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime. In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look ; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time. Ah ! would 't were so with many A gentle girl and boy ! But were there ever any Writhed not at passed joy To know the change and feel it. When there is none to heal it. Nor numbed sense to steal it, Was never said in rime. (1829) LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI BALLAD O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! Alone and palely loitering ! The sedge has withered from the lake. And no birds sing. what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 5 So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest 's done. 1 see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew, 'o And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads. Full beautiful — a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, is And her eyes were wild. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked 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 sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song. She found me roots of relish sweet, 25 And honey wild, and manna dew. And sure in language strange she said — ' I love thee true.' She took me to her elfin grot. And there she wept, and sighed full sore. And there I shut her wild wild eyes 31 With kisses four. And there she lulled me asleep. And there I dreamed — Ah ! woe betide ! The latest dream I ever dreamed 35 On the cold hill's side. 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" SONNETS 655 I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill's side. And this is why I sojourn here, 4S Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake And no birds sing. (1820) ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES My spirit is too weak — mortality Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagined pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky. s Yet 't is a gentle luxury to weep That I have not the cloudy winds to keep, Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. Such dim-conceived glories of the brain Bring round the heart an undescribable feud; 10 So do these wonders a most dizzy pain. That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude Wasting of old Time — with a billowy main — A sun — a shadow of a magnitude. (1817) 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 't is in such gentle temper found, 5 That scarcely will the very smallest shell Be moved for days from whence it some- time fell, When last the winds of heaven were un- bound. Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vexed and tired, Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea; 'o Oh ye ! whose ears are dinned 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 quired! (1848) WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I MAY CEASE TO BE When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain. Before high piled books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripened grain ; When I behold, upon the night's starred 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 Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. (1848) BRIGHT STAR! WOULD I WERE STEADFAST AS THOU ART Bright star ! would I were steadfast as thou art — Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart. Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, 6 Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors — No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable. Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast. To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, n Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever — or else swoon to death. (1848) NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS For lyric excellence the period of nearly one hundred years between Lyrical Ballads (1798) and Tennyson's Cronsiuy the Bar (1889) was as eminent as any in our liistory. Much of this excellence lies in the work of the greater poets, all of whom, from Wordsworth to Tennyson, Browning and Swinburne, will perhaps live to after times for their short flights of song, elegy, idyl, or dramatic monologue rather than by virtue of their more ambitious work. Men of less notable power than the very greatest must particularly depend, for ' a perpetuity of fame,' upon those brief pieces or passages where their imperfect or less sustained genius gets for a moment a perfect, or happy, or distinctive utterance. Literature ■would be the poorer without these happier snatches of its less distinguished warblers, and the nineteenth century is peculiarly rich in minor singers of this description. One grace of the minor singer is his frequent recognition of his minority and his contentedness to sing in a light or a minor key, leaving the 'C Major of this life' to his robuster brethren. If he lack this self-denial or wisdom, time will not hesitate to do for him what he fails to do for himself. Thus, while Southey's obese epics are strangling in dust we can still enjoy a ballad or two. Landor, with all his elegance and elevation may prove too great a tax on our patience unless we can select out a few choicely cut ' gems of purest ray,' sparkling with gallantry and gracious sentiment. There may be little hope of pleasure in Campbell's Pleas- ures of Hope; but his battle hymns can still bring a tingle to the blood which has any British infusion. The inimitable joviality of Peacock's songs will tempt some to read them in their setting, his novels. Tom Hood, for his humanitarian sympathy, his tragic insight, and his literary refinement when he throws off his Comic Almanac manner, will interest as long as greater and more fortunate poets. The busiest of us can afford to listen for a moment to the bubbling pastoral music of Barnes, ' the Dorsetshire Burns.' We need not entangle ourselves among the fantastic situations and impossible characters of Death's Jest Book in order to feel Beddoes' tuneful diabolism ; we get the essence of it in his dirges and oight pieces. Not the least interesting phase of nineteenth century poetry is its inclination vo plane away the barrier between poetry and prose and approach the natural or easy-going manner of colloquial speech. This careless, ' over the walnuts and the wine ' kind of talk had been introduced by Byron into his Don Juan; the tone is happily and more innocently hit by Tennyson in Will Waterproofs Lyrical Monologue; and is conspicuous in Peacock's Jongs and in the love poetry of Coventry Patmore. Praed, Thackeray, and Locker-Lampson convey in poetry that nice blending of frivolity, light cynicism, obscured sentimetit, and good breeding which characterise the gentle man-of-the-city. In Austin Dobson there is super- added a fragile renaissance of eighteenth century ' teacup times of hood and hoop, Or when the patch was worn.' Most of this poetry is tinged with delicate regret for the fresher, simpler and more heroic times that are gone. The darker and more terrible pessimism which is bred by modern cities found a voice in Thomson's City of Dreadful Night; the querulous rebellion of a sensitive but feebler artistic temperament may be heard in the ' Songs ' of O'Shaughnessey. Of somewhat more professional scope than any of these were the poems of Mrs. Browning, the most Sapphic of English poetesses; and Miss Rossetti's sad, sweet songs of devotion and renunciation are the best of their kind. The feminine interpretation of love, humanity, and religion found in these two a more adequate expression than else- where in English poetry. Finally, the scholarly and sincere, if sometimes harsh, spiritual remonstrances of Arthur Hugh Clough are most worthy to supplement those of Tennyson, Browning and Matthew Arnold. ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843) THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, 656 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 657 Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found ; 10 He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by ; And then the old man shook his head, 'S And with a natural sigh, ' 'T is some poor fellow's skull,' said he, ' Who fell in the great victory. ' I find them in the garden, For there 's many here about ; 20 And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out ! For many thousand men,' said he, ' Were slain in that great victory.' ' Now tell me what 't was all about,' 2s Young Peterkin, he cries ; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; ' Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.' 30 ' It was the English,' Kaspar cried, ' Who put the French to rout ; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out ; But everybody said,' quoth he, 35 ' That 't was a famous victory. ' My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly ; 40 So with his wife and child he fled. Nor had he where to rest his head. 'With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide. And many a childing mother then, 45 And new-born baby died ; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. * They say it was a shocking sight ! After the field was won; 50 For many thousand bodies here I Lay rotting in the sun ; But things like that, you know, must be j After a famous victory. I ' Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, SS I And our good Prince Eugene.' ! ' Why 't was a very wicked thing ! ' Said little Wilhelmine. Nay, nay, my little girl,' quoth he, It was a famous victory. And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win.' But what good came of it at last?' Quoth little Peterkin. Why that I cannot tell,' said he, But 't was a famous victory.' 60 (1805) WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (1775-1864) ROSE AYLMER Ah, what avails the sceptered race, Ah, what the form divine ! What every virtue, every grace ! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes S May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. (1806) MILD IS THE PARTING YEAR Mild is the parting year, and sweet The odor of the falling spray; Life passes on more rudely fleet, And balmless is its closing day. I wait its close, I court its gloom, S But mourn that never must there fall Or on my breast or on my tomb The tear that would have soothed it all. (1831) PAST RUINED ILION Past ruined Ilion Helen lives, Alcestis rises from the shades ; Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives Immortal youth to mortal maids. Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil s Hide all the peopled hills you see, The gay, the proud, while lovers hail These many summers you and me. (1831) THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA 'Artemidora! Gods invisible, While thou art lying faint along the couch. 658 NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS Have tied the saiulal to thy slender feet And stand beside thee, ready to convey Thy weary steps where other rivers flow. 5 Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness Away, and voices like thy own come near And nearer, and solicit an embrace.' Artemidora sighed, and would have pressed The hand now pressing hers, but was too weak. '° Iris stood over her dark hair unseen While thus Elpcnor spake. He looked into Eyes that had given light and life erewhilc To those above them, but now dim with tears And wakefulness. Again he spake of joy 'S Eternal At that word, that sad word, joy, Faithful and fond her bosom heaved once more : Her head fell back; and now a loud deep sob Swelled through the darkened chamber ; 't was not hers. (1836) DIRGE Stand close around, ye Stygian set, With Uirce in one boat conveyed, Or Charon, seeing, may forget That he is old, and she a shade. (1836) ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR Borgia, thou once wert almost too august And high for adoration ; now thou 'rt dust ; All that remains of thee these plaits un- fold. Calm hair meandering in pellucid gold. C1837) MEMORY AND PRIDE * Do you remember me ? or are you proud ? ' Lightly advancing through her star-trimmed crowd, lanthe said, and looked into my eyes. *A yes, 3i yes, to both: for Memory Where you but once have been must ever be, 5 And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise.' C1846) THE LOVE OF OTHER YEARS No, my own love of other years! No, it must never be. Much rests with you that yet endears, Alas ! but what with me ? Could those bright years o'er me revolve S So gay, o'er you so fair, The pearl of life we would dissolve And each the cup might share. You show that truth can ne'er decay, Whatever fate befalls; 10 I, that the myrtle and the bay Shoot fresh on ruined walls. (1846) TO ROBERT BROWNING There is delight in singing, though none hear Beside the singer; and there is delight In praising, tho' the praiser sit alone And see the praised far off him, far above. Shakspere is not our poet, but the world's, Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee, 6 Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, No man hath walked along our roads with step So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue So varied in discourse. But warmer climes Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the breeze n Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where The Siren waits thee, singing song for song; (1846) ON TIMELY DEATH Is it not better at an early hour In its calm cell to rest the weary head. While birds are singing and while blooms the bower. Than sit the fire out and go starved to bed? (18411) TO AGE Welcome, old friend ! These many years Have we lived door by door : The Fates have laid aside their shears Perhaps for some few more. THOMAS MOORE 659 I was indocile at an age When better boys were taught, But thou at length hast made me sage, If I am sage in aught. Little I know from other men. Too little they from me. But thou hast pointed well the pen That writes these lines to thee. Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, One vile, the other vain; One's scourge, the other's telescope, I shall not see again : Rather what lies before my feet My notice shall engage — He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat Dreads- not the frost of Age. (1853) 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. (1853) THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844) YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND A NAVAL ODE Ye mariners of England That guard our native seas. Whose rtag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again 5 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 from every wave ! — For the deck it was their field of fame. And Ocean was their grave : Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell i5 Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. -0 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 25 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 ! 35 Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow ; When the fiery fight i.- heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. 40 (1801) THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852) 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, S Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! lo Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all is The friends, so linked together, I 've seen around mc fall. Like leaves in wintry weather ; I feel like one Who treads alone 20 Some banquet-hall deserted. Whose lights are fled. Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed ! Thus, in the stilly night, -^s Ere Slumber's chain has hound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. (1818) 66o NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS 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. So sleeps the pride of former days, s So glory's thrill is o'er. And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more! No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; i° 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, 'S To show that still she lives. (1808) LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859) 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. THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK (1785-1866) THE MEN OF GOTHAM Seamen three! what men be ye? Gotham's three Wise Men we be. Whither in your bowl so free? To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim; the moon doth shine; And our ballast is old wine: 6 And your ballast is old wine. Who art thou, so fast adrift? I am he they call Old Care. Here on board we will thee lift. 10 No : I may not enter there. Wherefore so? 'T is Jove's decree — In a bowl Care may not be : In a bowl Care may not be. Fear ye not the waves that roll? '5 No : in charmed bowl we swim. What the charm that floats the bowl? Water may not pass the brim. The bowl goes trim; the moon doth shine; And our ballast is old wine: 20 And your ballast is old wine. (1818) THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS VAWR The mountain sheep are sweeter, But the valley sheep are fatter; We therefore deemed it meeter To carry off the latter. We made an expedition ; . 5 We met an host and quelled it ; We forced a strong position And killed the men who held it. On Dyfed's richest valley, Where herds of kine were browsing, 10 We made a mighty sally. To furnish our carousing. Fierce warriors rushed to meet us; We met them, and o'erthrew them: They struggled hard to beat us, 'S But we conquered them, and slew them. As we drove our prize at leisure, The king marched forth to catch us : His rage surpassed all measure. But his people could not match us. 20 He fled to his hall-pillars; And, ere our force we led off, Some sacked his house and cellars, While others cut his head off. We there, in strife bewildering, 25 Spilt blood enough to swim in: We orphaned many children And widowed many women. The eagles and the ravens We glutted with our foemen : 30 The heroes and the cravens. The spearmen and the bowmen. We brought away from battle. And much their land bemoaned them, Two thousand head of cattle 35 And the head of him who owned them : Ednyfed, King of Dyfed, His head was borne before us; His wine and beasts supplied our feasts, And his overthrow, our chorus. 40 (1829) JOHN KEBLE 66i THE FRIAR'S SONG [ Though I be now a gray, gray friar, Yet I was once a hale young knight : The cry of my dogs was the only choir In which my spirit did take delight. Little I recked of matin bell, 5 But drowned its toll with my clanging horn [ And the only beads I loved to tell j Were the beads of dew on the spangled I thorn. ; Little I reck of matin bell, ' But drown its toll with my clanging j horn: lo And the only beads I love to tell Are the beads of dew on the spangled I thorn. j An archer keen I was withal, I As ever did lean on greenwood tree; i And could make the fleetest roebuck fall, is I A good three hundred yards from me. I Though changeful time, with hand severe, Has made me now these joys forego, Yet my heart bounds whene'er I hear Yoicks ! hark away ! and tally ho ! 20 ' Though changeful time, with hand severe, I Has made me now these joys forego, I Yet my heart bounds whene'er I hear Yoicks ! hark away ! and tally ho ! (1822) CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823) THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, j As his corse to the rampart we hurried; I Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot j O'er the grave where our hero we buried. j We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5 I The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light. And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast. Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him, 10 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. 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, 15 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 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. But half of our weary task was done 25 When the clock struck the hour for re- tiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down. From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 30 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — But we left him alone with his glory. (1817) JOHN KEBLE (1792-1866) UNITED STATES Tyre of the farther West! be thou too warned. Whose eagle wings thine own green world o'erspread. Touching two Oceans: wherefore hast thou scorned Thy fathers' God, O proud and full of bread? Why lies the Cross unhonored on thy ground 5 While in mid air thy stars and arrows flaunt ? That sheaf of darts, will it not fall un- bound. Except, disrobed of thy vain earthly vaunt. Thou bring it to be blessed where Saints and Angels haunt? The holy seed, by Heaven's peculiar grace, 10 Is rooted here and there in thy dark woods ; 662 NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS But many a rank weed round it grows Who rode so gaily by thy side. apace, And whispered thee so near ! — 20 And Mammon builds beside thy mighty Were there no bonny dames at home floods, Or no true lovers here, O'ertopping Nature, braving Nature's God; That he should cross the seas to win while thou yet hast room, fair fruitful land, 'S Ere war and want have stained thy virgin The dearest of the dear? I saw thee, lovely Ines, 25 sod. Descend along the shore. Mark thee a place on high, a glorious With bands of noble gentlemen. stand. And banners waved before ; Whence Truth her sign may make o'er And gentle youth and maidens gay, forest, lake, and strand. And snowy plumes they wore ; — 30 It would have been a beauteous dream. Eastward, this hour, perchance thou turn'st — If it had been no more! thine ear, Listening if haply with the surging sea, 20 Alas, alas! fair Ines, Blend sounds of Ruin from a land once She went away with song. dear With Music waiting on her steps, 35 To thee and Heaven. trying hour for And shoutings of the throng; thee! But some were sad and felt no mirth. Tyre mocked when Salem fell; where now But only Music's wrong. is Tyre? In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell Heaven was against her. Nations thick as To her you 've loved so long. 4° waves, Burst o'er her walls, to Ocean doomed and Farewell, farewell, fair Ines ! fire : ^s That vessel never bore And now the tideless water idly laves So fair a lady on its deck. Her towers, and lone sands heap her Nor danced so light before, — crowned merchants' graves. Alas for pleasure on the sea, 45 (1836) And sorrow on the shore ! The smile that blest one lover's heart Has broken many more ! (1827) THOMAS HOOD (1798-1845) FAIR INES THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS saw ye not fair Ines? One more Unfortunate, She 's gone into the West, Weary of breath. To dazzle when the sun is down. Rashly importunate. And rob the world of rest: Gone to her death ! She took our daylight with her, 5 The smiles that we love best, Take her up tenderly, 5 With morning blushes on her cheek, Lift her with care; And pearls upon her breast. Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair ! turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, 1° Look at her garments For fear the Moon should shine alone. Clinging like cerements ; 10 And stars unrivaled bright; Whilst the wave constantly And blessed will the lover be Drips from her clothing; That walks beneath their light. Take her up instantly, And breathes the love against thy cheek '5 Loving, not loathing. I dare not even write! Touch her not scornfully; '5 Would I had been, fair Ines, Think of her mournfully. That gallant cavalier. Gently and humanly ; THOMAS HOOD 663 Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers. One of Eve's family — Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily. Lx)Op up her tresses Escaped from the comb. Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun ! O, it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed : Love, by harsh evidence. Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window to casement. From garret to basement, She stood with amazement. Houseless by night. The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver : But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river : Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery. Swift to be hurled — Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world! In she plunged boldly — No matter how coldly The rough river ran — Over the brink of it, Picture it — think of it, Dissolute Man ! Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can ! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair ! Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them. Staring so blindly! Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily. Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity. Burning insanity. Into her rest — Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly. Over her breast! Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour. And leaving with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour! (1844) 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.' 664 NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS 'Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof I »« And work — work — work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It 's Oh I to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, '5 If this is Christian work! ' Work — work — work, Till the brain begins to swim; Work — work — work. Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 20 Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep. And sew them on in a dream! 'Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! ^s 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, 3o Sewing at once, with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt. 'But why do I talk of Death? That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear its terrible shape, 35 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! 4° ' Work — work — work ! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread — and rags. That shattered roof — this naked floor— 45 A table — a broken chair — And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there ! ' Work — work — work ! From weary chime to chime, 5° 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 be- numbed, 55 As well as the weary hand. ' Work — work — work. In the dull December light. And work — work — work. When the weather is warm and bright — While underneath the eaves 6i The brooding swallows cling As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring. ' Oh ! but to breathe the breath 65 Of the cowslip 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, 7° Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal. ' Oh ! but for one short hour ! A respite however brief ! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, 75 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! 85 In poverty, hunger, and dirt. And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — Would that its tone could reach the Rich! — She sang this ' Song of the Shirt ! ' (1843) WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED (1802- 1 839) 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 5 Was in my fowling-piece and filly, — In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lily. I saw her at the County Ball : There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall »i Of hands across and down the middle. Hers was the subtlest spell by far WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED 665 Of all that set young hearts romancing; She was our queen, our rose, our star; is 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 ! 20 Her every look, her every smile. Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought 't was Venus from her isle, And wondered where she 'd left her spar- rows. She talked, — of politics or prayers,— 25 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; 30 i n those bright lips had quoted Locke, I I might have thought they murmured Lit- I tie. ! Through sunny Maj', through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, 35 , I wrote them to the Sunday Journal : I My mother laughed ; I soon found out I That ancient ladies have no feeling: My father frowned; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling? 40 She was the daughter of a Dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; She had one brother, just thirteen. Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother for many a year 45 Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer. And Lord Lieutenant of the County. But titles, and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, so And India bonds, and tithes, and rents. Oh, what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks — Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the Stocks, 55 As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading: 60 She warbled Handel; it was grand; She made the Catalani jealous: She touched the organ ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows. .She kept an album, too, at home, 6s 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, 71 And recipes for elder-water. And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted. Her poodle dog was quite adored, 75 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 knew 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, 85 In phrase which was divinely molded ; She wrote a charming hand, — and oh ! How sweetly all her notes were folded! Our love was like most other loves; — A little glow, a little shiver, 9° 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, 95 The usual vows, — and then we parted. 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 loi There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room's belle, But only — Mrs. Something Rogers! (1844) A LETTER OF ADVICE FROM MISS MEDORA TREVILIAN, AT PADUA, TO MISS ARAMINTA VAVASOUR, IN LONDON You tell me you 're promised a lover. My own Araminta, next week; 666 NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS Why cannot my fancy discover The hue of his coat and his cheek? Alas! if he look like another, s A vicar, a banker, a beau. Be deaf to your father and mother. My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, Taught us both how to sing and to speak, And we loved one another with passion, " Before we had been there a week: You gave me a ring for a token; I wear it wherever I go ; I gave you a chain, — is it broken? is My own Araminta, say ' No! ' think of our favorite cottage, And think of our dear Lalla Rookh ! How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, 19 And drank of the stream from the brook; How fondly our loving lips faltered, 'What further can grandeur bestow?' My heart is the same; — is yours altered? My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' Remember the thrilling romances ^S We read on the bank in the glen ; Remember the suitors our fancies Would picture for hpth of us then. They wore the red cross on their shoulder, They had vanquished and pardoned their foe — 30 Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder? My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage, Drove off with your Cousin Justine, You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage, 35 And whispered ' How base she has been ! ' You said you were sure it would kill you, If ever your husband looked so; And you will not apostatize. — will you? M} own Araminta, say ' No ! ' 40 When I heard I was going abroad, love, I thought I was going to die ; We walked arm in arm to the road, love. We looked arm in arm to the sky ; And I said ' When a foreign postilion 4S Has hurried me off to the Po, Forget not Medora Trevilian : My own Araminta, say " No " ! ' We parted ! but sympathy's fetters Reach far over valley and hill ; 50 1 muse o'er your exquisite letters, And feel that your heart is mine still ; And he who would share it with me, love, — The richest of treasures below,— If he's not what Orlando should be, love, 55 My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, If he comes to you riding a cob, If he talks of his baking or brewing, If he puts up his feet on the hob, 60 If he ever drinks port after dinner, If his brow or his breeding is low, If he calls himself 'Thompson' or 'Skin- ner,' My own Araminta, say 'No!' If he studies the news in the papers 63 While you are preparing the tea. If he talks of the damps or the vapors While moonlight lies soft on the sea, If he's sleepy while you are capricious. If he has not a musical ' Oh ! ' 70 If he does not call Werther delicious, — My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' If he ever sets foot in the City Among the stockbrokers and Jews, If he has not a heart full of pity, 75 If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, If his lips are not redder than roses, If his hands are not whiter than snow. If he has not the model of noses, — My own Araminta, say * No ! ' So If he speaks of a tax or a duty, If he does not look grand on his knees, If he's blind to a landscape of beauty, Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees. If he dotes not on desolate towers, 85 If he likes not to hear the blast blow. If he knows not the language of flowers, — My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' He must walk — like a god of old story Come down from the home of his rest ; 90 He must smile — like the sun in his glory On the buds he loves ever the best ; And oh ! from its ivory portal Like music his soft speech must flow ! — If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, 95 My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' Don't listen to tales of his bounty. Don't hear what they say of his birth, Don't look at his seat in the county. Don't calculate what he is worth; 100 But give him a theme to write verse on, And see if he turns out his toe; If he's only an excellent person, — My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' (1844) THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES 66: WILLIAM BARNES (1801-1886) BLACKMWORE MAIDENS The primrwose in the sheade do blow, The cowslip in the zun, The thyme upon the down do grow, The clote where streams do run ; An' where do pretty maidens grow 5 An' blow, but where the tow'r Do rise among the bricken tuns In Blackmwore by the Stour. If you could zee their comely gait, An' pretty feaces' smiles, 10 A-trippen on so light o' wai'ght. An' steppen off the stiles ; A-gwain to church, as bells do swing An' ring 'ithin the tow'r, You'd own the pretty maidens' pleace »5 Is Blackmwore by the Stour. If you vrom Wimborne took your road. To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen show'd Their daughters at the door ; 20 You 'd cry to bachelors at hwome — 'Here come; 'ithin an hour You '11 vind ten maidens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour.' An' if you look'd 'ithin their door, 25 To zee em in their pleace, A-doen housework up avore Their smilen mother's feace ; You'd cry — 'Why, if a man would wive An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r, 3° Then let en look en out a wife In Blackmwore by the Stour.' As I upon my road did pass A school-house back in May, There out upon the beaten grass 3S Wer maidens at their play; An' as the pretty souls did tweil An' smile, I cried, ' The flow'r O' beauty, then, is still in bud In Blackmwore by the Stour.' 40 (1844) THE SURPRISE As there I left the road in May, And took my way along a ground, I found a glade with girls at play. By leafy boughs close-hemmed around. And there, with stores of harmless joys, s Look They plied their tongues, in merry noise; Though little did they seem to fear So queer a stranger might be near; Teeh-hee! Look here! Hah! ha l' Look there ! And oh ! so playsome, oh ! so fair. 10 And one would dance as one would spring, Or bob or bow with leering smiles. And one would swing, or sit and sing. Or sew a stitch or two at whiles, And one skipped on with downcast face, is All heedless, to my very place, And there, in fright, in one foot out, Made one dead step and turned about.' Heeh, bee, oh! oh! ooh ! 00 ! — Look there! And oh! so playsome, oh, so fair. 20 Away they scampered all, full speed. By boughs that swung along their track, As rabbits out of wood at feed, At sight of men all scamper back. And one pulled on behind her heel, 25 A thread of cotton, off her reel. And oh ! to follow that white clue, I felt I fain could scamper too. Teeh, hee, run here. Eeh ! ee ! there! And oh ! so playsome, oh ! so fair (I THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES (1803- I 849) 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 5 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? 10 A cottage lone and still. With bowers nigh, Shadowy, my woes to still. Until I die. Such pearl from Life's fresh crown 15 Fain would I shake me down. Were dreams to have at will. This would best heal my ill, This would I buy. 668 NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS But there were dreams to sell 20 And we are man and wife together. 111 didst thou buy; Although thy breast, once bold Life is a dream, they tell, With song, be closed and cold Waking, to die. Beneath flowers' roots and birds' light feet. Dreaming a dream to prize, Yet sit I by thy tomb, 25 Is wishing ghosts to rise; 25 And dissipate the gloom And if I had the spell With songs of loving faith and sorrow To call the buried well, sweet. Which one would I? And fate and darkling grave kind dreams do cheat, If there arc ghosts to raise. That, while fair life, young hope, despair What shall I call, 30 and death are, Out of hell's murky haze, We 're boy and girl, and lass and lad, and Heaven's blue pall? man and wife together. 30 Raise my loved long-lost boy. (1851) To lead me to his joy. — There are no ghosts to raise; 35 Out of death lead no ways; Vain is the call. From DEATH'S JEST BOOK Know'st thou not ghosts to sue, TO SEA, TO SEA ! No love thou hast. Else lie, as I will do. 40 To sea, to sea ! The calm is o'er ; And breathe thy last. The wanton water leaps in sport. So out of Life's fresh crown And rattles down the pebbly shore ; Fall like a rose-leaf down. The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort. Thus are the ghosts to woo ; And unseen Mermaids' pearly song S Thus are all dreams made true, 45 Comes bubbling up, the weeds among. Ever to last! Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar : (1851) To sea, to sea ! the calm is o'er. To sea, to sea ! our wide-winged bark Shall billowy cleave its sunny way, 'o BALLAD OF HUMAN LIFE And with its shadow, fleet and dark, Break the caved Triton's azure day. When we were girl and boy together, Like mighty eagle soaring light We tossed about the flowers O'er antelopes on Alpine height. And wreathed the blushing hours The anchor heaves, the ship swings free, 15 Into a posy green and sweet. The sails swell full. To sea, to sea! I sought the youngest, best. 5 (1850) And never was at rest Till I had laid them at thy fairy feet. But the days of childhood they were fleet. DIRGE And the blooming sweet-briar-breathed weather, If thou wilt ease thine heart When we were boy and girl together. :o Of love and all its smart. Then sleep, dear, sleep; Then we were lad and lass together. And not a sorrow And sought the kiss of night Hang any tear on your eye-lashes; S Before we felt aright, Lie still and deep. Sitting and singing soft and sweet. Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes The dearest thought of heart 15 The rim 0' the sun to-morrow. With thee 't was joy to part, In eastern sky. And the greater half was thine, as meet. Still my eyelid 's dewy, my veins they beat But wilt thou cure thine heart 10 At the starry summer-evening weather, Of love and all its smart, When we were lad and lass together. 20 Then die, dear, die; EDWARD FITZGERALD 669 'T is deeper, sweeter, Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming With folded eye; '5 And then alone, amid the beaming Of love's stars, thou 'It meet her In eastern sky. (1850) 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 s 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 1° Through a murderer's bones, to and fro. In the ghosts' moonshine. Ho ! Eve, my gray carrion wife, When we have supped on king's mar- row, Where shall we drink and make merry our life? IS Our nest it is Queen Cleopatra's skull, 'T is 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; 21 It 's only two devils, that blow Through a murderer's bones, to and fro. In the ghosts' moonshine. (1850) EDWARD FITZGERALD (1809-1883) From THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM Why, if the Soul, can fling the dust aside. And naked on the air of Heaven ride, Wer 't not a shame — wer 't not a shame for him In this clay carcase crippled to abide? 'T is but a tent where takes his one-day's rest 5 A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest; The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash Strikes, and prepares it for another guest. And fear not lest existence closing your Account, and mine, should know the like no more ; 10 The Eternal Saki from that bowl has poured Millions of bubbles like us, and will pour. When you and I behind the veil are past, Oh, but the long long while the world shall last. Which of our coming and departure heeds As the Seven Seas should heed a pebble- cast. 16 A moment's halt — a momentary taste Of Being from the well amid the waste — And lo ! — the phantom caravan has reached The Nothing it set out from — Oh, make haste! 20 * * * The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ. Moves on : nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. * * * Yet ah, that Spring should vanish with the rose ! 25 That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close! The nightingale that in the branches sang, Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows ! Would but the desert of the fountain yield One glimpse — if dimly, yet indeed, re- vealed, 30 To which the fainting traveler might spring, As springs the trampled herbage of the field! Would but some winged Angel ere too late Arrest the yet unfolded roll of fate, And make the stern Recorder otherwise 3S Enregister, or quite obliterate! Ah, Love ! could you and I with him con- spire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things en- tire, Would not we shatter it to bits — and then Re-mold it nearer to the heart's desire ! 4° * * * (1859: 1872) 670 NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWN- ING (1809-1861) A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT What was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat. And breaking the golden lilies afloat 5 With the dragon-fly on the river? He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep cool bed of the river, The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 'o And the dragon-fly had fled away. Ere he brought it out of the river. High on the shore sat the great god Pan, While turbidly flowed the river, And hacked and hewed as a great god can i5 With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed. Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river. He cut it short, did the great god Pan, (How tall it stood in the river!), 20 Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring, And notched the poor dry empty thing In holes as he sat by the river. 'This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan, 25 (Laughed while he sat by the river) ' The only way since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed.' Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed. He blew in power by the river. 30 Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan ! Piercing sweet by the river! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan ! The sun on the hill forgot to die. And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 35 Came back to dream on the river. Yet half a beast is the great god Pan To laugh, as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man: The true gods sigh for the cost and pain — For the reed which grows never more again 41 As a reed with the reeds of the river. (1862) SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, S I saw in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; n And a voice said in mastery while I strove, 'Guess now who holds thee?' — 'Death!' I said. But there. The silver answer rang: 'Not Death, but Love.' V I lift my heavy heart up solemnly, As once Elcctra her sepulchral urn, And looking in thine eyes, I overturn The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see What a great heap of grief lay hid in me, 5 And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn Through the ashen grayness. If thy foot in scorn Could tread them out to darkness utterly. It might be well perhaps. But if instead Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow The gray dust up, . . . those laurels on thine head, " O my Beloved, will not shield thee so, That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred The hair beneath. Stand farther off then ! go. VI Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life, I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 5 Serenely in the sunshine as before. Without the sense of that which I forbore — Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do >° And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 671 God for myself, he hears that name of thine, And sees within my eyes the tears of two. The face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, 5 Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear. The names of country, heaven, are changed away 'o For where thou art or shalt be, there or here; And this . . . this lute and song . . . loved yesterday, (The singing angels know) are only dear Because thy name moves right in what they say. XIII And wilt thou have me fashion into speech The love I bear thee, finding words enough. And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough, Between our faces, to cast light on each ? — I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach 5 My hand to hold my spirit so far off From myself — me — that I should bring thee proof In words, of love hid in me out of reach. Nay, let the silence of my womanhood Commend my woman-love to thy belief, — 1° Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed. And rend the garment of my life, in brief. By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude. Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief. XIV If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say 'I love her for her smile — her look — her way Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 5 A sense of pleasant ease on such a day' — For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, so wrought. May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, — 10 A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love there- by! But love me for love's sake, that ever- more Thou mayst love on, through love's eter- nity. Beloved, my Beloved, when I think That thou wast in the world a year ago, What time I sat alone here in the snow And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink 4 No moment at thy voice, but, link by link, Went counting all my chains as if that so They never could fall off at any blow Struck by thy possible hand, — why, thus I drink Of life's great cup of wonder! Wonder- ful, Never to feel thee thrill the day or night 1° With personal act or speech, — nor ever cull Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull, Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight. XXXV If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me? Shall 1 never miss Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange. When I look up, to drop on a new range 5 Of walls and floors, another home than this ? Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change ? That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried, To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove; 'o For grief indeed is love and grief beside. Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me — wilt thou ? Open thine heart wide, And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. 672 NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS XLIII How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and hrcadtli and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's 5 Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 1° I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. (1850) WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACK- ERAY (1811-1863) AT THE CHURCH GATE Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, 5 Expectant of her. The minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout, And noise and humming; They've hush'd the minster bell: 10 The organ 'gins to swell ; She 's coming, she 's coming ! My lady comes at last, Timid and stepping fast And hastening thither, 'S With modest eyes downcast; She comes — she's here, she's past! May heaven go with her ! Kneel undisturbed, fair saint ! Pour out your praise or plaint 20 Meekly and duly ; I will not enter there. To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly. But suffer me to pace 25 Round the forbidden place. Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits, who wait, And sec, through heaven's gate, Angels within it. 3° (1849-50) THE END OF THE PLAY The play is done — the curtain drops. Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; A moment yet the actor stops. And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task ; 5 And when he 's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that 's anything but gay. One word, ere yet the evening ends : Let 's close it with a parting rhyme, 10 And pledge a hand to all young friends. As fits the merry Christmas time; On life's wide scene you, too, have parts. That fate ere long shall bid you play ; Good-night! — with honest gentle hearts 'S A kindly greeting go alway ! Good-night! — I'd say the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page. The triumphs and defeats of boys, Are but repeated in our age ; 20 I 'd say your woes were not less keen. Your hopes more vain, than those of men, Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again. I 'd say we suffer and we strive 25 Not less nor more as men than boys, With grizzled beards at forty-five. As erst at twelve in corduroys, And if, in time of sacred youth. We learned at home to love and pray, 3^ Pray heaven that early love and truth May never wholly pass away. And in the world, as in the school, I 'd say how fate may change and shift, The prize be sometimes with the fool, 35 The race not always to the swift; The strong may yield, the good may fall. The great man be a vulgar clown. The knave be lifted over all. The kind cast pitilessly down. 4° Who knows the inscrutable design? Blessed be he who took and gave ! Why should your mother, Charles, not Be weeping at her darling's grave? mine. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH ^72> We bow to heaven that willed it so, 45 That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow. That 's free to give or to recall. This crowns his feast with wine and wit — Who brought him to that mirth and state? His betters, see, below him sit, S' Or hunger hopeless at the gate. Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel To spurn the rags of Lazarus? Come, brother, in that dust we '11 kneel, 55 Confessing heaven that ruled it thus. So each shall mourn, in life's advance, ' Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed, j Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, I And longing passion unfulfilled. 6o Amen ! — whatever fate be sent, Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the head with cares be bent. And whitened with the winter snow. Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 65 Let young and old accept their part. And bow before the awful will. And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses or who wins the prize — Go, lose or conquer as you can ; 70 But if you fail, or if you rise. Be each, pray God, a gentleman. A gentleman, or old or young! j (Bear kindly with my humble lays;) I The sacred chorus first was sung 75 Upon the first of Christmas days; I The shepherds heard it overhead — The joyful angels raised it then: j Glory to heaven on high, it said, I And peace on earth to gentle men ! 80 My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health, and love, and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, 85 Be this, good friends, our carol still : Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will. (1848) ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH (1819-1861) QUA CURSUM VENTUS As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 43 When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied. Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas By each was cleaving, side by side; E'en so, but why the tale reveal Of those, whom year by year, un- changed, 10 Brief absence joined anew to feel. Astounded, soul from soul estranged? At dead of night their sails were filled. And onward each rejoicing steered — Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, i5 Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ! To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain. Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, Through winds and tides one compass guides — To that, and your own selves, be true. 20 But O blithe breeze ; and O great seas. Though ne'er, that earliest parting past. On your wide plain they join again. Together lead them home at last. One port, methought, alike they sought, 25 One purpose hold where'er they fare, — O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! At last, at last, unite them there ! (1849) WHITHER DEPART THE BRAVE Rome is fallen, I hear, the gallant Medici taken. Noble Manara slain, and Garibaldi has lost il Moro; — Rome is fallen ; and fallen, or falling, heroi- cal Venice. I, meanwhile, for the loss of a single small chit of a girl, sit Moping and mourning here, — for her, and myself much smaller. 5 Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle. Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with them? Are they upborne from the field on the slum- berous pinions of angels LTnto a far-off home, where the weary rest from their labor, And the deep wounds are healed, and the bitter and burning moisture 'o Wiped from the generous eyes? or do they linger, unhappy, 674 NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS Pining, and haunting the grave of their by- gone hope and endeavor? All declamation, alas! though I talk, I care not for Rome nor Italy; feebly and faintly, and but with the lips, can lament the Wreck of the Lombard youth, and the vic- tory of the oppressor. JS Whither depart the brave ! — God knows ; I certainly do not. (1858) WHERE LIES THE LAND Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say. On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, 5 Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace ; Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below The foaming wake far widening as we go. On stormy nights when wild northwesters rave. How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave! jo The dripping sailor on the reeling mast Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, '5 Far, far behind, is all that they can say. (1862) AH! YET CONSIDER IT AGAIN! 'Old things need not be therefore true,' O brother men, nor yet the new ; Ah! still awhile the old thought retain, And yet consider it again ! The souls of now two thousand years 5 Have laid up here their toils and fears, And all the earnings of their pain, — Ah, yet consider it again ! We ! what do we see ? each a space Of some few yards before his face; 1° Does that the whole wide plan explain? Ah, yet consider it again ! Alas I the great world goes its way, And takes its truth from each new day; They do not quit, nor can retain, '5 Far less consider it again. ( 1862) IN THE DEPTHS It is not sweet content, be sure. That moves the nobler Muse to song. Yet when could truth come whole and pure From hearts that inly writhe with wrong? 'T is not the calm and peaceful breast 5 That sees or reads the problem true ; They only know, on whom 't has prest Too hard to hope to solve it too. Our ills are worse than at their ease These blameless happy souls suspect, 'o They only study the disease, Alas, who live not to detect. (1862) THE LATEST DECALOGUE Thou shalt have one God only; who Would be at the expense of two? No graven images may be Worshipped, except the currency: Swear not at all ; for, for thy curse 5 Thine enemy is none the worse: At church On Sunday to attend Will serve to keep the world thy friend: Honor thy parents : that is, all From whom advancement may befall ; '« Thou shalt not kill ; but need'st not strive Officiously to keep alive: Do not adultery commit ; Advantage rarely comes of it: Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, '5 When it 's so lucrative to cheat : Bear not false witness; let the lie Have time on its own wings to {\y: Thou shalt not covet, but tradition Approves all forms of competition. 20 (1862) SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labor and the wounds are vain. The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain. FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON 675 If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; 5 It may be, in yon smoke concealed. Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers. And, but for you, possess the field. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking. Seem here no painful inch to gain, 10 Far back, through creeks and inlets making. Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light. In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 'S But westward, look, the land is bright. (1862) LIFE IS STRUGGLE To wear out heart, and nerves, and brain. And give oneself a world of pain ; Be eager, angry, fierce, and hot. Imperious, supple — God knows what. For what's all one to have or not; 5 O false, unwise, absurd, and vain ! For 't is not joy, it is not gain, It is not in itself a bliss. Only it is precisely this That keeps us all alive. 10 To say we truly feel the pain, And quite are sinking with the strain ; — Entirely, simply, undeceived, Believe, and say we ne'er believed The object, e'en were it achieved, is A thing we e'er had cared to keep; With heart and soul to hold it cheap. And then to go and try it again ; O false, unwise, absurd, and vain ! O, 't is not joy, and 't is not bliss, 20 Only it is precisely this That keeps us still alive. (1869) FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON •(1821-1895) TO MY GRANDMOTHER Suggested by a picture by Mr. Romney This relative of mine. Was she seventy-and nine When she died? By the canvas may be seen How she looked at seventeen, 5 As a bride. Beneath a summer tree Her maiden reverie Has a charm ; Her ringlets are in taste ; What an arm ! and what a waist For an arm ! With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, Lace farthingale, and gay Falbala, — If Romney's touch be true, What a lucky dog were you. Grandpapa ! Her lips are sweet as love; They are parting! Do they move? Are they dumb? Her eyes are blue, and beam Beseechingly, and seem To say, ' Come I ' What funny fancy slips From atween these cherry lips? Whisper me. Fair Sorceress in paint, What canon says I may n't Marry thee? That good-for-nothing Time Has a confidence sublime ! When I first Saw this Lady, in my youth, Her winters had, forsooth, Done their worst. Her locks, as white as snow. Once shamed the swarthy crow; By-and-by That fowl's avenging sprite Set his cruel foot for spite Near her eye. Her rounded form was lean. And her silk was bombazine ; Well I wot With her needles would she sit, And for hours would she knit, — Would she not? Ah, perishable clay! Her charms had dropt away One by one ; But if she heaved a sigh With a burthen, it was, 'Thy Will be done.' In travail, as in tears, With the fardel of her years Overprest, 676 NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS In mercy she was borne Where the weary and the worn Are at rest. Oh, if you now are there, And szuccl as once you were, Grandnianinia, This nether world agrees You '11 all the better please Grandpapa. (1862) MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS She has dancing eyes and niby Ii[^s, Delightful boots — and azuay she skips. They nearly strike me dumb, — I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat : 5 This palpitation means These Boots are Geraldine's — Think of that! O, where did hunter win So delicate a skin 1° For her feet ? You lucky little kid, You perished, so you did, For my Sweet. The faery stitching gleams i5 On the sides, and in the seams, And reveals That the Pixies were the wags Who tipt these funny tags. And these heels. 20 What soles to charm an elf ! — Had Crusoe, sick of self. Chanced to view One printed near the tide, O, how hard he would have tried 25 For the two ! For Gerry 's debonair. And innocent and fair As a rose; She 's an Angel in a frock, — 30 She 's an Angel with a clock To her hose ! The simpletons who squeeze Their pretty toes to please Mandarins, 35 Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine's ! Cinderella's left and rights To Geraldine's were frights: And I trow The Damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod Until now. Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) These to don, Set your dainty hand a while On my shoulder, Dear, and I '11 Put them on. COVENTRY PATMORE (1823-1896J THE SPIRIT'S EPOCHS Not in the crises of events. Of compassed hopes, or fears fulfilled. Or acts of gravest consequence, Are life's delight and depth revealed. The day of days was not the day; 5 That went before, or was postponed; The night Death took our lamp away Was not the night on which we groaned. I drew my bride, beneath the moon. Across my threshold; happy hour! 10 But, ah, the walk that afternoon We saw the water-flags in flower ! (1862) THE MARRIED LOVER Why, having won her, do I woo? Because her spirit's vestal grace Provokes me always to pursue, But, spirit-like, eludes embrace; Because her womanhood is such 5 That, as on court-days subjects kiss The Queen's hand, yet so n«ar a touch Affirms no mean familiarness ; Nay, rather marks more fair the height Which can with safety so neglect 1° To dread, as lower ladies might, That grace could meet with disrespect; Thus she with happy favor feeds Allegiance from a love so high That thence no false conceit proceeds 'S Of difference bridged, or state put by, Because although in act and word As lowly as a wife can be. CHRISTINA ROSSETTI ^71 Her manners, when they call me lord, Remind me 'tis by courtesy; -o Not with her least consent of will, Which would my proud afifection hurt, But by the noble style that still Imputes an unattained desert ; Because her gay and lofty brows, 25 When all is won which hope can ask, Reflect a light of hopeless snows That bright in virgin ether bask ; Because, though free of the outer court I am, this Temple keeps its shrine 3° Sacred to Heaven ; because in short, She 's not and never can be mine. (1862) IF I WERE DEAD ' If I were dead, you 'd sometimes say, Poor Child!' The dear lips quivered as they spake. And the tears brake From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. Poor Child, poor Child ! I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your _ song. It is not true that Love will do no wrong. Poor Child! And did you think, when you so cried and smiled. How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, 1° And of those words your full avengers make ? Poor Child, poor Child ! And now unless it be That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O God, have thou no mercy upon me! 15 Poor Child! (1877) SIDNEY DOBELL (1824-1874) AMERICA Alen say, Columbia, we shall hear thy guns. But in what tongue shall be thy battle-cry? Not that our sires did love in years gone by, When all the Pilgrim Fathers were little sons In merrie homes of Englaunde? Back, and see 5 Thy satcheled ancestor ! Behold, he runs To mine, and, clasped, they tread the equal lea To the same village-school, where side by side They spell ' our Father.' Hard by, the twin- pride Of that gray hall whose ancient oriel gleams 10 Through yon baronial pines, with looks of light Our sister-mothers sit beneath one tree. Meanwhile our Shakspere wanders past and dreams His Helena and Hermia. Shall we fight? Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye IS Who north or south, on east or western land. Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth, Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God For God ; O ye who in eternal youth Speak with a living and creative flood 20 This universal English, and do stand Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand. Heroic utterance — parted, yet a whole. Far, yet unsevered, — children brave and free Of the great Mother-tongue, and ye shall be 25 Lords of an Empire wide as Shakspere's soul, Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme, And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream. (1855) CHRISTINA ROSSETTI (1830-1894) SONG When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me ; Plant thou no roses at my head. Nor shady cypress-tree : Be the green grass above me S With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember. And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain ; 10 I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight 678 NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget. REMEMBER (1862) Remember me when I am gone away, (jonc far away into the silent land ; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember mc when no more, day by day, 5 You tell mc of your future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: 1° For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad. (1862) ABNEGATION If there be any one can take my place And make you happy whom I grieve to grieve, Think not that I can grudge it, but be- lieve I do commend you to that nobler grace, That readier wit than mine, that sweeter face ; 5 Yea, since your riches make me rich, con- ceive I too am crowned, while bridal crowns I weave. And thread the bridal dance with jocund pace. For if I did not love you, it might be That I should grudge you some one dear delight; '° But since the heart is yours that was mine own. Your pleasure is my pleasure, right my right. Your honorable freedom makes me free. And you companioned I am not alone. (1881) TRUST If I could trust mine own self with your fate. Shall I not rather trust it in God's hand? Without whose will one lily cloth not stand, Nor sparrow fall at his appointed date; Who nnmliercth the innumerable sand, s Who weighs the wind and water with a weight, To whom the world is neither small nor great, Whose knowledge foreknew every plan we planned. Searching my heart for all that touches you, 1 find there only love and love's good-will Helpless to help and impotent to do, " Of understanding dull, of sight most dim; And therefore I commend you back to him Whose love your love's capacity can fill. (1881) UP-HILL Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? s A roof for when the slow dark hours be- gin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. "> Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labor you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? IS Yea, beds for all who come. (1862) CHARLES STUART CALVER- LEY (1831-1884) COMPANIONS A TALE OF A GRANDFATHER I know not of what we pondered Or made pretty pretence to talk, As, her hand within mine, we wandered Toward the pool by the lime-tree walk, AUSTIN DOBSON While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers 5 And the blush-rose bent on her stalk. I cannot recall her figure : Was it regal as Juno's own? Or only a trifle bigger Than the elves who surround the throne lo Of the Faery Queen, and are seen, I ween. By mortals in dreams alone? What her eyes were like I know not : Perhaps they were blurred with tears ; And perhaps in yon skies there glow not 'S (On the contrary) clearer spheres. No! as to her eyes I am just as wise As you or the cat, my dears. Her teeth, I presume, were ' pearly : ' But which was she, brunette or blonde? 20 Her hair, was it quaintly curly, Or as straight as a beadle's wand? That I failed to remark: it was rather dark And shadowy round the pond. Then the hand that reposed so snugly 25 In mine, — was it plump or spare? Was the countenance fair or ugly? Nay, children, you have me there! My eyes were p'haps blurred ; and besides I 'd heard That it 's horribly rude to stare. 30 And I, — was I brusque and surly? Or oppressively bland and fond? Was I partial to rising early? Or why did we twain abscond, When nobody knew, from the public view 35 To prowl by a misty pond? What passed, what was felt or spoken, — Whether anything passed at all, — And whether the heart was broken That beat under that shelt'ring shawl, — 40 (If shawl she had on, which I doubt), — has gone, Yes, gone from me past recall. Was I haply the lady's suitor? Or her uncle? I can't make out; Ask your governess, dears, or tutor. 45 For myself, I 'm in hopeless doubt As to why we were there, who on earth we were, And what this is all about. (1872) 679 AUSTIN DOBSON (1840-) A DEAD LETTER I drew it from its china tomb; — It came out feebly scented With some thin ghost of past perfume That dust and days had lent it. An old, old letter,— folded still ! 5 To read with due composure, I sought the sun-lit window-sill. Above the gray enclosure, That glimmering in the sultry haze. Faint flowered, dimly shaded, 10 Slumbered like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize, Bedizened and brocaded. A queer old place ! You 'd surely say Some tea-board garden-maker Had planned it in Dutch William's day is To please some florist Quaker, So trim it was. The yew-trees still, With pious care perverted, Grew in the same grim shapes ; and still The lipless dolphin spurted ; 20 Still in his wonted state abode The broken-nosed Apollo; And still the cypress-arbor showed The same umbrageous hollow. Only, — as fresh young Beauty gleams 25 From coffee-colored laces, — So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams The fresher modern traces; For idle mallet, hoop, and ball Upon the lawn were lying ; 30 A magazine, a tumbled shawl, Round which the swifts were flying; And, tossed beside the Guelder rose, A heap of rainbow knitting, Where, blinking in her pleased repose, 35 A Persian cat was sitting. ' A place to love in, — live, — for aye, If we too, like Tithonus, Could find some God to stretch the gray Scant life the Fates have thrown us; 40 ' But now by steam we run our race, With buttoned heart and pocket; 68o NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS Our Love's a gilded, surplus grace,— Just like an empty locket ! " The time is out of joint." Who will, 45 May strive to make it better ; For me, this warm old window-sill, And this old dusty letter.' 'Dear John (the letter ran), it can't, can't be, For Father 's gone to Charley Fair with Sam, so And Mother 's storing Apples, — Pruc and Me Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam : But we shall meet before a Week is gone, — " 'T is a long Lane that has no turning," John! ' Only till Sunday next, and then you '11 wait 55 Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile — We can go round and catch them at the Gate, All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile; Dear Prne won't look, and Father he '11 go on. And Sam's two Eyes are all for Cissy, John! 6o 'John, she's so smart, — with every ribbon new. Flame-colored Sack, and Crimson Pade- soy ; As proud as proud ; and has the Vapors too. Just like My Lady ; — calls poor Sam a Boy, And vows no Sweet-heart 's worth the Thinking-on 65 Till he 's past Thirty ... I know better, John! ' My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much Before we knew each other, I and you ; And now, why, John, your least, least Fin- ger-touch, Gives me enough to think a Summer through. See, for I send you Something ! There, 't is gone ! Look in this corner, — mind you find it, John! ' This was the matter of the note, — A long-forgot deposit, Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat, 75 Deep in a fragrant closet, Piled with a dapper Dresden world, — Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses, — Bonzes with squat legs undercurlod,' And great jars filled with roses. 80 Ah, heart that wrote! Ah, lips that kissed! You had no thought or presage Into what keeping you dismissed Your simple old-world message ! A reverent one. Though we to-day 85 Distrust beliefs and powers. The artless, ageless things you say Are fresh as May's own flowers, Starring some pure primeval spring. Ere Gold had grown despotic, — 90 Ere Life was yet a selfish thing, Or Love a mere exotic I I need not search too much to find Whose lot it was to send it, That feel upon me yet the kind, 95 Soft hand of her who penned it ; And see, through twoscore years of smoke, In by-gone, quaint apparel, Shine from yon time-black Norway oak The face of Patience Caryl, — 100 The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed ; The gray gown, primly flowered ; The spotless, stately coif whose crest Like Hector's horse-plume towered ; And still the sweet half-solemn look 105 Where some past thought was clinging, As when one shuts a serious book To hear the thrushes singing. I kneel to you! Of those you were, Whose kind old hearts grow mellow, — no Whose fair old faces grow more fair As Point and Flanders yellow; Whom some old store of garnered grief, Their placid temples shading, Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf I'S With tender tints of fading. JAMES THOMSON 681 Peace to your soul ! You died unwed — Despite this loving letter. And what of John? The less that's said Of John, I think, the better. 120 (1883) JAMES THOMSON (1834-1882) From THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT MELENCOLIA Anear the center of that northern crest Stands out a level upland bleak and bare, From which the city east and south and west Sinks gently in long waves ; and throned there Ah Image sits, stupendous, superhuman, 5 The bronze colossus of a winged Woman, Upon a graded granite base foursquare. Low-seated she leans forward massively, With cheek on clenched left hand, the forearm's might Erect, its elbow on her rounded knee ; Across a clasped book in her lap the right 1 1 Upholds a pair of compasses; she gazes With full set eyes, but wandering in thick mazes Of somber thought beholds no outward sight. Words cannot picture her ; but all men know That solemn sketch the pure sad artist wrought 16 Three centuries and three score years ago, With fantasies of his peculiar lliought : The instruments of carpentry and science Scattered about her feet, in strange alliance With the keen wolf-hound sleeping undis- traught ; Scales, hour-glass, bell, and magic-square above ; The grave and solid infant perched beside, With open winglets that might bear a dove, Intent upon its tablets, heavy-eyed ; 25 Her folded wings as of a mighty eagle But all too impotent to lift the regal Robustness of her earth-born strength and pride; i And with those wings, and that light wreath which seems To mock her grand head and the knotted frown 30 Of forehead charged with baleful thoughts and dreams, The household bunch of keys, the house- wife's gown Voluminous, indented, and yet rigid As if a shell of burnished metal frigid, The feet thick-shod to tread all weakness down ; 3s The comet hanging o'er the waste dark seas, The massy rainbow curved in front of it Beyond the village with the masts and trees; The snaky imp, dog-headed, from the Pit, Bearing upon its batlike leathern pinions 40 Her name unfolded in the sun's dominions, The 'MELENCOLIA' that transcends all wit. Thus has the artist copied her, and thus Surrounded to expound her form sublime. Her fate heroic and calamitous ; 45 Fronting the dreadful mysteries of Time, I'nvanquished in defeat and desolation, Undaunted in the hopeless conflagration Of the day setting on her baffled prime. Baffled and beaten back she works on still. Weary and sick of soul she works the more, 51 Sustained by her indomitable will: The hands shall fashion and the brain shall pore, And all her sorrow shall be turned to labor. Till Death the friend-foe piercing with his saber 55 That mighty heart of hearts ends bitter war. But as if blacker night could dawn on night, With tenfold gloom on moonless night unstarred, A sense more tragic than defeat and blight. More desperate than strife with hope de- barred. 60 More fatal than the adamantine Never Encompassing her passionate endeavor. Dawns glooming in her tenebrous regard'. The sense that every struggle brings de- feat Because Fate holds no prize to crown suc- cess ; 65 That all the oracles are dumb or cheat Because they have no secret to express ; 682 NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS That none can pierce the vast hlack veil uncertain Because there is no hght beyond the cur- tain ; That all is vanity and nothingness. 70 Titanic from her high throne in the north, That City's somber Patroness and Queen, In bronze sublimity she gazes forth Over her Capital of teen and threne, Over the river with its isles and bridges, 75 The marsh and moorland, to the stern rock- ridges, Confronting them with a coeval mien. The moving moon and stars from east to west Circle before her in the sea of air; Shadows and gleams glide round her sol- emn rest. s° Her subjects often gaze up to her there : The strong to drink new strength of iron endurance, The weak new terrors ; all, renewed assur- ance And confirmation of the old despair. (1874) ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY (1844-1881) HAS SUMMER COME WITHOUT THE ROSE? Has summer come without the rose, Or left the bird behind? Is the blue changed above thee, O world ! or am I blind ? Will you change every flower that grows, s Or only change this spot, Where she who said, I love thee, Now says, I love thee not? The skies seemed true above thee, The rose true on the tree; ^o The bird seemed true the summer through. But all proved false to me. World, is there one good thing in you, Life, love, or death — or what? Since lips that sang, I love thee, 15 Have said, I love thee not? 1 think (he smi's kiss will scarce fall Into one flower's gold cup; I think the bird will miss me, And give the summer up. 20 O sweet place, desolate in tall Wild grass, have you forgot How her lips loved to kiss me, Now that they kiss me not, Be false or fair above me; 2s Come back with any face. Summer! — do I care what you do? You cannot change one place, — The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew, The grave I make the spot, — 3° Here, where she used to love me, Here, where she loves me not. (1874) ODE We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers. And sitting by desolate streams ; — World-losers and world-forsakers, 5 On whom the pale moon gleams : Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, 10 And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure is Can trample a kingdom down. We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth. Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself in our mirth; 20 And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth; For each age is a dream that is dying. Or one that is coining to birth. (1874) THOMAS DE OUINCEY (1785-1859) De Quinc6y's life was ill-regulated, almost from his infancy, in its material conditions. His education was interrupted by changes from one school to another, and at seventeen he ran away from the grammar school of his native city, Manchester, as he himself describes in the first of our extracts from the ' Confessions.' He made his way through Wales to London, where he wandered about in the streets and mixed with the lowest classes of society. After a year of this adventurous life he became an undergraduate at Oxford, but he gave little atten- tion to the prescribed studies, and left without taking a degree. He spent a great deal of time on German, of which he had already learnt something from a chance meeting with a tourist during his wanderings in Wales, and he obtained a good knowledge of Kant and other l)hilosophical writers. He wrote, years afterwards : ' Without breach of truth or modesty I may atHrm that my life has been, on the whole, the life of a philosopher : from my birth I was made an intellectual creature; and intellectual in the highest sense my pursuits and pleasures have been, even from my school-boy days.' In 1807 he paid a visit to Coleridge and escorted jNIrs. Coleridge and her children to the Lake District, where he met Southey and Wordsworth, and settled down for some years, marrying the daughter of a Westmoreland farmer. In 1821 he removed to Loudon and began his literary career by contributing the Confessions of an English Opium Eater to the London Magazine. His writings consist almost entirely of essays and reviews, written for various periodicals, and covering a wide range of subjects ; many of them are on German literature, which at that time was interesting the British public. The latter part of his life was spent mainly in and about Edinburgh, where his daughter kept house for him. She says: 'He was not a reassuring man for nervous people to live with, as those nights were exceptions on which he did not set something on fire, the commonest incident being for someone to look up from book or work to say casually : " Papa, your hair is on fire," of which a calm, " Is it, my love? " and a hand rubbing out of the blaze was all the notice taken.' His rooms were crowded with books and papers until they became uninhabitable and he moved elsewhere, leaving the accumulated store to the mercy of the landlady. He was incapable of managing money matters, and was often in prison for debt. He would ask for the loan of a small sum, imagining himself absolutely penniless when he had a £50 note in his pocket. His dress and his personal appearance were as odd as his habits ; be was of very short stature, with a large head, and bright eyes. He had an extremely delicate ear for music and the harmonies of words; this in part accounts for the beauty of his prose style, which is molded on that of the great writers of the first half of the seventeenth century. He had a keenly analytic intellect, and some of his writings are highly philosophical and imaginative; but like Lamb, as he himself said, he had 'a furious love for nonsense — headlong nonsense' — ' rigmaroling ' his friends called it — and the 'Con- fessions ' need not be taken as literal accounts of actual fact. From CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM EATER I have often been asked how I first quisite pleasure it gave me: but, so long came to be a regular opium eater; and as I took it with this view, I was ef- have suffered, very unjustly, in the opin- fectually protected from all material bad ion of my acquaintance, from being re- consequences, by the necessity of inter- puted to have brought upon myself all 5 posing long intervals between the several the sufferings which I shall have to acts of indulgence, in order to renew the record, by a long course of indulgence pleasurable sensations. It was not for in this practice purely for the sake of the purpose of creating pleasure, but of creating an artificial state of pleasurable mitigating pain in the severest degree, excitement. This, however, is a mis- 10 that I first began to use opium as an representation of my case. True it is, article of daily diet. In the twenty- that for nearly ten years I did occasion- eighth year of my age, a most painful ally take opium for the sake of the ex- affection of the stomach, which I had 683 684 THOMAS D E QUINCEY first experienced about ten years before, head of a great school on an ancient attacked nie in great strength. This af- foundation. This man had been ap- fection had originally been caused by ex- pointed to his situation by College, tremities of hunger, suffered in my boyish Oxford; and was a sound, well-built days. During the season of hope and 5 scholar, but (like most men, whom I have redundant happiness which succeeded known from that college) coarse, clumsy, (that is, from eighteen to twenty- four) it and inelegant. A miserable contrast he had slumbered; for the three following presented, in my eyes, to the Etonian years it had revived at intervals; and brilliancy of my favorite master; and be- now, under unfavorable circumstances, lo side, he could not disguise from my from depression of spirits, it attacked me hourly notice, the poverty and meagerncss with a violence that yielded to no rem- of his understanding. It is a bad thing edies but opium. As the youthful suffer- for a boy to be, and to know himself, ings, which first produced this derange- far beyond his tutors, whether in know- ment of the stomach, were interesting in 15 ledge or in power of mind. This was the themselves, and in the circumstances that case, so far as regarded knowledge at attended them, I shall here briefly retrace least, not with myself only, for the two them. boys who jointly with myself composed My father died when I was about seven the first form were better Grecians than years old, and left me to the care of four 20 the head-master, though not more ele- guardians. I was sent to various schools, gant scholars, nor at all more accustomed great and small; and was very early dis- to sacrifice to the graces. When I first tinguished for my classical attainments, entered, I remember that we read Soph- especially for my knowledge of Greek. ocles ; and it was a constant matter of At thirteen I wrote Greek with ease ; and 25 triumph to us, the learned triumvirate of at fifteen my command of that language the first form, to see our ' Archididas- was so great, that I not only composed calus ' (as he loved to be called) conning Greek verses in lyric meters, but could our lessons before we went up, and lay- converse in Greek fluently and with- ing a regular train, with lexicon and out embarrassment — an accomplishment 30 grammar, for blowing up and blasting which I have not since met with in any (as it were) any difficulties he found in scholar of my times, and which, in my the choruses; whilst we never conde- case, was owing to the practice of daily scended to open our books until the mo- reading off the newspapers into the best ment of going up, and were generally Greek I could furnish extempore; for 35 employed in writing epigrams upon his the necessity of ransacking my memory wig, or some such important matter. My and invention, for all sorts and combi- two class-fellows were poor, and depend- nations of periphrastic expressions, as ent for their future prospects at the equivalents for modern ideas, images, re- university on the recommendation of the lations of things, etc., gave me a compass 40 head-master ; but I, who had a small of diction which would never have been patrimonial property, the income of which called out by a dull translation of moral was sufficient to support me at college, essays, etc. ' That boy,' said one of my wished to be sent thither immediately. I masters, pointing the attention of a made earnest representations on the sub- stranger to me, ' that boy could harangue 45 ject to my guardians, but all to no pur- an Athenian mob, better than you and I pose. One, who was more reasonable, could address an English one.' He who and had more knowledge of the world honored me with this eulogy was a than the rest, lived at a distance ; two scholar, ' and a ripe and good one ; ' and of the other three resigned all their of all my tutors, was the only one whom 5° authority into the hands of the fourth ; I loved or reverenced. Unfortunately for and this fourth with whom I had to me (and, as I afterwards learned, to this negotiate, was a worthy man, in his way, worthy man's great indignation) I was but haughty, obstinate, and intolerant of transferred to the care, first of a block- all opposition to his will. After a certain head, who was in a perpetual panic, lest 55 number of letters and personal inter- I should expose his ignorance; and finally, views, I found that I had nothing to hope to that of a respectable scholar, at the for, not even a compromise of the matter. CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM EATER 685 from my guardian; unconditional submis- cently, smiled good-naturedly, returned sion was what he demanded; and I pre- my salutation (or rather, my valediction), ],'ared myself, therefore, for other and we parted (though he knew it not) measures. Summer was now coming on for ever. I could not reverence him in- with hasty steps, and my seventeenth 5 tellectually ; but he had been uniformly liirthday was fast approaching; after kind to me, and had allowed me many which day I had sworn within myself that indulgences; and I grieved at the thought I would no longer be numbered amongst of the mortification I should inflict upon school-boys. Money being what I chiefly him. wanted, I wrote to a woman of high rank, 10 The morning came which was to launch who, though young herself, had known me into the world, and from which my me from a child, and had latterly treated whole succeeding life has, in many im- me with great distinction, requesting portant points, taken its coloring. I that she would ' lend ' me five guineas. lodged in the head-master's house, and For upwards of a week no answer came ; 15 had been allowed, from my first entrance, and I was beginning to despond, when, the indulgence of a private room, which at length, a servant put into my hands a I used both as a sleeping room and as a double letter, with a coronet on the seal. study. At half after three I rose, and The letter was kind and obliging; the gazed with deep emotion at the ancient fair writer was on the sea-coast, and in 20 towers of , ' drest in earliest light,' that way the delay had arisen; she en- and beginning to crimson with the radiant closed double of what I had asked, and luster of a cloudless July morning. I good-naturedly hinted that if I should was firm and immovable in my purpose ; never repay her, it would not absolutely but yet agitated by anticipation of un- ruin her. Now then, I was prepared for 25 certain danger and troubles; and, if I my scheme ; ten guineas, added to about could have foreseen the hurricane and two which I had remaining from my perfect hail-storm of affliction which pocket money, seemed to me sufficient for soon fell upon me, well might I have an indefinite length of time; and at that been agitated. To this agitation the deep happy age, if no definite boundary can 30 peace of the morning presented an af- be assigned to one's power, the spirit of fecting contrast, and in some degree a hope and pleasure makes it virtually in- medicine. The silence was more pro- finite, found than that of midnight ; and to me It is a just remark of Dr. Johnson's the silence of a summer morning is more (and what cannot often be said of his 35 touching than all other silence, because, remarks, it is a very feeling one), that the light being broad and strong, as that we never do anything consciously for the of noon-day at other seasons of the year, last time (of things, that is, which we it seems to differ from perfect day, have long been in the habit of doing) chiefly because man is not yet abroad; without sadness of heart. This truth I 40 and thus, the peace of nature, and of the felt deeply, when I came to leave , innocent creatures of God, seems to be a place which I did not love, and where secure and deep, only so long as the I had not been happy. On the evening presence of man, and his restless and before I left for ever, I grieved unquiet spirit, are not there to trouble its when the ancient and lofty school-room 45 sanctity. I dressed myself, took my hat resounded with the evening service, per- and gloves, and lingered a little in the formed for the last time in my hearing room. For the last year and a-half this and at night, when the muster-roll of room had been my ' pensive citadel ; ' names was called over, and mine (as here I had read and studied through all usual) was called first, I stepped for- so the hours of night; and, though true it ward, and, passing the head-master, who was, that for the latter part of this time was standing by, I bowed to him, and I, who was framed for love and gentle looked earnestly in his face, thinking to affections, had lost my gaiety and hap- myself, ' He is old and infijm, and in this piness, during the strife and fever of con- world I shall not see him' again.' I was S5 tention with my guardian ; yet, on the right: I never did see him again, nor other hand, as a boy, so passionately ever shall. He looked at me compla- fond of books, and dedicated to intel- 686 THOMAS DE QUINCEY lectual pursuits, I could not fail to have ing down the trunk alone, whilst I stood enjoyed many happy hours in the midst waiting at the foot of the last flight, in of general dejection. I wept as I looked anxiety for the event. For some time I round on the chair, hearth, writing-table, heard him descending with slow and firm and other familiar objects, knowing too 5 steps ; but unfortunately, from his trepi- certainly, that I looked upon them for dation, as he drew near the dangerous the last time. Whilst I write this, it is quarter, within a few steps of the gallery, eighteen years ago ; and yet, at this mo- his foot slipped ; and the mighty burden, ment, I see distinctly, as if it were yes- falling from his shoulders, gained such in- terday, the lineaments and expression of 10 crease of impetus at each step of the the object on which I fixed my parting descent, that, on reaching the bottom, it gaze; it was a picture of the lovely , trundled, or rather leaped, right across, which hung over the mantelpiece; the with the noise of twenty devils, against eyes and mouth of which were so beauti- the very bed-room door of the archididas- ful, and the whole countenance so radiant 15 calus. My first thought was that all was with benignity and divine tranquillity, lost, and that my only chance for execut- that I had a thousand times laid down ing a retreat was to sacrifice my bag- my pen, or my book, to gather consola- gage. However, on reflection, I de- tion from it, as a devotee from his patron termined to abide the issue. The groom saint. Whilst I was yet gazing upon it, 20 was in the utmost alarm, both on his the deep tones of clock proclaimed own account and on mine ; but, in spite that it was four o'clock. I went up to of this, so irresistibly had the sense of the picture, kissed it, and then gently the ludicrous in this unhappy contrc- walked out, and closed the door for ever ! temps taken possession of his fancy, that 25 he sang out a long, loud and canorous peal of laughter, that might have wak- So blended and intertwisted in this life ened the Seven Sleepers. At the sound are occasions of laughter and of tears, of this resonant merriment, within the that I cannot yet recall, without smiling, very ears of insulted authority, I could an incident which occurred at that time, 3onot myself forbear joining in it; sub- and which had nearly put a stop to the ^ued to this, not so much by the un- immediate execution of my plan. I had liappy etourderie of the trunk, as by the a trunk of immense weight; for, besides effect it had upon the groom. We both my clothes, it contained nearly all my li- expected, as a matter of course, that brary. The difficulty was to get this re- 35 Dr. would sally out of his room; moved to a carrier's; my room was at for in general, if but a mouse stirred, an aerial elevation in the house, and l^e sprang out like a mastifif from the (what was worse) the stair-case, which kennel. Strange to say, however, on this communicated with this angle of the occasion, when the noise of laughter had building, was accessible only by a gal- •»° ceased, no sound, or rustling even, was lery which passed the head-master's to be heard in the bed-room. Dr. chamber door. I was a favorite with had a painful complaint, which, some- all the servants ; and, knowing that any times keeping him awake, made his sleep, of them would screen me, and act con- perhaps, when it did come, the deeper, fidentially, I communicated my embarrass- •♦'' Gathering courage from the silence, the ment to a groom of the head-master's. groom hoisted his burden again, and ac- The groom swore he would do anything complished the remainder of his descent, I wished; and, when the time arrived, without accident. I waited until I saw went upstairs to bring the trunk down. the trunk placed on a wheel-barrow, and This I feared was beyond the strength 5o on its road to the carrier's; then, 'with of any one man ; however, the groom was Providence my guide,' I set off on foot a man — carrying a small parcel, with some articles of dress, under my arm ; a Of Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear favorite English poet in one pocket, and The weight of mightiest monarchies; 55 ^ small l2mo.- volume, containing about and had a back as spacious as Salisbury nine plays of Euripides, in the other. Plain. Accordingly he persisted in bring- * * * CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM EATER 687 If any man, poor or rich, were to say of youth; my brain performed its func- that he would tell us what had been the tions as healthily as ever before; I read happiest day in his life, and the why and Kant again, and again I understood him, the wherefore, I suppose that we should or fancied that I did. Again my feel- all cry out — Hear him! hear him! As sings of pleasure expanded themselves to to the happiest day, that must be very all around me; and if any man from difficult for any wise man to name; be- Oxford or Cambridge, or from neither, cause any event that could occupy so had been announced to me in my un- distinguished a place in a man's ret- pretending cottage, I should have wel- rospect of his life, or be entitled to have 10 comed him with as sumptuous a reception shed a special felicity on any one day, as so poor a man could offer. Whatever ought to be of such an enduring character else was wanting to a wise man's happi- as that (accidents apart) it should have ness, — of laudanum I would have given continued to shed the same felicity, or him as much as he wished, and in a one not distinguishably less, on many ,5 golden cup. And, by the way, now that years together. To the happiest liistnim, I speak of giving laudanum away, I re- however, or even to the happiest year, it member, about this time, a little incident, may be allowed to any man to point which I mention, because, trifling as it without discountenance from wisdom. was, the reader will soon meet it again This year, in my case, reader, was the 20 in my dreams, which it influenced more one which we have now reached; though fearfully than could be imagined. One it stood, I confess, as a parenthesis be- day a Malay knocked at my door. What tween years of a gloomier character. It business a Malay could have to transact was a year of brilliant water (to speak amongst English mountains, I cannot con- after the manner of jewelers), set as it 25 jecture ; but possibly he was on his road were, and insulated, in the gloom and to a seaport about fortv miles distant. cloudy melancholy of opium. Strange as The servant who opened the door to it may sound, I had a little before this him was a young girl born and bred time descended suddenly, and without any amongst the mountains, who had never considerable effort, from 320 grains of 30 seen an Asiatic dress of any sort ; his opium {i.e., eight 1 thousand drops of turban, therefore, confounded her not a laudanum) per day to forty grains, or little; and. as it turned out, that his at- one-eighth part. Instantaneously, and as tainments in English were exactly of the if by magic, the cloud of profoundest same extent as hers in the Malav. there melancholy which rested upon my brain, 35 seemed to be an impassable gulf fixed like some black vapors that I have seen between all communication of ideas, if roll away from the summits of mountains, either partv had happened to possess anv. drew off in one day {wxe-nix^pov) ; passed !„ this dilemma, the girl, recollecting the off with its murky banners as simultane- reputed learning of her master (and, ously as a ship that has been stranded, 40 doubtless, giving me credit for a know- and is floated off by a spring-tide— jedge of all the languages of the earth. That moveth altogether, if it move at all. besides, perhaps, a few of the lunar ones), came and gave me to understand Now, then, I was again happy; I now that there was a sort of demon below, took only 1,000 drops of laudanum per 45 whom she clearly imagined that mv art day; and what was that? A latter could exorcise from the house. I did spring had come to close up the season not immediately go down; but. when I ' I here reckon twenty-five drops of laudanum as did, the grOUp which presented itSClf. equivalent to one grain of opium, which, I believe, arranged as it was by accident, though is the common estimate. However, as both may 5° not very elaborate, tOOk hold of my be considered variable <,-r,antities (the crude opium ^ ^^^ j,^ ^ ^^^^ ^^^^ varying much in strength, and the tmcture still . r ^ , -' ■' ,,.. , •',.,. , . more), I suppose that no infinitesimal accuracy can of the Statuesque attitudes exhibited in be had in such a calculation. Teaspoons vary as the ballets at the Opera House, though much in size as opium in strength. Small ones so ostentatiouslv complex, had ever done, hold about 100 drops; so that 8000 drops are about 55 j,^ ^ cottage kitchen, but paneled on the eighty times a teaspoontul. The reader sees how n • 1 j 1 j 1 r much I kept within Dr. Buchan's indulgent allow- ^all With dark wood that from age and ance. rubbing resembled oak, and looking more 688 THOMAS DE QUINCEY like a rustic hall of entrance than a three dragoons and their horses; and I kitchen, stood the Malay — his turban and felt some alarm for the poor creature; loose trousers of dingy white relieved but what could be done? I had given upon the dark ])aneling; he had placed him the opium in compassion for his himself nearer to the girl than she seemed 5 solitary life, on recollecting that if he to relish; though her native spirit of had traveled on foot from London, it mountain intrepidity contended with the must be nearly three weeks since he could feeling of simple awe which her coun- have exchanged a thought with any human tenance expressed as she gazed upon the being. I could not think of violating the tiger-cat before her. And a more strik- lo laws of hospitality, by having him seized ing picture there could not be iniaginetl, and drenched with an emetic, and thus than the beautiful English face of the frightening him into a notion that we girl, and its exquisite fairness, together were going to sacrifice him to some Eng- with mahogany, by marine air, his small, lish idol. No: there was clearly no help contrasted with the sallow and bilious 15 for it; — he took his leave, and for some skin of the Malay, enameled or veneered days I felt anxious ; but as I never heard with her erect and independent attitude, of any Malay being found dead, I became fierce, restless eyes, thin lips, slavish convinced that he was used ^ to opium: gestures and adorations. Half-hidden by and that I must have done him the serv- the ferocious-looking Malay, was a little 20 ice I designed, by giving him one night child from a neighboring cottage who of respite from the pains of wandering, had crept in after him, and was now in This incident I have digressed to men- the act of reverting its head, and gazing tion, because this Malay (partly from upwards at the turban and the fiery eyes the picturesque exhibition he assisted to beneath it, whilst with one hand he 25 frame, partly from the anxiety I con- caught at the dress of the young woman nected with his image for some days) for protection. My knowledge of the fastened afterwards upon my dreams. Oriental tongues is not remarkably ex- and brought other Malays with him worse tensive, being indeed confined to two than himself, that ran 'a-muck'^ at me, words — the Arabic word for barley, and 33 and led me into a world of troubles. the Turkish for opium (madjoon), which But to quit this episode, and to return I have learned from Anastasius. And, to my intercalary year of happiness. I as I had neither a Malay dictionary, nor have said already, that on a subject so even Adelung's Mithridatcs, which might important to us all as happiness, we have helped me to a few words, I ad- 35 should listen with pleasure to any man's dressed him in some lines from the Iliad ; experience or experiments, even though considering that, of such languages as I he were but a plowboy, who cannot be possessed, Greek, in point of longitude, supposed to have plowed very deep into came geographically nearest to an Ori- such an intractable soil as that of human ental one. He worshipped me in a most 40 pains and pleasures, or to have conducted devout manner, and replied in what I suppose was Malay. In this way I saved ^ This, however, is not a necessary conclusion; mv reputation with my neighbors; for the varieties of effect produced by opium on differ- , ' T. t \ 11 r 1 X • ii ent constitutions are nihnite. A London JMagistrate the Malay had no means of betraymg the (Harriott's struggles through Life, vol. iii, p. 391. secret. He lay down upon the floor for 45 Third Edition), has recorded that, on the first occa- about an hour, and then pursued his sion of his trying laudanum for the gout, he took journey. On his departure I presented f°'-'y ^'°f' *''• ^^""^ ^ighi sixty, and on the fifth i . ■'. , . ,^. ^^^,. night eighty, without any effect whatever; and this hnn with a piece of opium. To him, as ^^ ^^„ advanced age. I have an anecdote from a an Orientalist, I concluded that opium country surgeon, however, which sinks Mr. Har- mUSt be familiar; and the expression of 50 riott's case into a trifle; and in my projected med- his face convinced me that it was. '"' }"T''^% °" "'"'i"^' '^'"'''' ^ .,?"' p"*"'''';- p'°" ,. , , T , 1 -,1 vided the College of Surgeons will pav me for en- Nevertheless, I was struck with some lightening their benighted understandings upon this little consternation when I saw him sud- subject, I will relate it; but it is far too good a denlv raise his hand to his mouth, and story to be published gratis. (in the school-boy phrase) bolt the whole, 55 / ^ee the common accounts in any Eastern trav- V . , , . 1 -^ ' ■ 1 eler or voyager of the frantic excesses committed divided into three pieces, at one mouth- i,y Malays who have taken opium, or are reduced ful. The quantity was enough to kill to desperation by ill luck at gambling. CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM EATER 689 his researches upon any very enhghtened it matter of congratulation that winter principles. But I, who have taken happi- is going, or, if coming, is not hkely to be ness, both in a solid and a liquid shape, a severe one. On the contrary, I put up both boiled and unboiled, both East a petition annually, for as much snow, India and Turkey — who have conducted 5 hail, frost, or storm, of one kind or other, my experiments upon this interesting as the skies can possibly afford us. subject with a sort of galvanic battery — Surely everybody is aware of the divine and have, for the general benefit of the pleasures which attend a winter fireside; world, inoculated myself, as it were, with candles at four o'clock, warm hearth-rugs, the poison of 8,000 drops of laudanum per 10 tea, a fair tea-maker, shutters closed, (lay (just, for the same reason, as a curtains flowing in ample draperies on the I'rench surgeon inoculated himself lately floor, whilst the wind and rain are rag- with cancer — an English one, twenty ing audibly without, years ago, with plague — and a third, I know not of what nation, with hydro- 15 And at the doors and windows seem to call, phobia), — / (it will be admitted) must As heaven and earth they would together surely know wdiat happiness is, if any- mell ; body does. And, therefore, I will here Yet the least entrance find they none at all; lay down an analysis of happiness ; and Whence sweeter grows our rest secure in as the most interesting mode of com- 20 massy hall. municating it, I will give it, not didactic- — Castle of Indolence. ally, but wrapped up and involved in a picture of one evening, as I spent every All these are items in the description evening during the intercalary year when of a winter evening, which must surely laudanum, though taken daily, was to me 25 be familiar to everybody born in a high no more than the elixir of pleasure. This latitude. And it is evident that most of done, I shall quit the subject of happi- these delicacies, like ice-cream, require ness altogether, and pass to a very differ- a very low temperature of the atmosphere ent one — the pains of opium. to produce them : they are fruits which Let there be a cottage, standing in a 30 cannot be ripened without weather stormy valley, eighteen miles from any town — or inclement, in some way or other. I no spacious valley, but about two miles am not 'particular,' as people say, long, by three quarters of a mile in whether it be snow, or black frost, or average width; the benefit of which wind so strong, that (as Mr. says) provision is, that all the families resident 35 ' you may lean your back against it like within its circuit will compose, as it a post.' I can put up even with rain, were, one larger household personally provided it rains cats and dogs; but familiar to your eye, and more or less something of the sort I must have ; and, interesting to your affections. Let the if I have it not, I think myself in a man- mountains be real mountains, between 40 ner ill-used ; for why am I called on to three and four thousand feet high ; and pay so heavily for winter, in coals, and the cottage a real cottage, not (as a witty candles, and various privations that will author has it) 'a cottage with a double occur even to gentlemen, if I am not to coach-house'; let it be, in fact (for I have the article good of its kind? No: must abide by the actual scene), a 45 a Canadian winter for my money; or a white cottage, embowered with flowering Russian one, where every, man is but a shrubs, so chosen as to unfold a succes- co-proprietor with the north wind in the sion of flowers upon the walls, and fee-simple of his own ears. Indeed, so clustering round the windows through all great an epicure am I in this matter, that the months of spring, summer, and 50 I cannot relish a winter night fully if it autumn — beginning, in fact, with May be much past St. Thomas's day, and have roses, and ending with jasmine. Let it, degenerated into disgusting tendencies to however, not be spring, nor summer, nor vernal appearances ; no, it must be divided autumn — but winter in his sternest by a thick wall of dark nights from all shape. This is a most important point in 55 return of light and sunshine. From the the science of happiness. And I am sur- latter weeks of October to Christmas prised to see people overlook it, and think Eve, therefore, is the period during which 44 690 THOMAS DE QUINCEY happiness is in season, which, in my beauty; or that the witchcraft of angelic judgment, enters the room with the tea- smiles lies within the empire of . any tray; for tea, though ridiculed by those earthly pencil. Pass, then, my good who are naturally of coarse nerves, or painter, to something more within its are become so from wine-drinking, and 5 power ; and the next article brought for- are not susceptible of influence from so ward should naturally be myself — a refined a stimulant, will always be the picture of the Opium-eater, with his favorite beverage of the intellectual ; ' little golden rece])tacle of the pernicious and, for my part, I would have joined drug ' lying beside him on the table. As Dr. Johnson in a belliim internccinum 10 to the opium, I have no objection to see against Jonas Hanway, or any other im- a picture of that, though I would rather pious person, who should presume to see the original : you may paint it if you disparage it. But here, to save myself choose; but I apprise you, that no 'little' the trouble of too much verbal descrip- receptacle would, even in 18 16, answer tion, I will introduce a painter, and give 15 my purpose, who was at a distance from him directions for the rest of the pic- the ' stately Pantheon,' and all druggists ture. Painters do not like white cottages, (mortal or otherwise). No; you may as unless a good deal weather-stained ; but well paint the real receptacle, which was as the reader now understands that it is not of gold, but of glass, and as much a winter night, his services will not be 20 iji^e a wine-decanter as possible. Into required, except for the inside of the this you may put a quart of ruby-colored house. laudanum: that, and a book of German Paint me, then, a room seventeen feet Metaphysics placed by its side, will suffi- by twelve, and not more than seven and ciently attest my being in the neighbor- a half feet high. This, reader, is some- 25 hood ; but, as to myself, — there I demur, what ambitiously styled, in my family, the I admit that, naturally, I ought to occupy drawing-room; but, being contrived 'a the foreground of the picture; that being double debt to pay,' it is also, and more the hero of the piece, or (if you choose) justly, termed the library; for it happens the criminal at the bar, my body should that books are the only article of prop- 30 be had into court. This seems reason- erty in which I am richer than my able; but why should I confess, on this neighbors. Of these I have about five point, to a painter? or why confess at thousand, collected gradually since my all? If the public (into whose private eighteenth year. Therefore, painter, put ear I am confidentially whispering my as many as you can into this room. 35 confessions, and not into any painter's) Make it populous with books; and, should chance to have framed some agree- furthermore, paint me a good fire; and able picture for itself, of the Opium- furniture plain and modest, befitting the eater's exterior — should have ascribed unpretending cottage of a scholar. And, to him, romantically, an elegant person, near the fire paint me a tea-table ; and 40 or a handsome face, why should I bar- (as it is clear that no creature can come barously tear from it so pleasing a delusion to see one such a stormy night), place —pleasing both to the public and to me? only two cups and saucers on the tea- No: paint me, if at all, according to your tray; and, if you know how to paint such own fancy; and, as a painter's fancy a thing symbolically, or otherwise, paint 45 should teem with beautiful creations, I me an eternal- tea-pot — eternal a parte cannot fail, in that way, to be a gainer. ante, and a parte post; for I usually And now, reader, we have run through drink tea from eight o'clock at night to all the ten categories of my condition as four o'clock in the morning. And, as it it stood about 1816-17; up to the middle is very unpleasant to make tea, or to 50 of which latter year I judge myself to pour it out for oneself, paint me a lovely have been a happy man; and the elements young woman, sitting at the table. of that happiness I have endeavored to Paint her arms like Aurora's, and her place before you, in the above sketch of smiles like Hebe's.— But no, dear M , the interior of a scholar's library, in a not even in jest let me insinuate that thy 55 cottage among the mountains, on a stormy power to illuminate my cottage rests upon winter evening. a tenure so perishable as mere personal (1021) THOMAS BABINGTON AIACAULAY (1800-1859). ^Nlacaulay's life is a remaikable story of successful eudeavor. The son of a well-known pliilantliropist and anti-slavery agitator, lie was a precocious boy, with a natural aptitude for litcMary composition and a phenomenal memory ; he began a compendium of universal his- tory at the age of seven, and repeated after a lapse of forty years a scrap of poetry he had nad as a youth in a country newspaper and had not recalled in the interval ; he knew Paradise Lost and I'ibjrim's Progress by heart. He went in 1818 to Trinity College, Cambridge, and li ft with a fellowship which secured him a sufficient income for his personal wants for the next seven years. An essay on Milton he contributed to the Ed'mhurgh Rcricic in 1825 attracted the attention of the editor, Jeffrey, who said to him, ' The more I think, the less I rail conceive where you picked up that style.' In 1830 he entered the House of Commons as member for Calne, and at once made his mark by a speech on the Reform Bill. The termination of his fellowship in 1831 put him in somewhat straitened circumstances, and be was obliged to sell the gold medals he had won at the university ; but a way out of all financial difficulties was found in 1833 by his appointment as a member of the Supreme Council of India for five years at a salary of £10,000 a year. He did valuable work in India, reconstructing the educational system and drawing up a criminal code, beside doing an enormous amount of private reading. On his return home, he began his Uistonj of Eng- land, and published a collection of his essays, which at once obtained a very large sale, lie was elected member for Edinburgh, and became Secretary for War, with a seat in the cabinet. The ministry fell in 1841, and in 1847 Macaulay was rejected by his constituency. He wrote a poem to the effect that literature had been his consolation under all the trials of life, ' of which,' says one biographer, ' it was rather difficult to make a respectable list.' The Edinburgh seat again becoming vacant, he was re-elected without any exertion on his part, but he adhered to his determination to give the rest of his life to literature. The first two volumes of his History were published in 1848, the third and fourth in 1855 ; from the first it enjoyed very great popularity, and his publishers sent him a check for £20,000. He was raised to the peerage, and buried in Westminster Abbey. He never married, but was devoted to his sisters and their children; his nephew. Sir G. O. Trevelyan, wrote his life, and has attained a considerable reputation as a politician and man of letters. Macaulay has not Lamb's delicate humor, or De Quincey's philosophical imagination. He disliked speculation, and his idea of history was to present accumulated facts with the attractiveness of fiction. His worst fault is a tendency to emphasize the commonplace — 'blackening the chimney,' Sir Leslie Stephen calls it — but his judgment is generally sound, as far as it goes. His style has no subtle harmonies, but is admirable for mechanical excellences — orderly arrangement of material, careful paragraphing, and absolute clearness of statement. In these points he offers a better model for young writers than De Quincey, Carlyle, Kuskin, and other masters of a more elaborate style. ■ THE ROMANCE OF HISTORY not necessary that they shotild assert what is absolutely false ; for all questions The best historians of later times have in morals and politics are questions of been seduced from truth, not by their im- comparison and degree. Any proposition agination, but by their reason. They far 5 which does not involve a contradiction in excel their predecessors in the art of de- terms may by possibility be true; and if ducing general principles from facts. But all the circumstances which raise a unhappily they have fallen into the error of probability in its favor be stated and distorting facts to suit general principles. enforced, and those which lead to an op- They arrive at a theory from looking at lo posite conclusion be omitted or lightlv some of the phenomena; and the remain- passed over, it may appear to be demon- ing phenomena they strain or curtail to strated. In every human character and suit the theory. For this purpose it is transaction there is a mixture of good 691 692 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY and evil: a little exaggeration, a little age, they judged of antiquity by itself suppression, a judicious use of epithets, alone. They seemed to think that no- a watchful and searching scepticism with tions, long driven from every other respect to the evidence on one side, a con- corner of literature, had a prescriptive venient credulity with respect to every 5 right to occupy this last fastness. They report or tradition on the other, may considered all the ancient historians as easily make a saint of Laud, or a tyrant equally authentic. They scarcely made of Henry IV. any distinction between him who related This species of misrepresentation events at which he had himself been pres- abounds in the most valuable works of 10 ent and him who five hundred years after modern historians. Herodotus tells his composed a philosophic romance for a story like a slovenly witness, who, heated society which had in the interval under- by partialities and prejudices, unac- gone a complete change. It was all quainted with the established rules of Greek, and all true ! The centuries evidence, and uninstructed as to the 15 which separated Plutarch from Thucy- obligations of his oath, confounds what dides seemed as nothing to men who lived he imagines with what he has seen and in an age so remote. The distance of heard, and brings out facts, reports, con- time produced an error similar to that jectures, and fancies, in one mass, which is sometimes produced by distance Hume is an accomplished advocate. 20 of place. There are many good ladies Without positively asserting much more who think that all the people in India than he can prove, he gives prominence live together, and who charge a friend to all the circumstances which support setting out for Calcutta with kind mes- his case ; he glides lightly over those sages to Bombay. To Rollin and Bar- which are unfavorable to it ; his own 25 thelemi, in the same manner, all the witnesses are applauded and encouraged ; classics were contemporaries, the statements which seem to throw dis- Mr. Mitford certainly introduced great credit on them are controverted ; the improvements ; he showed us that men contradictions into which they fall are who wrote in Greek and Latin sometimes explained away; a clear and connected 30 told lies; he showed us that ancient abstract of their evidence is given. history might be related in such a man- Everything that is offered on the other ner as to furnish not only allusions to side is scrutinized with the utmost sever- schoolboys, but important lessons to ity; every suspicious circumstance is a statesmen. From that love of theatrical ground for comment and invective ; what 35 effect and high-flown sentiment which cannot be denied is extenuated, or passed had poisoned almost every other work by without notice; concessions even are on the same subject his book is perfectly sometimes made : but this insidious can- free. But his passion for a theory as dor only increases the effect of the vast false, and far more ungenerous, led him mass of sophistry. • 40 substantially to violate truth in every We have mentioned Hume as the ablest page. Statements unfavorable to democ- and most popular writer of his class ; but racy are made with unhesitating confi- the charge which we have brought against dence, and with the utmost bitterness of him is one to which all our most dis- language. Every charge brought against tinguished historians are in some degree 45 a monarch or an aristocracy is sifted with obnoxious. Gibbon, in particular, de- the utmost care. If it cannot be denied, serves very severe censure. Of all the some palliating supposition is suggested; numerous culprits, however, none is more or we are at least reminded that some, deeply guilty than Mr. Mitford, We will- circumstances now unknown may have ingly acknowledge the obligations which 50 justified what at present appears un- are due to his talents and industry. The justifiable. Two events are reported by modern historians of Greece had been the same author in the same sentence; in the habit of writing as if the world their truth rests on the same testimony; had learned nothing new during the last but the one supports the darling hypoth- sixteen hundred years. Instead of illus- 55 esis, and the other seems inconsistent trating the events which they narrated by with it. The one is taken and the other the philosophy of a more enlightened is left. THE ROMANCE OF HISTORY 693 The practice of distorting narrative of eminent ability, lie unread on the into a conformity with theory is a vice shelves of ostentatious libraries, not so unfavorable as at first sight it may The writers of history seem to enter- appear to the interests of political science. tain an aristocratical contempt for the We have compared the writers who in- 5 writers of memoirs. They think it be- dulge in it to advocates; and we may neath the dignity of men who describe add that their conflicting fallacies, like the revolutions of nations to dwell on the those of advocates, correct each other, details which constitute the charm of It has always been held, in the most en- biography. They have imposed on them- lightened nations, that a tribunal will de- 10 selves a code of conventional decencies cide a judicial question most fairly when as absurd as that which has been the bane it has heard two able men argue, as un- of the French drama. The most charac- fairly as possible, on the two opposite teristic and interesting circumstances are sides of it; and we are inclined to think omitted or softened down, because, as we that this opinion is just. Sometimes, it 15 are told, they are too trivial for the is true, superior eloquence and dexterity majesty of history. The majesty of will make the worse appear the better history seems to resemble the majesty of reason ; but it is at least certain that the the poor King of Spain, who died a judge will be compelled to contemplate martyr to ceremony because the proper the case under two different aspects. It 20 dignitaries were not at hand to render him is certain that no important considera- assistance. tion will altogether escape notice. That history would be more amusing if This is at present the state of history. this etiquette were relaxed will, we sup- The poet laureate appears for the Church pose, be acknowledged. But would it be of England, Lingard for the Church of 25 less dignified or less useful? What do Rome. Brodie has moved to set aside we mean when we say that one past the verdicts obtained by Hume ; and the event is important and another insignifi- cause in which Mitford succeeded is, we cant ? No past event has any intrinsic understand, about to be reheard. In the importance. The knowledge of it is valu- midst of these disputes, however, history 30 able only as it leads us to form just proper, if we may use the term, is dis- calculations with respect to the future, appearing. The high, grave, impartial A history which does not serve this pur- summing up of Thucydides is nowhere to pose, though it may be filled with battles, be found. treaties, and commotions, is as useless as While our historians are practising all 35 the series of turnpike tickets collected the arts of controversy, they miserably by Sir Matthew Mite. neglect the art of narration, the art of Let us suppose that Lord Clarendon, interesting the affections and presenting instead of filling hundreds of folio pages pictures to the imagination. That a with copies of state papers in which the writer may produce these effects without 40 same assertions and contradictions are violating truth is sufficiently proved by repeated till the reader is overpowered many excellent biographical works. The with weariness, had condescended to be immense popularity which well-written the Boswell of the Long Parliament, books of this kind have acquired deserves Let us suppose that he had exhibited to the serious consideration of historians. 45 us the wise and lofty self-government of Voltaire's Charles the Twelfth, Mar- Hampden, leading while he seemed to niontel's Memoirs, Boswell's life of John- follow, and propounding unanswerable son, Southey's account of Nelson, are arguments in the strongest forms with perused with delight by the most frivolous the modest air of an inquirer anxious for and indolent. Whenever any tolerable 50 information ; the delusions which misled book of the same description makes its the noble spirit of Vane; the coarse fa- appearance, the circulating libraries are naticism which concealed the yet loftier mobbed; the book societies are in com- genius of Cromwell, destined to control motion; the new novel lies uncut; the a mutinous army and a factious people, magazines and newspapers fill their col- 55 to abase the flag of Holland, to arrest umns with extracts. In the meantime the victorious arms of Sweden, and to histories of great empires, written by men hold the balance firm between the rival 694 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY monarchies of France and Spain. Let us as rich, as well governed, and as well suppose that he had made his Cavaliers educated at the latter period as at the and Roundheads talk in their own style ; former. We have read books called that he had reported some of the ribaldry Histories of England, under the reign of of Rupert's pages, and some of ilic cant 5 (ieorge the Second, in which the rise of Harrison and Fleetwood. Would not of Methodism is not even mentioned. A his work in that case have been more hundred years hence this breed of authors interesting? Would it not have been will, we hope, be extinct. H it should more accurate? still exist, the late ministerial inter- A history in which every particular lo regnum will be described in terms which incident may be true may on the whole will seem to imply that all government be false. The circumstances which have was at end; that the social contract was most influence on the happiness of man- annulled ; and that the hand of every man kind, the changes of manners and morals, was against his neighbor until the wisdom the transition of communities from pov- 15 and virtue of the new cabinet educed erty to wealth, from knowledge to igno- order out of the chaos of anarchy. We raiice, from ferocity to humanity — these are quite certain that misconceptions as are, for the most part, noiseless revolu- gross prevail at this moment respecting tions. Their progress is rarely indicated many important parts of our annals. by what historians are pleased to call 20 The effect of historical reading is important events. They are not achieved analogous, in many respects, to that pro- by armies, or enacted by senates. They duced by foreign travel. The student, are sanctioned by no treaties, and re- like the tourist, is transported into a corded in no archives. They are carried new state of society. He sees new fash- on in every school, in every church, be- 25 ions. He hears new modes of expression, hind ten thousand counters, at ten thou- His mind is enlarged by contemplating sand firesides. The upper current of the wide diversities of laws, of morals society presents no certain criterion by and of manners. But men may travel which we can judge of the direction in far, and return with minds as contracted which the under current flows. We read 3o as if they had never stirred from their of defeats and victories. But we know own market-town. In the same manner, that nations may be miserable amidst men may know the dates of many battles victories and prosperous amidst defeats. and the genealogies of many royal houses, We read of the fall of wise ministers and and yet be no wiser. Most people look of the rise of profligate favorites. But 35 at past times as princes look at foreign we must remember how small a propor- countries. More than one illustrious tion the good or evil effected by a single stranger has landed on our island amidst statesman can bear to the good or evil the shouts of a mob, has dined with the of a great social system. King, has hunted with the master of the Bishop Watson compares a geologist to 4° stag-hounds, has seen the Guards re- a gnat mounted on an elephant, and lay- viewed, and a knight of the garter in- ing down theories as to the whole inter- stalled, has cantered along Regent Street, nal structure of the vast animal, from has visited Saint Paul's, and noted down the phenomena of the hide. The com- its dimensions; and has then departed, parison is unjust to the geologists; but is 4S thinking that he has seen England. He very applicable to those historians who has, in fact, seen a few public buildings, write as if the body politic were homo- public men, and public ceremonies. But geneous, who look only on the surface of of the vast and complex system of affairs, and never think of the mighty society, of the fine shades of national and various organization which lies deep 50 character, of the practical operation of below. government and laws, he knows nothing. In the works of such writers as these. He who would understand these things England, at the close of the Seven Years' rightly must not confine his observations War, is in the highest state of prosperity : to palaces and solemn days. He must see at the close of the American war she 55 ordinary men as they appear in their is in a miserable and degraded condition ; ordinary business and in their ordinary as if the people were not on the whole pleasures. He must mingle in the crowds THE ROMANCE OF HISTORY 695 of the exchange and the coffee-house. painted window, which was made by an He must obtain admittance to the con- apprentice out of the pieces of glass vivial table and the domestic hearth. He which had been rejected by his master, must bear with vulgar expressions. He It is so far superior to every other in must not shrink from exploring even the 5 the church, that, according to the tradi- retreats of misery. He who wishes to tion, the vanquished artist killed himself understand the condition of mankind in from mortification. Sir Walter Scott, in former ages must proceed on the same the same manner, has used those fr'ag- principle. If he attends only to public ments of truth which historians have transactions, to wars, congresses, and de- 10 scornfully thrown behind them in a man- bates, his studies will be as unprofitable ner which may well excite their envy, as the travels of those imperial, royal He has constructed out of their gleanings and serene sovereigns who form their works which, even considered as histories, judgment of our island from having gone are scarcely less valuable than theirs. in state to a few fine sights, and from 15 But a truly great historian would reclaim having held formal conferences with a those materials which the novelist has few great officers. appropriated. The history of the govern- The perfect historian is he in whose ment, and the history of the people, work the character and spirit of an age would be exhibited in that mode in which is exhibited in miniature. He relates no 20 alone they can be exhibited justly, in fact, he attributes no expression to his inseparable conjunction and intermixture, characters, which is not authenticated by We should not then have to look for the sufficient testimony. But, by judicious wars and votes of the Puritans in Claren- selection, rejection, and arrangement, he don, and for their phraseology in Old gives to truth those attractions which ^5 Mortality; for one half of King James in have been usurped by fiction. In his Hume, and for the other half in the narrative a due subordination is observed : Fortunes of Nigel. some transactions are prominent ; others The early part of our imaginary history retire. But the scale on which he repre- would be rich with coloring from re- sents them is increased or diminished, not 30 mance, ballad, and chronicle. We should according to the dignity of the persons find ourselves in the company of knights concerned in them, but according to the such as those of Froissart, and of pil- degree in which they elucidate the con- grims such as those who rode with dition of society and the nature of man. Chaucer from the Tabard. Society He shows us the court, the camp, and the 35 would be shown from the highest to the senate. But he shows us also the nation, lowest, — from the royal cloth of state to He considers no anecdote, no peculiarity the den of the outlaw ; from the throne of manner, no familiar saying, as too of the Legate to the chimney-corner insignificant for his notice which is not where the begging friar regaled him- too insignificant to illustrate the opera- 40 self. Palmers, minstrels, crusaders, — the tion of laws, of religion, and of educa- stately monastery, with the good cheer in tion, and to mark the progress of the its refectory and the high-mass in its human mind. Men will not merely be de- chapel, — the manor-house, with its hunt- scribed, but will be made intimately ing and hawking, — the tournament, with known to us. The changes 'of manners 4S the heralds and ladies, the trumpets and will be indicated, not merely by a few the cloth of gold, — would give truth and general phrases or a few extracts from life to the representation. We should statistical documents, but by appropriate perceive, in a thousand slight touches, the images presented in every line. importance of the privileged burgher, and If a man, such as we are supposing, 50 the fierce and haughty spirit which should write the history of England, he swelled under the collar of the degraded would assuredly not omit the battles, the villain. The revival of letters would not sieges, the negotiations, the seditions, the merely be described in a few magnificent ministerial changes. But with these he periods. We should discern, in innumer- would intersperse the details which are 55 able particulars, the fermentation of the charm of historical romances. At mind, the eager appetite for knowledge, Lincoln Cathedral there is a beautiful which distinguished the sixteenth from 696 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY the fifteenth century. In the Reforma- would be told, as Thucydides would have tion we should see, not merely a schism told them, with perspicuous conciseness, which changed the ecclesiastical constitu- Tliey are merely connecting links. But tion of England and the mutual relations the great characteristics of the age, the of the European powers, but a moral war 5 loyal enthusiasm of the brave English which raged in every family, which set gentry, the fierce licentiousness of the the father against the son, and the son swearing, dicing, drunken reprobates against the father, the mother against the whose excesses disgraced the royal cause, daughter, and the daughter against the — the austerity of the Presbyterian Sab- mother. Henry would be painted with 10 baths in the city, the extravagance of the skill of Tacitus. We should have the the independent preachers in the camp, change of his character from his profuse the precise garb, the severe counte- and joyous youth to his savage and im- nance, the petty scruples, the affected perious old age. We should perceive the accent, the absurd names and phrases gradual progress of selfish and tyrannical 15 which marked the Puritans, — the valor, passions in a mind not naturally in- the policy, the public spirit, which lurked sensible or ungenerous; and to the last beneath these ungraceful disguises, — the we should detect some remains of that dreams of the raving Fifth-monarchy- open and noble temper which endeared man, the dreams, scarcely less wild, of him to a people whom he oppressed, 20 the philosophic republican, — all these struggling with the hardness of despot- would enter into the representation, and ism and the irritability of disease. We render it at once more exact and more should see Elizabeth in all her weakness striking. and in all her strength, surrounded by The instruction derived from history the handsome favorites whom she never 25 thus written would be of a vivid and trusted, and the wise old statesman whom practical character. It would be received she never dismissed, uniting in herself by the imagination as well as by the the most contradictory qualities of both reason. It would be not merely traced her parents, — the coquetry, the caprice, on the mind, but branded into it. Many the petty malice of Anne, — the haughty 30 truths, too, would be learned, which can and resolute spirit of Henry. We have be learned in no other manner. As the no hesitation in saying that a great artist history of states is generally written, the might produce a portrait of this re- greatest and most momentous revolutions markable woman at least as striking as seem to come upon them like supernatural that in the novel of Kenilworth, without 35 inflictions, without warning or cause, employing a single trait not authenticated But the fact is, that such revolutions are by ample testimony. In the meantime, almost always the consequences of moral we should see arts cultivated, wealth ac- changes, which have gradually passed on cumulated, the conveniences of life im- the mass of the community, and which proved. We should see the keeps, where ^o ordinarily proceed far, before their nobles, insecure themselves, spread in- progress is indicated by any public meas- security around them, gradually giving ure. An intimate knowledge of the do- place to the halls of peaceful opulence, mestic history of nations is therefore to the oriels of Longleat, and the stately absolutely necessary to the prognosis of pinnacles of Burleigh. We should see 45 political events. A narrative, defective towns extended, deserts cultivated, the in this respect, is as useless as a medical hamlets of fisherman turned into wealthy treatise which should pass by all the havens, the meal of the peasant improved, symptoms attendant on the early stage of and his hut more commodiously furnished. a disease and mention only what occurs We should see those opinions and feel- 50 when the patient is beyond the reach of ings which produced the great struggle remedies. against the House of Stuart slowly A historian such as we have been at- growing up in the bosom of private fam- tempting to describe would indeed be an ilies, before they manifested themselves intellectual prodigy. In his mind, powers in parliamentary debates. Then would 55 scarcely compatible with each other must come the Civil War. Those skirmishes be tempered into an exquisite harmony, on which Clarendon dwells so minutely We shall sooner see another Shakspere THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND 697 or another Homer. The highest excel- made, during Danby's administration, to lence to which any single faculty can be close the coffee-houses. But men of all brought would be less surprising than parties missed their usual places of re- such a happy and delicate combination of sort so much that there was a universal qualities. Yet the contemplation of im- 5 outcry. The government did not venture, aginary models is not an unpleasant or in opposition to a feeling so strong and useless employment of the mind. It can- general, to enforce a regulation of which not indeed produce perfection; but it the legality might well be questioned, produces improvement, and nourishes that Since that time ten years had elapsed, and generous and liberal fastidiousness which 10 during those years the number and in- is not inconsistent with the strongest fluence of the coffee-houses had been sensibility to merit, and which, while it constantly increasing. Foreigners re- exalts our conceptions of the art, does marked that the coffee-house was that not render us unjust to the artist. which especially distinguished London (1828) 15 from all other cities; that the coffee- house was the Londoner's home, and that those who wished to find a gentleman THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND ^p^^^ "s'L^^'^ oV "^Cl^nctrT Lan^'but (From VOL. I, CHAP. III. ON THE ^° '^^'^^'^^^ ^f frequented the Grecian or STATE OF ENGLAND IN 1685) ^/^ Rainbow Nobody was excluded from these places who laid down his The coffee-house must not be dismissed penny at the bar. Yet every rank and with a cursory mention. It might, in- profession, and every shade of religious deed, at that time have been not im- ^5 and political opinion, had its own head- properly called a most important political quarters. There were houses near Saint institution. No Parliament had sat for James's Park where fops congregated, years. The municipal council of the city their heads and shoulders covered with had ceased to speak the sense of the black or flaxen wigs, not less ample than citizens. Public meetings, harangues, 3° those which are now worn by the Chan- resolutions, and the rest of the modern cellor and by the Speaker of the House machinery of agitation had not yet come of Commons. The wig came from Paris ; into fashion. Nothing resembling the and so did the rest of the fine gentle- modern newspaper existed. In such cir- man's ornaments, his embroidered coat, cumstances the coffee-houses were the 35 his fringed gloves, and the tassel which chief organs through which the public upheld his pantaloons. The conversation opinion of the metropolis vented itself. was in that dialect, which, long after it The first of these establishments had had ceased to be spoken in fashionable been set up, in the time of the Common- circles, continued, in the mouth of Lord wealth, by a Turkey merchant, who had 40 Foppington, to excite the mirth of acquired among the Mahometans a taste theaters.^ The atmosphere was like that for their favorite beverage. The con- of a perfumer's shop. Tobacco in any venience of being able to make appoint- other form than that of richly scented ments in any part of the town, and of snuff was held in abomination. If any being able to pass evenings socially at a 45 clown, ignorant of the usages of the very small charge, was so great that the house, called for a pipe, the sneers of fashion spread fast. Every man of the the whole assembly and the short an- upper or middle class went daily to his swers of the waiters soon convinced him coffee-house to learn the news and to that he had better go somewhere else, discuss it. Every coffee-house had one 50 Nor, indeed, would he have had far to or more orators to whose eloquence the go. For, in general, the coft'ee-rooms crowd listened with admiration, and who ,_,, ,. , ,. . r ^u- j- 1 ^ .t. . , , , . .. e *The chief peculiarity of this dialect was that, soon became, what the journalists of our ;„ ^ large class of words, the O was pronounced time have been called, a fourth Estate like A. Thus Lord was pronounced Lard. See of the realm. The court had long seen 55 Vanbrugh's Relapse. Lord Sunderland was a great • ,i • „ .1 „_„ .ii, ^s i-u:^ ^«,,r master of this court tune, as Roger North calls it; With uneasiness the growth of his new ^^^ ^.^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^^^ .^ i^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^ p^^^.^^ power in the state. An attempt had been for a fine gentleman. Examen, 77, 254. 698 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY reeked with tobacco like a guard-room; These gregarious haljils had no small and strangers sometimes expressed their share in forming the character of the surprise that so many people should leave Londoner of that age. He was, indeed, their own firesides to sit in the midst of a different being from the rustic English- eternal fog and stench. Nowhere was s man. There was not then the intercourse the smoking more constant than at Will's. which now exists between the two classes. That celebrated house, situated between Only very great men were in the habit Covent Garden and Bow Street, was of dividing the year between town and sacred to polite letters. There the talk country. Few esquires came to the cap- was about poetical justice and the unities 10 ital thrice in their lives. Nor was it of i)lace and time. There was a faction yet the practice of all citizens in easy for Perrault and the moderns, a faction circumstances to breathe the fresh air for Boileau and the ancients. One group of the fields and woods during some weeks debated whether Paradise Lost ought not of every summer. A cockney in a rural to have been in rime. To another an 15 village was stared at as much as if he envious poetaster demonstrated that had uitruded into a kraal of Hottentots. Venice Preserved ought to have been On the other hand, when the lord of a hooted from the stage. Under no roof Lincolnshire or Shropshire manor ap- was a greater variety of figures to be peared in Fleet Street, he was as easily seen. There were earls in stars and gar- 20 distinguished from the resident popula- ters, clergymen in cassocks and bands, tion as a Turk or a Lascar. His dress, pert Templars, sheepish lads from the his gait, his accent, the manner in which universities, translators and index-mak- he gazed at the shops, stumbled into the ers in ragged coats of frieze. The great gutters, ran against the porters, and stood press was to get near the chair where 25 under the waterspouts, marked him out John Dryden sat. In winter that chair as an excellent subject for the operations was always in the warmest nook by the of swindlers and banterers. Bullies fire; in summer it stood in the balcony. jostled him into the kennel. Hackney To bow to the Laureate, and to hear coachmen splashed him from head to his opinion of Racine's last tragedy or of 30 foot. Thieves explored with perfect Bossu's treatise on epic poetry, was security the huge pockets of his horse- thought a privilege. A pinch from his man's coat, while he stood entranced by snuff-box was an honor sufficient to turn the splendor of the Lord Mayor's show, the head of a young enthusiast. There Moneydroppers, sore from the cart's tail, were coffee-houses where the first med- 35 introduced themselves to him, and ap- ical men might be consulted. Dr. John peared to him the most honest friendly Radcliffe, who, in the year 1685, rose to gentlemen that he had ever seen, the largest practice in London, came dady, Painted women, the refuse of Lewkner at the hour when the Exchange was full. Lane and Whetstone Park, passed them- from his house in Bow Street, then a 40 selves on him for countesses and maids fashionable part of the capital, to Gar- of honor. H he asked his way to Saint raway's, and was to be found, surrounded James's, his informants sent him to Mile by surgeons and apothecaries, at a partic- End. If he went into a shop, he was ular table. There were Puritan coffee- instantly discerned to be a fit purchaser houses where no oath was heard, and 45 of everything that nobody else would where lank-haired men discussed election i^^y, of second-hand embroidery, "copper and reprobation through their noses; j-ings, and watches that would not go. Jew coffee-houses where dark-eyed money jf ]^q ramljled into anv fashionable coffee- changers from Venice and from Amster- house, he became a mark for the insolent dam greeted each other ; and popish cof- 5o fee-houses where, as good Protestants House, 1674; Coffee Houses vindicated, 1675; A , v 1 T -t 1 .,.,„ 1' ^ ^l,^;- ~ Satyr against Coffee; North's Examen, 138; Life believed, Jesuits planned, over their cups, ^^ Guildford, 152; Life of Sir Dudley North, another great fire, and cast silver bullets 149; Life of Dr. Radcliffe. published by Curii in to shoot the King.^ 1715- The liveliest description of Will's is in the 55 City and Country Mouse. There is a remarkable ' Lettres sur les Anglois: Tom Brown's Tour; passage about the influence of the coffee house era- Ward's London Spy; The Character of a Coffee tors in Halstead's Succinct Genealogies, printed in House, 1673; Rules and Orders of the Coffee 1685. THE HISTORY OF EN GLAND 699 derision of fops and the grave waggery water work might, perhaps, furnish of Templars. Enraged and mortified, he matter for conversation at a meeting of soon returned to his mansion, and there, the Royal Society, but was not applied in the homage of his tenants and the to any practical purpose. There were conversation of his boon companions, 5 no railways, except a few made of tim- found consolation for the vexations and ber, on which coals were carried from humiliations which he had undergone. the mouths of the Northumbrian pits to There he was once more a great man, the banks of the Tyne.- There was very and saw nothing above himself except little international communication by when at the assizes he took his seat on 10 water. A few attempts had been made the bench near the judge, or when at to deepen and embank the natural streams, the muster of the militia he saluted the but with slender success. Hardly a sin- Lord Lieutenant. gle navigable canal had been even pro- The chief cause which made the fusion jected. The English of that dav were in of the different elements of society so is the habit of talking with mingled admira- imperfect was the extreme difficulty tion and despair of the immense trench which our ancestors found in passing by which Louis the Fourteenth had made from place to place. Of all inventions, a junction between the Atlantic and Aled- the alphabet and the printing-press alone iterrancan. They little thought that their excepted, those inventions which abridge 20 country would, in the course of a few- distance have done most for the civiliza- generations, be intersected, at the cost of tion of our species. Every improvement private adventurers, by artificial rivers of the means of locomotion benefits man- making up more than four times the kind morally and intellectually as well as length of the Thames, the Severn, and materially, and not only facilitates the 25 the Trent together. interchange of the various productions of It was by tlie highways that both trav- nature and art, but tends to remove na- clers and goods generally passed from tional and provincial antipathies, and to place to place; and those highways ap- bind together all the branches of the pear to have been far worse than might great human family. In the seventeenth 30 have been expected from the degree of century the inhabitants of London were, wealth and civilization which the nation for almost every practical purpose, far- had even then attained. On the best ther from Reading than they now are lines of communication the ruts were from Edinburgh, and farther from Edin- deep, the descents precipitous, and the burgh than they now are from Vienna. 35 way often such as it was hardly possible The subjects of Charles the Second to distinguish, in the dusk, from the un- were not, it is true, quite unacquainted inclosed heath and fen which lay on both with that principle which has, in our own sides. Ralph Thoresby, the antiquary, time, produced an unprecedented revolu- ^as in danger of losing his way on the tion m human affairs, which has enabled 40 great North road, between Barnby Moor navies to advance in face of wind and and Tuxford, and actually lost his wav tide, and brigades of troops, attended by between Doncaster and York.^ Pepvs all their baggage and artillery, to traverse and his wife, traveling in their own kingdoms at a pace equal to that of the coach, lost their way between Newbury fleetest race horse. The Marquess of45and Reading. In the course of the same Worcester had recently observed the ex- tour they lost their wav near Salisburv. pansive power of moisture rarefied by ^^d were in danger of having to pass the heat. After many experiments he had ^ight on the plain.* It was only in fine succeeded in constructing a rude steam weather that the whole breadth of the engine, which he called a fire water work, 50 j-oad was available for wheeled vehicles, and which he pronounced to be an ad- often the mud lay deep on the right and mirable and most forcible instrument of the left ; and onlv a narrow track of firm propulsion. 1 But the Marquess was sus- ground rose above the quagmire.^ At pected to be a madman, and known to be a Paptist. His inventions, therefore, 55 2 Xorth's Life of Guildford, 136. found no favorable reception. His fire ' Thoresby's Diary, Oct. 21. 1680, .Aug. 3, 171J. * Pepys's Diary, June 12 and 16, 1668. ^Century of Inventions, 1663, No. 68. ° Pepys's Diary, Feb. 28, 1660. 700 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY such times obstructions and quarrels were Kent and Sussex none but the strongest frequent, and the path was sometimes horses could, in winter, get through the blocked up during a long time by carriers, bog, in which, at every step, they sank neither of whom would break the way. deep. The markets were often inac- It happened, almost every day, that 5 cessible during several months. It is coaches stuck fast, until a team of cattle said that the fruits of the earth were could be procured from some neighbor- sometimes suffered to rot in one place, ing farm to tug them out of the slough, while in another place, distant only a few But in bad seasons the traveler had to miles, the supply fell far short of the encounter inconveniences still more 10 demand. The wheeled carriages were, in serious. Thoresby, who was in the habit this district, generally pulled by oxen.'* of traveling between Leeds and the cap- When Prince George of Denmark visited ital, has recorded, in his Diary, such a the stately mansion of Petworth in wet scries of perils and disasters as might weather, he was six hours in going nine suffice for a journey to the Frozen Ocean 15 miles; and it was necessary that a body or to the Desert of Sahara. On one oc- of sturdy hinds should be on each side casion he learned that the floods were of his coach, in order to prop it. Of the out between Ware and London, that pas- carriages which conveyed his retinue, sengers had to swim for their lives, and several were upset and injured. A letter that a higgler had perished in the at- 20 from one of the party has been preserved, tempt to cross. In consequence of these in which the unfortunate courtier com- tidings he turned out of the high-road, plains that, during fourteen hours, he and was conducted across some meadows, never once alighted except when his where it was necessary for him to ride coach was overturned or stuck fast in the to the saddle skirts in water.^ In the 35 mud.<* course of another journey he narrowly One chief cause of the badness of the escaped being swept away by an inunda- roads seems to have been the defective tion of the Trent. He was afterwards state of the law. Every parish was bound detained at Stamford four days, on ac- to repair the highways which passed count of the state of the roads, and then 30 through it. The peasantry were forced ventured to proceed only because fourteen to give their gratuitous labor six days members of the House of Commons, who in the year. If this was not sufficient, were going up in a body to Parliament hired labor was employed, and the ex- with guides and numerous attendants, pense was met by a parochial rate. That took him into their company.^ On the 35 a route connecting two great towns, roads of Derbyshire, travelers were in which have a large and thriving trade constant fear for their necks, and were with each other, should be maintained frequently compelled to alight and lead at the cost of the rural population scat- their beasts.^ The great route through tered between them is obviously unjust; Wales to Holyhead was in such a state 4° and this injustice was peculiarly glaring that, in 1685, a viceroy, going to Ireland, in the case of the great North road, which was five hours in traveling fourteen traversed very poor and thinly inhabited miles, from Saint Asaph to Conway. Be- districts, and joined very rich and popu- tween Conway and Beaumaris he was lous districts. Indeed it was not in the forced to walk great part of the way ; 45 power of the parishes of Huntingdon- and his lady was carried in a litter. His shire to mend a highway worn by the coach was, with much difficulty, and by constant traffic between the West Riding the help of many hands, brought after of Yorkshire and London. Soon after him entire. In general, carriages were the Restoration this grievance attracted taken to pieces at Conway, and borne, 50 the notice of Parliament ; and an act, the on the shoulders of stout Welsh peasants, first of our many turnpike acts, was to the Menai Straits.* In some parts of passed, imposing a small toll on travel- >Thoresby's Diary, May :;. :69s. ^rs and goods, for the purpose of keep- tlbid., Dec. 27, 1708. mg some parts of this unportant una 01 "Tour in Derbyshire, by J. Browne, son of Sir 55 Thomas Browne, 1662. Cotton's .\ngler, 1676. ^^ Postlethwaite's Diet., Roads; History of Hawk- * Correspondence of Henry, Earl of Clarendon, hurst, in the Bibliotheca Topographica Britannica. Dec. 30, 1685, Jan. I, 1686. ".Annals of Queen Anne, 1703, Appendix, No. 3. THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND 701 communication in good repair.^ This known in the south of England by the innovation, however, excited many mur- name of sea coal. niurs; and the other great avenues to On by-roads, and generally throughout the capital were long left under the old the country north of York and west of system. A change was at length effected, 5 Exeter, goods were carried by long trains but not without much difficulty. For of pack horses. These strong and patient unjust and absurd taxation to which men beasts, the breed of which is' now extinct, are accustomed is often borne far more were attended by a class of men who willingly than the most reasonable im- seem to have borne much resemblance to post which is new. It was not till many 10 the Spanish muleteers. A traveler of toll bars had been violently pulled down, humble condition often found it conven- till the troops had in many districts been ient to perform a journey mounted on a forced to act against the people, and till pack saddle between two baskets, under much blood had been shed, that a good the care of these hardy guides. The ex- system was introduced.- By slow degrees 15 pense of this mode of conveyance was reason triumphed over prejudice; and small. But the caravan moved at a foot's our island is now crossed in every direc- pace; and in winter the cold was often tion by near thirty thousand miles of insupportable.* turnpike road. The rich commonly traveled in their On the best highways heavy articles 20 own carriages, with at least four horses, were, in the time of Charles the Second, Cotton, the facetious poet, attempted to generally conveyed from place to place go from London to the Peak with a sin- by stage wagons. In the straw of these gle pair, but found at Saint Albans that vehicles nestled a crowd of passengers, the journey would be insupportably tedi- who could not afford to travel by coach ^^ ous, and altered his plan.^ A coach and or on horseback, and who were prevented six is in our time never seen, except as by infirmity, or by the weight of their part of some pageant. The frequent luggage, from going on foot. The ex- mention therefore of such equipages in pense of transmitting heavy goods in this old books is likely to mislead us. We way was enormous. From London to 3° attribute to magnificence what was really Birmingham the charge was seven pounds the effect of a very disagreeable necessity. a ton; from London to Exeter, twelve People, in the time of Charles the Sec- pounds a ton.^ This, was about fifteen ond, traveled with six horses, because pence a ton for every mile, more by a with a smaller number there was great third than was afterwards charged on 35 danger of sticking fast in the mire. Nor turnpike roads, and fifteen times what is were even six horses always sufficient, now demanded by railway companies. Vanbrugh, in the succeeding generation. The cost of conveyance amounted to a described with great humor the way in prohibitory tax on many useful articles. which a country gentleman, newly chosen Coal in particular was never seen except *° a member of Parliament, went up to Lon- in the districts where it was produced, don. On that occasion all the exertions or in the districts to which it could be of six beasts, two of which had been carried by sea, and was indeed always taken from the plough, could not save the family coach from being embedded in a lis Car. II. c. 1. 45 quagmire. 2 The evils of the old system are strikingly set :|c * * forth in many petitions which appear in the Com- mons' Journal of 1725-26. How fierce an opposi- ♦ Loidis and Elraete; Marshall's Rural Economy tion was offered to the new system may be learned of England. In 1739 Roderic Random came from from the Gentleman's Magazine of 1749. Scotland to Newcastle on a packhorse. « Postlethwaite's Diet., Roads. eg * Cotton's Epistle to J. Bradshaw. JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN (1801-1890) That ferment of iispiraliou and unrest wliieli produced in the nineteenth century so many forms of religious iniiuiry, the questioning faitli of Tennyson's In ilcmoriam, Carlyle's turljid discontent with modern civilization and liuslvin's frantic anti-materialism, produced in Jolui Henry Newman its most specialized and inspired searcher after spiritual grace, — -in short, a religious genius. Newman was born in the City of London not far from the Bank. His father, a banker, was a man of cultivated tastes and is thought to have been of Jewish oxtra<'tion. His mother came of a Huguenot family and Newman was instructed during his childhood in ' modified Calvinism.' As a youth he displayed singular intellectual restlessness combined with literary instinct and precocity. He was said to know the Bible by heart. His early passion for Scott provided his imagination with a background of medieval sympa- thies, and his memory with a picjnant reference at a crucial point in the most close-knit con- troversy of his later life. In 1817 he entered Trinity College, Oxford, and won a scholarship at the end of his first year. The stirrings of the medieval movement were already beginning at Oxford when Newman became a fellow of Oriel College, its special home. After some terms at the law in London, Newman took orders in the Anglican church and by 1829 had become a tutor in Oriel and Vicar of St. Mary's. From contact with Hurrell Fronde he soon grew deeply interested in the historic phases of Christianity ; the new-old ideas of the Fathers 'came like music' to his 'inward ear,' and he conveyed them with burning effect into his clarion University Sermons at St. IMary's. In 1832, with Froude he saw Home; he came near to death from cholera, paid devout visits to many ancient churches, wrote at Palermo, ' O, that thy creed were sound, thou Church of Rome,' and on shipboard composed in the twilight of Romanism, Lead Kindhj L'ujht, which one of his critics has termed ' the " March " of the tractarian movement.' The Sunday after Newman reached England, John Keble preached in his pulpit at St. Mary's the sermon on National Apostasy, which is held to have precipitated the Tractarian movement. To meet the rationalistic liberalism and irreligion which were threatening the church from without, two movements, broadly speaking, were advocated within it; — one, in sympathy with the temper of the age, toward more latitude of doctrine and more practical activity ; the other, reactionary, toward a more zealous adherence to the forms, traditions and earlier sanctities of the church. It was this latter course that Newman and his friends espoused in the Tracts for the Times. Of this movement Newman was the most powerful writer. In seeking to establish the historical continuity of the English church, he gradually convinced himself of the authenticity of Ro- manism. He was not yet aware of the approaching position of his own mind, when he examined the subject of Apostolic Succession in his famous Tract Ninety (1841). The dangerousness of his position did not remain undetected by others and aroused the utmost violence of passion. Newman was compelled to leave Oxford and, soon after, it became known that he had entered the Roman fold. What followed is indescribable. Families were broken up. The entire religious world was in a state of almost tragic excitement. Newman alone preserved his calm and what was considered an ominous silence. For twenty years he addressed himself chiefly to his own parish and the men of his adopted faith. Finally, in 1864, a supreme opportunity came for him to address from a point of advantage the public which had reviled him. Charles Kingsley in a review of Fronde's History of England, went out of his way to accuse ' Father Newman ' of having justified the principle of dishonesty in the Roman priesthood. In the complicated correspondence, which was afterwards published in full, Newman had all the honors. With resistless logic and dex- terity and the perfect poise and sincerity of a christian gentleman he left his assailant in an obvious position of reckless bigotry, w'rong-headedness and untruth. Newman could now present to the English world the logic of his religious development, and this he did in his Apologia pro Vita Sua [Defense of his Life]. This is a telling presentation, full of acute personal interest, of the claims which an ancient and established religion can urge upon modern culture, and a justification of faith 'against the assaults of a fictitious en- lightenment.' Upon the elevation of Pope Leo XIII, Newman was made, in 1870, a Cardinal of the Roman church. Newman's prose style was a remarkable weapon in the hands of a controversialist. Pliant and strong, colloquial but never familiar, subtle and suave without the least insinuation of vulgar slyness, in command of all the nuances of delicate culture which it sparingly uses, it bends and thrusts like a beautifully tempered steel. Even should its matter cease to be of great interest, Newman's prose will always remain poignant for its classic purity and strength. 702 THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 703 THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY lellect by the name of philosophy, phil osophical knowledge, enlargement of DISCOURSE VI mind, or illumination; terms which are not uncommonly given to it by writers KNOWLEDGE VIEWED IN RELATION TO 5 of this day: but, whatever name we be- LEARNiNG ^tow on it, it is, I believe, as a matter It were well if the English, like the of history, the business of a university Greek language, possessed some definite to make this intellectual culture its di- word to express, simply and generally, rect scope, or to employ itself in the edu- intellectual proficiency or perfection, such lo cation of the intellect. — just as the work as ' health,' as used with reference to the of a hospital lies in healing the sick or animal frame, and ' virtue/ with reference wounded, of a riding or fencing school, to our moral nature. I am not able to or of a gymnasium, in exercising the find such a term; — talent, ability, genius, limbs, of an almshouse, in aiding and belong distinctly to the raw material, i5 solacing the old, of an orphanage, in which is the subject-matter, not to that protecting innocence, of a penitentiary, excellence which is the result of exercise in restoring the guilty. I say, a univer- and training. When we turn, indeed, to sity, taken in its bare idea, and before the particular kinds of intellectual perfec- we view it as an instrument of the church, tion, words are forthcoming for our pur- ^o has this object and this mission; it con- pose, as, for instance, judgment, taste, templates neither moral impression nor and skill ; yet even these belong, for the mechanical production ; it professes to most part, to powers or habits bearing exercise the mind neither in art nor in upon practice or upon art, and not to any duty; its function is intellectual culture; perfect condition of the intellect, con- 21; here it may leave its scholars, and it has sidered in itself. Wisdom, again, is cer- done its work when it has done as much tainly a more comprehensive word than as this. It educates the intellect to rea- any other, but it has a direct relation to son well in all matters, to reach out to- conduct, and to human life. Knowledge, wards truth, and to grasp it. indeed, and science express purely intel- 3° This, I said in my foregoing discourse, lectual ideas, but still not a state or was the object of a university, viewed in quality of the intellect; for knowledge, in itself, and apart from the Catholic its ordinary sense, is but one of its cir- Church, or from the state, or from any cumstances, denoting a possession or a other power which may use it ; and I habit ; and science has been appropriated 35 illustrated this in various ways. I said to the subject-matter of the intellect, in- that the intellect must have an excellence stead of belonging in English, as it ought of its own, for there was nothing which to do, to the intellect itself. The con- had not its specific good; that the word sequence is that, on an occasion like this, ' educate ' would not be used of intel- many words are necessary, in order, first, 40 lectual culture, as it is used, had not the to bring out and convey what surely is intellect had an end of its own ; that, no difficult idea in itself, — that of the had it not such an end, there would be cultivation of the intellect as an end; no meaning in calling certain intellectual next, in order to recommend what surely exercises ' liberal,' in contrast with ' use- is no unreasonable object; and lastly, to 45 ful,' as is commonly done; that the very describe and make the mind realize the notion of a philosophical temper implied particular perfection in which that object it, for it threw us back upon research and consists. Every one knows practically system as ends in themselves, distinct what are the constituents of health or from effects and works of any kind ; of virtue; and every one recognizes 50 that a philosophical scheme of knowl- health and virtue as ends to be pursued ; edge, or system of sciences, could not, it is otherwise with intellectual excel- from the nature of the case, issue in lence, and this must be my excuse, if I any one definite art or pursuit, as its seem to anyone to be bestowing a good end; and that, on the other hand, the deal of labor on a preliminary matter. 55 discovery and contemplation of truth, to In default of a recognized term, I have which research and systematizing led. called the perfection or virtue of the in- were surely sufficient ends, though noth- 704 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN ing beyond them were ackled, and that ceptacle for storing them ; he welcomes they had ever been accounted sufficient them as fast as they come to him; he lives by mankind. on what is without; he has his eyes ever Here then I take up the subject; and, about him; he has a lively susceptibility having determined that the cultivation 5 of impressions; he imbibes information of the intellect is an end distinct and of every kind; and little does he make his sufficient in itself, and that, so far as own in a true sense of the word, living words go, it is an enlargement or illumi- rather upon his neighbors all around nation, I proceed to inquire what this him. He has ojMuions, religious, political mental breath, or power, or light, or phi- lo and literary, and, for a boy, is very posi- losophy consists in. A hospital heals a tive in them and sure about them ; but he broken limb or cures a fever: what does gets them from his schoolfellows, or his an institution effect, which professes the masters, or his parents, as the case may health, not of the body, not of the soul, be. Such as he is in his other relations, but of the intellect? What is this good, ,,; such also is he in his school exercises; which in former times, as well as our his mind is observant, sharp, ready, re- own, has been found worth the notice, the tentive; he is almost passive in the ac- appropriation of the Catholic Church? quisition of knowledge. I say this in no I have then to investigate, in the dis- disparagement of the idea of a clever courses which follow, those qualities and 20 boy. Geography, chronology, history, characteristics of the intellect in which language, natural history, he heaps up its cultivation issues or rather consists; the matter of these studies as treasures and, with a view of assisting myself in for a future day. It is the seven years this undertaking, I shall recur to certain of plenty with him: he gathers in by questions which have already been 25 handfuls, like the Egyptians, without touched upon. These questions are counting; and though, as time goes on, three: viz. the relation of intellectual there is exercise for his argumentative culture, first, to mere knowledge; sec- powers in the elements of mathematics, ondly, to professional knowledge ; and and for his taste in the poets and orators, thirdly, to religious knowledge. In other 30 still, while at school, or at least, till quite words, are acquirements and attainments the last years of his time, he acquires, the scope of a university education? or and little more; and when he is leaving expertness in particular arts and pursuits? for the university, he is mainly the crea- or moral and religious proficiency? or ture of foreign influences and circum- something besides these three? These 35 stances, and made up of accidents, homo- questions I shall examine in succession, geneous or not, as the case may be. with the purpose I have mentioned ; and Moreover, the moral habits, which are I hope to be excused, if, in this anxious a boy's praise, encourage and assist this undertaking, I am led to repeat what, result; that is, diligence, assiduity, regu- either in these discourses or elsewhere, 40 larity, despatch, persevering application; I have already put upon paper. And for these are the direct conditions of ac- first, of fnere knoidedgc, or learning, and quisition, and naturally lead to it. Ac- its connection with intellectual illumina- quirements, again, are emphatically pro- tion or philosophy. ducible, and at a moment ; they are a 4S something to show, both for master and I suppose the prima-facie view which scholar; an audience, even though igno- the public at large would take of a uni- rant themselves of the subjects of an versity, considering it as a place of edu- examination, can comprehend when ques- cation, is nothing more or less than a tions are answered and when they are place for acquiring a great deal of knowl- 5c not. Here again is a reason why mental edge on a great many subjects. Memory culture is in the minds of men identified is one of the first developed of the men- with the acquisition of knowledge, tal faculties; a boy's business when he The same notion possesses the public goes to school is to learn, that is, to mind, when it passes on from the thought store up things in his memory. For some 55 ^f ^ school to that of a universitv: and years his intellect is little more than an with the best of reasons so far as this, instrument for taking in facts, or a re- that there is no true culture without ac- THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 705 quirements, and that philosophy presup- ness and enjoyment of large intellectual poses knowledge. It requires a great deal possessions? of reading, or a wide range of informa- And yet this notion is, I conceive, a tion, to warrant us in putting forth our mistake, and my present business is' to opinions on any serious subject; and with- s show that it is one, and that the end of out such learning the most original mind a liberal education is not mere knowl- may be able indeed to dazzle, to amuse, edge, or knowledge considered in its to refute, to perplex, but not to come to matter; and I shall best attain my object, any useful result or any trustworthy con- by actually setting down some casesi elusion. There are indeed persons who 10 which will be generally granted to be profess a different view of the matter, and instances of the process of enlightenment even act upon it. Every now and then or enlargement of mind, and others which you will find a person of vigorous or are not, and thus, by the comparison, you fertile mind, who relies upon his own will be able to judge for yourselves, gen- resources, despises all former authors, 'S tlemen, whether knowledge, that is, ac- and gives the world, with the utmost fear- quirement, is after all the real principle lessness, his views upon religion, or his- of the enlargement or whether that prin- tory, or any other popular subject. And ciple is not rather something beyond it. his works may sell for a while; he may For instance, let a person, whose ex- get a name in his day; but this will be 20 perience has hitherto been confined to all. His readers are sure to find on the the more calm and unpretending scenery long run that his doctrines are mere of these islands, whether here or in Eng- theories, and not the expression of facts, land, go for the first time into parts that they are chaff instead of bread, and where physical nature puts on her wilder then his popularity drops as suddenly as 25 and more awful forms, whether at home it rose. or abroad, as into mountainous districts; Knowledge then is the indispensable or let one, who has ever lived in a quiet condition of expansion of mind, and the village, go for the first time to a great instrument of attaining to it; this can- metropolis, — then I suppose he will have not be denied, it is ever to be insisted 3o a sensation which perhaps he never had on; I begin with it as a first principle; before. He has a feeling not in addition however, the very truth of it carries men or increase of former feelings, but of too far, and confirms to them the notion something different in its nature. He that it is the whole of the matter. A will perhaps be borne forward, and find narrow mind is thought to be that which 35 for a time that he has lost his bearings, contains little knowledge; and an en- He has made a certain progress, and j larged mind, that which holds a great he has a consciousness of mental enlarge- j deal; and what seems to put the matter ment; he does not stand where he did, he beyond dispute is, the fact of the great has a new center, and a range of thoughts number of studies which are pursued in ^° to which he was before a stranger. a university, by its very profession. Again, the view of the heavens which Lectures are given on every kind of sub- the telescope opens upon us, if allowed ject; examinations are held; prizes to fill and possess the mind, may almost awarded. There are moral, metaphysical, whirl it round and make it dizzy. It physical professors ; professors of Ian- "'^ brings in a flood of ideas, and is rightly guages, of history, of mathematics, of called an intellectual enlargement, what experimental science. Lists of questions ever is meant by the term. I are published, wonderful for their range And so again, the sight of beasts of and depth, variety and difficulty ; trea- prey and other foreign animals, their tises are written, which carry upon their 5o strangeness, the originality (if I may use very face the evidence of extensive read- the term) of their forms and gestures ing or multifarious information; what and habits, and their variety and inde- then is wanting for mental culture to a pendence of each other, throw us out of person of large reading and scientific at- ourselves into another creation, and as tainments? what is grasp of mind but 5S if under another Creator, if I may so acquirement? where shall philosophical express the temptation which may come repose be found, but in the conscious- on the mind. We seem to have new 45 7o6 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN faculties, or a new exercise for our who will deny that tlie fruit of the tree faculties, hy this addition to our know- of knowledge, or what the mind takes ledge ; like a prisoner, who, having been fur knowledge, has made it one of the accustomed to wear manacles or fetters, gods, with a sense of expansion and suddenly finds his arms and legs free. 5 elevation, — an intoxication in reality. Hence physical science generally, in still, so far as the subjective state of the al! its departments, as bringing before mind goes, an illumination? Hence tlie us the exuberant riches and resources, fanaticism of individuals or nations, who yet the orderly course, of the universe, suddenly cast off their Maker. Their clcvalcs and excites the student, and at lo eyes are opened; and, like the judgment- first, I may say, almost takes away his stricken king in the _ tragedy, they see breath, while in time it exercises a tran- two suns, and a magic universe, out of quilizing influence upon him. which they look back upon their former Again the study of history is said to state of faith and innocence with a sort enlarge and enlighten the mind, and why? 15 of contempt and indignation, as if they because, as I conceive, it gives it a power were then but fools, and the dupes of of judging of passing events and of all imposture. events, and a conscious superiority over On the other hand, religion has its them, which before it did not possess. own enlargement, and an enlargement, And in like mam>er, what is called 20 not of tumult, but of peace. It is often seeing the world, entering into active life, remarked of uneducated persons, who going into society, traveling, gaining ac- have hitherto thought little of the unseen quaintance with the various classes of the world, that, on their turning to God, community, coming into contact with the looking into themselves, regulating their principles and modes of thought of vari- 25 liearts, reforming their conduct, and med- ous parties, interests, and races, their itating on death and judgment, heaven views, aims, habits and manners, their and hell, they seem to become, in point religious creeds and forms of worship, — of intellect, different beings from what gaining experience how various yet how they were. Before, they took things as alike men are, how low-minded, how bad, 30 they came, and thought no more of one how opposed, yet how confident in their thing tlian another. But now every event opinions; all this exerts a perceptible in- has a meaning; they have their own es- fluence upon the mind, which it is im- timate of whatever happens to them ; they possible to mistake, be it good or be it are mindful of times and seasons, and bad, and is popularly called its enlarge- 35 compare the present with the past; and ment. the world, no longer dull, monotonous. And then again, the first time the mind unprofitable, and hopeless, is a various comes across the arguments and specula- and complicated drama, with parts and tions of unbelievers, and feels what a an object, and an awful moral, novel light they cast upon what he has 40 Now from these instances, to which hitherto accounted sacred ; and still more, many more might be added, it is plain, if it gives in to them and embraces them, first, that the communication of knowl- and throws off as so much prejudice what edge certainly is either a condition or it has hitherto held, and, as if waking the means of that sense of enlargement, from a dream, begins to realize to its 45 or enlightenment of which at this day imagination that there is now no such we hear so much in certain quarters: this thing as law and the transgression of law, cannot be denied ; but next, it is equally that sin is a phantom, and punishment plain, that such communication is not the a bugbear, that it is free to sin, free to whole of the process. The enlargement enjoy the world and the flesh; and still 50 consists, not merely in the passive recep- further, when it does enjoy them, and tion into the mind of a number of ideas reflects that it may think and hold just hitherto unknown to it, but in the mind's what it will, that ' the world is all be- energetic and simultaneous action upon fore it where to choose,' and what sys- and towards and among those new ideas, tem to build up as its own private per- 55 which are rushing in upon it. It is the suasion; when this torrent of wilful action of a formative power, reducing to thoughts rushes over and inundates it, order and meaning the matter of our THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 707 acquirements; it is a making the objects well-read men, or men of information, of our knowledge subjectively our own, they have not what specially deserves the or, to use a familiar word, it is a digestion name of culture of mind, or fulfils the of what we receive, into the substance of type of liberal education, our previous state of thought ; and with- 5 In like manner, we sometimes fall in out this no enlargement is said to follow. with persons who have seen much of the There is no enlargement, unless there be world, and of the men who, in their day, a comparison of ideas one with another, have played a conspicuous part in it, but as they come before the mind, and a who generalize nothing, and have no ob- systematizing of them. We feel our 10 servation, in the true sense of the word, minds to be growing and expanding then, They abound in information in detail, when we not only learn, but refer what curious and entertaining, about men and we learn to what we know already. It things; and, having lived under the in- is not the mere addition to our knowledge fluence of no very clear or settled prin- that is the illumination ; but the locomo- 15 ciples, religious or political, they speak tion, the movement onwards, of that of every one and every thing, only as so mental center, to which both what we many phenomena, which are complete in know, and what we are learning, the ac- themselves, and lead to nothing, not dis- cumulating mass of our acquirements, cussing them, or teaching any truth, or gravitates. And therefore a truly great 20 instructing the hearer, but simply talking, intellect, and recognized to be such by No one would say that these persons, the common opinion of mankind, such well informed as they are, had attained as the intellect of Aristotle, or of St. to any great culture of intellect or to Thomas, or of Newton, or of Goethe (I philosophy. purposely take instances within and with- 25 The case is the same still more strik- out the Catholic pale, when I would ingly where the persons in question are speak of the intellect as such), is one' beyond dispute men of inferior powers which takes a connected view of old and and deficient education. Perhaps they new, past and present, far and near, and have been much in foreign countries, and which has an insight into the influence of 30 they receive, in a passive, otiose, un- all these one on another; without which fruitful way, the various facts which are there is no whole and no center. It forced upon them there. Seafaring men, possesses the knowledge, not only of for example, range from one end of the things, but also of their mutual and true earth to the other; but the multiplicity of relations; knowledge, not merely con- 35 external objects, which they have en- sidered as acquirement but as philosophy, countered, forms no symmetrical and con- Accordingly, when this analytical, dis- sistent picture upon their imagination; tributive, harmonizing process is away, they see the tapestry of human life, as the mind experiences no enlargement, it were on the wrong side, and it tells and is not reckoned as enlightened or 40 no story. They sleep, and they rise up. comprehensive, whatever it may add to and they find themselves, now in Europe, its knowledge. For instance, a great now in Asia; they see visions of great memory, as I have already said, does not cities and wild regions ; they are in the make a philosopher, any more than a die- marts of commerce, or amid the islands tionary can be called a grammar. There 45 of the South; they gaze on Pompey's are men who embrace in their minds a Pillar, or on the Andes; and nothing vast multitude of ideas, but with little which meets them carries them forward sensibility about their real relations or backward, to any idea beyond itself. towards each other. These may be an- Nothing has a drift or relation ; nothing tiquarians, annalists, naturalists; they may 50 has a history or a promise. Every thing be learned in the law ; they may be stands by itself, and comes and goes in versed in statistics; they are most useful its turn, like the shifting scenes of a in their own place; I should shrink from show, which leave the spectator where speaking disrespectfully of them; still, he was. Perhaps you are near such a there is nothing in such attainments to 55 man on a particular occasion, and ex- guarantee the absence of narrowness of pect him to be shocked or perplexed at mind. If they are nothing more than something which occurs; but one thing 7o8 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN is much the same to him as anotlier, of the many. Men, whose minds are or, if he is perplexed, it is as not know- possessed with some one object, take ex- ing what to say, whether it is rii^ht to aggerated views of its importance, are admire, or to ridicule, or to disapprove, feverish in the pursuit of it, make it the while conscious that some expression of 5 measure of things which are utterly opinion is expected from him; for in fact foreign to it, and are startled and despond he has no standard of judgment at all, if it happens to fail them. They are ever and no landmarks to guide him to a con- in alarm or in transport. Those on the elusion. Such is mere acquisition, and, other hand who have no object or prin- I repeat, no one would dream of calling lo ciple whatever to hold by, lose their way it philosophy. every step they take. They are thrown Instances, such as these, confirm, by out, and do not know what to think or the contrast, the conclusion I have al- say, at every fresh juncture; they have ready drawn from those which preceded no view of persons, or occurrences, or them. That only is true enlargement of 15 facts, which come suddenly upon them, mind which is the power of viewing many and they hang upon the opinion of others things at once as one whole, of referring for want of internal resources. But the them severally to their true place in the intellect, which has been disciplined to the universal system, of understanding their perfection of its powers, which knows, respective values, and determining their 20 and thinks while it knows, which has mutual dependence. Thus is that form learned to leaven the dense mass of facts of universal knowledge, of which I have and events with the elastic force of rea- on a former occasion spoken, set up in son, such an intellect cannot be partial, the individual intellect, and constitutes its cannot be exclusive, cannot be impetuous, perfection. Possessed of this real il- 25 cannot be at a loss, cannot but be patient, lumination, the mind never views any part collected, and majestically calm, because of the extended subject-matter of knowl- ' it discerns the end in every beginning, edge without recollecting that it is but the origin in every end, the law in every a part, or without the associations which interruption, the limit in each delay; be- spring from this recollection. It makes 30 cause it ever knows where it stands, and everything in some sort lead to every- how its path lies from one point to an- thing else; it would communicate the other. It is the Terpdyo)vo'' ^ ''^'^ .°" ''\ ^''' Ty'lf"""'. ^1°"^ ""'''' , ,, TT 1 1 i. T years ago, with extreme delight, and have never shallowness. How much better, 1 say, 40 ,ost my love of it; and on taking it up lately, found is it for the active and thoughtful in- I was even more touched by it than heretofore. A tellect, where such is to be found, to work- which can please in youth and age. seems to eschew the college and the university ^""^' ^^ logi"/ '^"gu^^ge) the accidental definuion ^ *=. 11°^^ classic. (A further course of twenty years altogether, than to SUbmitt to a drudgery has past, and I bear the same witness in favor of so ignoble, a mockery so contumelious ! -iS this poem.) THOMAS CARLYLE (1795-1881) Early struggles and privations, followed by acute dyspepsia, embittered Carlyle's temper. The son of a Scottish stone-mason, he walked eighty miles from his native village of Eccle- fechan to Edinburgh to study at the university and prepare himself for the ministry. This latter purpose was soon abandoned on account of unsettled religious convictions; after graduating he earned a scanty living by teaching and tried in vain to obtain various pro- fessorships. Having married Jane Baillie Welsh, a woman of brilliant wit and some property, he retired with her to the manor house of Craigenputtock, where for six years he studied German literature and philosophy and wrote essays for the reviews, among them his first great work, ISartor Rcsarfiis. Under the disguise of a translation from the papers of a German professor, it is an imaginative account of his own school and college experiences, his falling in love with Margaret Gordon of Prince Edward Island, who returned to that colony as wife of the governor, his spiritual and intellectual struggles, and his philosophy of life. It had just been published in Fraser's Magazine, when, in 1834, the Carlyles determined to risk their little all, and leave Craigenputtock for London. Carlyle chose a house in Cheyne Row, Chelsea, and kept it for the rest of his life. The peculiar style of Sartor did not commend it to the public. Eraser wrote that it excited ' universal disapprobation,' and several sub- scribers to the magazine refused to take it any longer. Carlyle was more fortunate in his next subject, 'The French Revolution,' suggested by John Stuart Mill. When the manuscript of the first volume was finished, Carlyle lent it to ^lill to read ; Mill lent it in turn to a friend, whose housemaid found it on the table one morning and lit the fire with it. Carlyle was in despair at the loss of so much labor; he felt incapable of doing the work over again, and spent three months in reading Marryat's novels before he could bend his energies to the unwelcome task. The book was completed in 1837,, and at once won the favor of both critics and public. He was also successful about this time as a lecturer, and his wife said that the public bad evidently made up its mind that ' Carlyle was worth keeping alive at a moderate rate.' One of the courses he gave, that ' On Heroes, Hero-worship, and the Heroic in History,' when published in 1841 became one of his most popular works ; it contains in the shortest and simplest form Carlyle's • favorite doctrine that the history of the world is at bottom the history of its great men. After setting forth his ideas on social and political questions in Chartism and Past and Present, he returned to the study of history, and his Life and Letters of Oliver Cromicell made a remarkable change in the current estimate of the great Protector. The labor of a dozen years is contained in his last historical work, Frederick the Great (published 1858-05). The year after this was completed, Mrs. Carlyle died suddenly in her carriage from the shock caused by an accident to her pet dog, which was run over when she was driving one afternoon In Hyde Park. Carlyle in heartbroken remorse determined to tell the public not only his wife's virtues but his own unkindness to her. The publication after his death of the record of their unhappy married life injured his reputation, and led to a controversy which has not yet ended, the discretion and even the good faith of J. A. Froude, who edited the papers, being attacked by Carlyle's admirers. PAST AND PRESENT faire, Competition and Supply-and-de- mand, start up as the exponent of human BOOK III relations, expect that it will soon end. Such philosophies will arise: for man's CHAPTER X 5 philosophies are usually the ' supple- ment of his practice;' some ornamentar Logic-varnish, some outer skin of Ar- PLUGSON OF UNDERSHOT One thing I do know: Never, on this ticulate intelligence, with which he Earth, was the relation of man .to man strives to render his dumb Instinctive long carried on by Cash-payment alone. lo Doings presentable when they are done. If, at any time, a philosophy of Laissez- Such philosophies will arise; be preached 714 PAST AND PRESENT 715 as Mammon-Gospels, the ultimate Evan- son droning to you, glance into your gel of the World ; be believed with what New Testament, and the cash-account is called belief, with much superficial stated four times over, by a kind of quad- bluster, and a kind of shallow satisfac- ruple entry, — in the Four Gospels there? tion real in its way; — but they are omi- 5 I consider that a cash-account, and bal- nous gospels ! They are the sure and even ance-statement of work done and wages swift, forerunner of great changes. Ex- paid, worth attending to. Precisely pect that the old System of Society is sncli, though on a smaller scale, go on done, is dying and fallen into dotage, at all moments under this Sun; and the when it begins to rave in that fashion. 10 statement and balance of them in the Most Systems that I have watched the Plugson Ledgers^ and on the Tablets of death of, for the last three thousand Heaven's Chancery are discrepant ex- years, have gone just so. The Ideal, the ceedingly; — which ought really to teach, True and Noble that was in them having and to have long since taught, an in- faded out, and nothing now remaining 15 domitable common-sense Plugson of Un- but naked Egoism, vulturous Greediness, dershot, much more an unattackable they cannot live; they are bound and in- jench Revolutions, Chartisms, Revolts Speech might of itself indicate what kind ic of Three Days? The times, if we will of Doing and practical Governing went consider them, are really unexampled, on under it ! For Speech is the gaseous Never before did I hear of an Irish element out of which most kinds of Prac- Widow reduced to ' prove her sisterhood tice and Performance, especially all kinds by dying of typhus-fever and infecting of moral Performance, condense them- 15 seventeen persons,'- — saying in such un- selves, and take shape ; as the one is, so deniable way, ' You see I was your will the other be. Descending, accord- sister ! ' Sisterhood, brotherhood, was ingly, into the Dumb Class in its Stock- often forgotten; but not till the rise of port Cellars and Poor-Law Bastilles, have these ultimate Mammon and Shotbelt we not to announce that they also are 20 Gospels did I ever see it so expressly hitherto unexampled in the History of denied. If no pious Lord or Law-ward Adam's Posterity? would remember it, always some pious Life was never a May-game for men: Lady (' Hlaf-dig,' Benefactress, 'Loaf- in all times the lot of the dumb millions givcress/ they say she is, — blessings on born to toil was defaced with manifold ^5 her beautiful heart !) was there, with mild sufferings, injustices, heavy burdens, mother-voice and hand, to remember it; avoidable and unavoidable ; not play at some pious thoughtful Elder, what we all, but hard work that made the sinews now call ' Prester,' Presbyter or ' Priest,' sore and the heart sore. As bond-slaves, was there to put all men in mind of it, villani, bordarii, sochemanni, nay indeed 30 in the name of the God who had made all. as dukes, earls and kings, men were Not even in Black Dahomey was it oftentimes made weary of their life; and ever, I think, forgotten to the typhus- had to say, in the sweat of their brow fever length. Mungo Park, resourceless, and of their soul. Behold, it is not sport, had sunk down to die under the Negro it is grim earnest, and our back can 35 \lllage-Tree, a horrible White object in bear no more ! Who knows not what the eyes of all. But in the poor Black massacrings and harryings there have Woman, and her daughter who stood been; grinding; long-continuing, unbear- aghast at him, whose earthly wealth and able injustices, — till the heart had to rise funded capital consisted of one small in madness, and some ' En Sachscn, 40 Calabash of rice, there lived a heart nimith euer sachses, You Saxons, out richer than Laissez-faire: they, with a with your gully-knives, then ! ' You royal munificence, boiled their rice for Saxons, some ' arrestment,' partial ' ar- him ; they sang all night to him, spinning restment of the Knaves and Dastards' assiduous on their cotton distaffs, as he has become indispensable ! — The page of 45 lay to sleep: ' Let us pity the poor white Dryasdust is heavy with such details. nian ; no mother has he to fetch him milk. And yet I will venture to believe that in "o sister to grind him corn ! ' Thou poor no time, since the beginnings of Society, black Noble One,— thou Lady too: did was the lot of those same dumb millions not a God make thee too; was there of toilers so entirely unbearable as it is 50 not in thee too somethmg of a God ! — even in the days now passing over us. It is not to die, or even to die of hunger, Gurth, born thrall of Cedric the Saxon, that makes a man wretched ; many men has been greatly pitied by Dryasdust and have died ; all men must die, — the last others. Gurth, with the brass collar exit of us all is in a Fire-Chariot of 55 round his neck, tending Cedric's pigs in Pain. But it is to live miserable we know the glades of the wood, is not what I call not why ; to work sore and yet gain noth- an exemplar of human felicity : but rjG THOMAS CARLYLE Gurth, with the sky above him, with the ended in death and wreck. O that the free air and tinted boscage and umbrage Newspaper had called me slave, coward, round him, and in him at least the cer- fool, or what it pleased their sweet tainty of supper and social lodging when voices to name me, and I had attained not he came home; Gurth to me seems happy, 5 death, but life! — Liberty requires new in comparison with many a Lancashire definitions. and Buckinghamshire man of these days, A conscious abhorrence and intolerance not born thrall of anybody ! Gurth's of Folly, of Baseness, Stupidity, Pol- brass collar did not gall him : Cedric dc- troonery and all that brood of things, served to be his master. The pigs were 10 dwells deep in some men : still deeper in Cedric's, but Gurth too would get his par- others an z<»conscious abhorrence and in- ings of them. Gurth had the inexprcss- tolerance, clothed moreover by the be- ible satisfaction of feeling himself related neficent Supreme Powers in what stout indissolubly, though in a rude brass-collar appetites, energies, egoisms so-called, are way, to his fellow-mortals in this Earth. J5 suitalile to it; — these latter are your He had superiors, inferiors, equals. — Conquerors, Romans, Normans, Russians, Gurth is now ' emancipated ' long since ; Indo-English ; Founders of what we call has what we call ' Liberty.' Liberty, I Aristocracies. Which indeed have they am told, is a divine thing. Liberty when not the most 'divine right' to found; — it becomes the * Liberty to die by starva- 20 being themselves very truly "Apto-roj, tion ' is not so divine ! Bravest, Best ; and conquering generally Liberty? The true liberty of a man, a confused rabble of Worst, or at lowest, you would say, consisted in his finding clearly enough, of Worse? I think their out, or being forced to find out the right divine right, tried, with affirmatory ver- path, and to walk thereon. To learn, or 25 ^\^^^ j^ the greatest Law-Court known to be taught, what work he actually was to me, was good ! A class of men who able for; and then by permission, per- are dreadfully exclaimed against by suasion, and even compulsion, to set Dryasdust ; of whom nevertheless be- about doing of the same! That is his neficent Nature has oftentimes had need; true blessedness, honor, ' liberty ' and 30 and may, alas, again have need, maximum of wellbeing: if liberty be not When, across the hundredfold poor that, I for one have small care about scepticisms, trivialisms and constitutional liberty. You do not allow a palpable cobwebberies of Dryasdust, you catch any madman to leap over precipices ; you glimpse of a William the Conqueror, a violate his liberty, you that are wise ; and 35 Tancred of Hauteville or such like, — do keep him, were it in strait-waistcoats, you not discern veritably some rude out- away from the precipices! Every stupid, line of a true God-made King; whom not every cowardly and foolish man is but the Champion of England cased in tin, a less palpable madman : his true liberty but all Nature and the Universe were were that a wiser man, that any and 40 calling to the throne? It is absolutely every wiser man, could, by brass collars, necessary that he get thither. Nature or in whatever milder or sharper way, does not mean her poor Saxon children to lay hold of him when he was going perish, of obesity, stupor or other malady, wrong, and order and compel him to go as yet: a stern Ruler and Line of Rulers a little righter. O, if thou really art my 45 therefore is called in, — a stern but most Senior, Seigneur, my Elder, Presbyter or beneficent perpetual House-Surgeon is by Priest, — if thou art in very deed my Nature herself called in, and even the Wiser, may a beneficent instinct lead and appropriate fees are provided for him ! impel thee to ' conquer ' me, to command Dryasdust talks lamentably about Here- me ! If thou do know better than I what 50 ward and the Fen Counties; fate of Earl is good and right, I conjure thee in the Waltheof; Yorkshire and the North re- name of God, force me to do it; were it duced to ashes: all which is undoubtedly by never such brass collars, whips and lamentable. But even Dryasdust ap- handcuffs, leave me not to walk over prises me of one fact: 'A child, in this precipices! That I have been called, bySS W'illiam's reign, might have carried a all the Newspapers, a ' free man ' will purse of gold from end to end of Eng- avail me little, if my pilgrimage have land.' My erudite friend, it is a fact PAST AND PRESENT 727 which outweighs a thousand ! Sweep Splcndcitr dc Dicu.' — I sa}', it is neces- away thy constitutional, sentimental and sary to get the work out of such a man, other cobwebberies ; look eye to eye, if however harsh that be! When a world, thou still have any eye, in the face of this not yet doomed for death, is rushing big burly William Bastard: thou wilt see 5 down to ever-deeper Baseness and Confu- a fellow of most flashing discernment, sion, it is a dire necessity of Nature's to of most strong lion-heart; in whom, as bring in her Aristocracies, her Best, it were, within a frame of oak and iron, even by forcible methods. When their the gods have planted the soul of a descendants or representatives cease en- man of genius ' ! Dost _ thou call that 10 tirely to be the Best, Nature's poor world nothing? I call it an immense thing! will very soon rush down again to Base- — Rage enough was in this Willelmus ness ; and it becomes a dire necessity of Conqujestor, rage enough for his occa- nature's to cast them out. Hence French sions ; — and yet the essential element of Revolutions, Five-point Charters, Democ- him, as of all such men, is not scorching 15 racics, and a mournful list of Etceteras, fire, but shining illuminative light. Fire in these our afflicted times. and light are strangely interchangeable; To what extent Democracy has now nay, at bottom, I have found them differ- reached, how it advances irresistible with ent forms of the same most godlike ominous, ever-increasing speed, he that 'elementary substance' in our world: a 20 will open his eyes on any province of thing worth stating in these days. The human affairs may discern. Democracy essential element of this Conquaestor is, is everywhere the inexorable demand of first of all, the most sun-eyed perception these ages, swiftly fulfilling itself. From of what is really what on this God's- the thunder of Napoleon battles, to the Earth; — which, thou wilt find, does 25 jabbering of Open-vestry in St. Mary mean at bottom 'Justice,' and 'Virtues' Axe, all things announce Democracy, not a few: Conformity to what the A distinguished man, whom some of my Maker has seen good to make; that, I readers will hear again with pleasure, suppose, will mean Justice and a Virtue thus writes to me what in these days he or two? — 30 notes from the Wahngasse of Weissnicht- Dost thou think Willelmus Conqusestor wo, where our London fashions seem to would have tolerated ten years' jargon, be in full vogue. Let us hear the Herr one hour's jargon, on the propriety of Teufelsdrockh again, were it but the killing Cotton-manufactures by partridge smallest word ! Corn-Laws ? I fancy, this was not the 35 ' Democracy, which means despair of man to knock out of his night's rest with finding any Heroes to govern you, and nothing but a noisy bedlamism in your contented putting-up with the want of mouth ! ' Assist us still better to bush them, — alas, thou too, mein Lieber, seest the partridges; strangle Plugson who well how close it is of kin to Atheism, spins the shirts?' — 'Par la Splendeur de 40 and other sad Isms: he who discovers Dieu!' — — Dost thou think Willelmus no God whatever, how shall he discover Conquaestor, in this new time, with Heroes, the visible Temples of God? — Steamengine Captains of Industry on one Strange enough meanwhile it is, to ob- hand of him, and Joe-Manton Captains serve with what thoughtlessness, here in of Idleness on the other, would have 45 our rigidly Conservative Country, men doubted which zvas really the Best; rush into Democracy with full cry. Be- which did deserve strangling, and which yond doubt, his Excellenz the Titular- not? Herr Ritter Kauderwalsch von Pferde- I have a certain indestructible regard fuss-Quacksalber, he our distinguished for Willelmus Conquaestor. A resident 50 Conservative Premier himself, and all House-surgeon, provided by Nature for but the thicker-headed of his Party, dis- her beloved English People, and even fur- cern Democracy to be inevitable as death, nished with the requisite fees, as I said ; and are even desperate of delaying it for he by no means felt himself doing much ! Nature's work, this Willelmus, but his 55 ' You cannot walk the streets without own work exclusively! And his own beholding Democracy announce itself: work withal it was; informed 'par la the very Tailor has become, if not prop- 728 THOMAS CARLYLE crly Sansculottic, which to him would be and how, hemmed-in by Sedan and Hud- ruinous, yet a Tailor unconsciously sym- dersfield, ijy Nescience, Dulness, Pruri- bolizing, and prophesying with his scis- ence, and other sad necessities and laws sors, the reign of Equality. What now is of Nature, it has attained just to this: our fashionable coat ? A thing of super- 5 Gray savagery of Three Sacks with a finest texture, of deeply meditated cut ; hem ! with Malines-lace cuffs; quilted with 'When the very Tailor verges towards gold; so that a man can carry, without Sansculottism, is it not ominous? The difficulty, an estate of land on his back? last Divinity of poor mankind dethron- Kcincsxi'cgs, By no manner of means ! lo ing himself; sinking his taper too, flame The Sumptuary Laws have fallen into downmost, like the Genius of Sleep or of such a state of desuetude as was never Death ; admonitory that Tailor time shall before seen. Our fashionable coat is an be no more! — For, little as one could amphibium between barn-sack and dray- advise Sumptuary Laws at the present man's doublet. The cloth of it is studi- 15 epoch, yet nothing is clearer than that ously coarse; the color a speckled soot- where ranks do actually exist, strict di- black or rust-brown gray; the nearest vision of costumes will also be enforced; approach to a Peasant's. And for shape, that if we ever have a new Hierarchy — thou shouldst see it! The last con- and Aristocracy, acknowledged veritably summation of the year now passing over 20 as such, for which I daily pray Heaven, us is definable as Three Bags; a big bag the Tailor will reawaken; and be, by for the body, two small bags for the arms, volunteering and appointment, con- and by way of collar a hem ! The first sciously and unconsciously, a safeguard Antique Cheruscan who, of feltcloth or of that same.' — Certain farther observa- bear's-hide, with bone or metal needle, =5 tions, from the same invaluable pen, on set about making himself a coat, before our never-ending changes of mode, our Tailors had yet awakened out of No- ' perpetual nomadic and even ape-like thing, — did not he make it even so? A appetite for change and mere change' loose wide poke for body, with two holes in all the equipments of our existence, to let out the arms ; this w^as his original 30 and the ' fatal revolutionary character ' coat: to which holes it was soon visible thereby manifested, we suppress for the that two small loose pokes, or sleeves, present. It may be admitted that De- easily appended, would be an improve- mocracy, in all meanings of the word, is ment. in full career; irresistible by any Ritter ' Thus has the Tailor-art, so to speak, 35 Kauderwalsch or other Son of Adam, as overset itself, like most other things ; times go. ' Liberty ' is a thing men are changed its center-of-gravity ; whirled determined to have. suddenly over from zenith to nadir. But truly, as I had to remark in the Your Stulz, with huge somerset, vaults mean while, ' the liberty of not being from his high shopboard down to the 40 oppressed by your fellow man ' is an depths of primal savagery, — carrying indispensable, yet one of the most insig- much along with him ! For I will invite nificant fractional parts of Human Lib- thee to reflect that the Tailor, as top- erty. No man oppresses thee, can bid most ultimate froth of Human Society, thee fetch or carry, come or go, without is indeed swift-passing, evanescent, slip- 45 reason shown. True; from all men thou pery to decipher; yet significant of much, art emancipated: but from Thyself and nay of all. Topmost evanescent froth, he from the Devil — ? No man, wiser, un- is churned-up from the very lees, and wiser, can make thee come or go: but from all intermediate regions of the thy own futilities, bewilderments, thy liquor. The general outcome he, visible 5° false appetites for Money, Windsor to the eye, of what men aimed to do, and Georges and suchlike ? No man op- were obliged and enabled to do, in this presses thee, O free and independent one public department of symbolizing Franchiser: but does not this stupid themselves to each other by covering of Porter-pot oppress thee? No Son of their skins. A smack of all Human Life 55 Adam can bid thee come or go; but this lies in the Tailor: its wild struggles to- absurd Pot of Heavy-wet, this can and wards beauty, dignity, freedom, victory ; does ! Thou art the thrall not of Cedric PAST AND PRESENT 729 the Saxon, but of thy own brutal appe- at present; and puts it into the heads of tites and this scoured dish of liquor, many, almost of all. The liberty especially And thou pratest of thy ' liberty ' ? which has to purchase itself by social Thou entire blockhead ! isolation, and each man standing separate Heavy-wet and gin : alas, these are not 5 from the other, having ' no business with the only kinds of thraldom. Thou who him ' but a cash-account : this is such a walkest in a vain show, looking out with liberty as the Earth seldom saw ; — as the ornamental dilettante sniff and serene Earth will not long put up with, recom- supremacy at all Life and all Death; and mend it how you may. This liberty turns amblest jauntily; perking up thy poor 10 out, before it have long continued in talk into crotchets, thy poor conduct into action, with all men flinging up their caps fatuous somnambulisms ; — and art as an round it, to be, for the Working Millions * enchanted Ape ' under God's sky, where a liberty to die by want of food ; for the thou mightest have been a man, had Idle Thousands and Units, alas, a still proper School-masters and Conquerors, i5 more fatal liberty to live in want of and Constables with cat-o'-nine tails, work; to have no earnest duty to do in been vouchsafed thee; dost thou call that this God's-World any more. What be- ' liberty ' ? Or your unreposing Mam- comes of a man in such predicament ? mon-worshipper again, driven, as if by Earth's Laws are silent; and Heaven's Galvanisms, by Devils and Fixed-Ideas, 20 speak in a voice which is not heard. Nc who rises early and sits late, chasing work, and the ineradicable need of work. the impossible; straining every faculty give rise to new very wondrous life- to 'fill himself with the east wind,' — philosophies, new very wondrous life ■ how merciful were it, could you, by mild practices ! Dilettantism, Pococurantism, persuasion, or by the severest tyranny 25 Beau-Brummelism, with perhaps an oc- so-called, check him in his mad path, and casional, half-mad, protesting burst of turn him into a wiser one ! AH pain- Byronism, establish themselves : at the ful tyranny, in that case again, were but end of a certain period, — if you go back mild ' surgery ; ' the pain of it cheap, to ' the Dead Sea,' there is, say our as health and life, instead of galvanism 30 Moslem friends, a very strange ' Sabbath- and fixed-idea, are cheap at any price, day ' transacting itself there ! — Brethren, Sure enough, of all paths a man could we know but imperfectly yet, after ages strike into, there w, at any given mo- of Constitutional Government, what Lib- ment, a best path for every man ; a thing erty and Slavery are. which, here and now, it were of all 35 Democracy, the chase of Liberty in that things iviscst for him to do; — which direction, shall go its full course; un- could he be but led or driven to do, he restrainable by him of Pferdefuss-Quack- were then doing ' like a man,' as we salber, or any of his household. The phrase it; all men and gods agreeing with Toiling Millions of Mankind, in most him, the whole Universe virtually ex- 40 vital need and passionate instinctive de- claiming Well-done to him ! His success, sire of Guidance, shall cast away False- in such case, were complete ; his felicity Guidance ; and hope, for an hour, that a maximum. This path, to find this path No-Guidance will suffice them : but it can and walk in it, is the one thing needful be for an hour only. The smallest item for him. Whatsoever forwards him in 45 of human Slavery is the oppression of that, let it come to him even in the shape man by his Mock-Superiors; the palpa- of blows and spurnings, is liberty : what- blest, but I say at bottom the smallest, soever hinders him, were it wardmotes, Let him shake-off such oppression, open-vestries, pollbooths, tremendous trample it indignantly under his feet ; I cheers, rivers of heavy-wet, is slavery. 50 blame him not, I pity and commend him. The notion that a man's liberty con- But oppression by your Mock-Superiors sists in giving his vote at election-hust- well shaken off, the grand problem yet ings, and saying, ' Behold, now I too have remains to solve : That of finding govern- my twenty-thousandth part of a Talker ment by your Real-Superiors ! Alas, how in our National Palaver; will not all the 55 shall we ever learn the solution of that, gods be good to me?' — is one of the benighted, bewildered, snifiing, sneering, pleasantest! Nature nevertheless is kind godforgetting unfortunates as we are? 730 THOMAS CARLYLE It is a work for centuries; to be taught alone, but a far deeper than these: it is us by tribulations, confusions, insurrec- your souls that lie dead, crushed down tions, obstructions; who knows if not by under despicable Nightmares, Atheisms, conflagration and despair! It is a les- Brain-fumes; and are not souls at all, son inclusive of all other lessons; the 5 but mere succcdanea for salt to keep your hardest of all lessons to learn. bodies and their appetites from putrefy- One thing I do know: Those Apes, ing ! Your cotton-spinning and thrice- chattering on the branches by the Dead miraculous mechanism, what is this too. Sea, never got it learned; but chatter by itself, but a larger kind of Animalism? there to this day. To them no Moses lo Spiders can spin, Beavers can l)uild and need come a second time; a thousand show contrivance; the Ant lays-up ac- ]\Ioseses would be but so many painted cumulation of capital, and has, for aught Phantasms, interesting Fellow-Apes of I know, a Bank of Antland. If there is new strange aspect,— whom they would no soul in man higher than all that, did ' invite to dinner,' be glad to meet with i5 it reach to sailing on the cloud-rack and in lion-soirees. To them the voice of spinning seasand ; then I say, man is but Prophecv of heavenly monition, is quite an animal, a more cunning kind of brute: ended They chatter there, all Heaven he has no soul, but only a succedaneum shut to them, to the end of the world. for salt. Whereupon, seeing himself to The unfortunates ! Oh, what is dying of 20 be truly of the beasts that perish, he hunger, with honest tools in your hand, ought to admit it, I think ; — and also with a manful purpose in your heart, and straightway universally to kdl himself; much real labor lying round you done, and so, in a manlike manner at least in comparison? You ^honestly quit your end, and wave these brute-worlds his tools ; quit a most muddy confused coil ^5 dignified farewelH — ^ of sore work, short rations, of sorrows, dispiritments and contradictions, having now honestly done with it all ; — and await, not entirely in a distracted manner, BOOK IV what the Supreme Powers, and the Si- 30 lences and the Eternities may have to chapter viii say to you ^^^ didactic • A second thing I know: This lesson will have to be learned,— under penal- Certainly it were a fond imagination to ties ! England will either learn it, or 35 expect that any preaching of mine could England also will cease to exist among abate Mammonism ; that Bobus of Nations. England will either learn to Houndsditch will love his guineas less, reverence its Heroes, and discriminate or his poor soul more, for any preaching them from its Sham-Heroes and Valets of mine ! But there is one Preacher who and gaslighted Histrios ; and to prize 40 does preach with effect, and gradually them as the audible God's-voice, amid all persuade all persons: his name is Des- inane jargons and temporary market- tiny, is Divine Providence, and his Ser- cries, and say to them with heart-loyalty, mon the inflexible Course of Things. ' Be ye King and Priest, and Gospel and Experience does take dreadfully high Guidance for us : ' or else England will 45 school-wages ; but he teaches like no continue to worship new and ever-new other ! forms of Quackhood, — and so, with what I revert to Friend Prudence the good resiliences and reboundings matters little, Quaker's refusal of ' seven thousand go down to the Father of Quacks ! Can pounds to boot.' Friend Prudence's prac- I dread such things of England? 5° tical conclusion will, by degrees, become Wretched, thick-eyed, gross-hearted mor- that of all rational practical men what- tals, why will ye worship lies, and soever. On the present scheme and prin- ' Stuffed Clothes-suits created by the ciple. Work cannot continue. Trades' ninth-parts of men'! It is not your Strikes, Trades' Unions, Chartisms; mu- purses that suffer; your farm-rents, your 55 tiny, squalor, rage and desperate revolt. commerces, your mill-revenues, loud as growing ever more desperate, will go on ye lament over these; no, it is not these their way. As dark misery settles down PAST AND PRESENT 731 on us, and our refuges of lies fall in Heaven forever. No; I reckon not. pieces one after one, the hearts of men, Socinian Preachers quit their pulpits in now at last serious, will turn to refuges Yankeeland, saying, ' Friends, this is all of truth. The eternal stars shine out gone to colored cobweb, we regret to again, so soon as it is dark enough. 5 say ! ' — and retire into the fields to cul- Begirt with desperate Trades' Union- tivate onion-beds, and live frugally on ism and Anarchic Mutiny, many an In- vegetables. It is very notable. Old god- dustrial Law-zvard, by and by, who has like Calvinism declares that its old body neglected to make laws and keep them, is now fallen to tatters, and done ; and its will be heard saying to himself: ' Why 10 mournful ghost, disembodied, seeking have I realized five hundred thousand new embodiment, pipes again in the pounds? I rose early and sat late, I winds; — a ghost and spirit as yet, but toiled and moiled, and in the sweat of heralding new Spirit-worlds, and better my brow and of my soul I strove to gain Dynasties than the Dollar one. this money, that I might become conspic- 15 Yes, here as there, light is coming into uous, and have some honor among my the world ; men love not darkness, they fellow-creatures. I wanted them to do love light. A deep feeling of the honor me, to love me. The money is eternal nature of Justice looks out among here, earned with my best lifeblood ; but us everywhere, — even through the dull the honor? I am encircled with squalor, 20 eyes of Exeter Hall; an unspeakable re- with hunger, rage, and sooty despera- ligiousness struggles, in the most help- tion. Not honored, hardly even envied ; less manner, to speak itself, in Puseyisms only fools and the flunky-species so and the like. Of our Cant, all condem- much as envy me. I am conspicuous, nable, how much is not condemnable with- — as a mark for curses and brick- 25 out pity; we had almost said, without bats. What good is it? My five hundred respect! The J«articulate worth and scalps hang here in my wigwam ; would truth that is in England goes down yet to Heaven I had sought something else to the Foundations. than the scalps ; would to Heaven I had Some ' Chivalry of Labor,' some noble been a Christian Fighter, not a Chactaw 30 Humanity and practical Divineness of one ! To have ruled and fought not in a Labor, will yet be realized on this Earth. Mammonish but in a Godlike spirit ; to Or why tvill; why do we pray to Heaven, have had the hearts of the people bless without setting our own shoulder to the me, as a true ruler and captain of my wheel? The Present, if it will have the people; to have felt my own heart bless 35 Future accomplish, shall itself commence, me, and that God above instead of Mam- Thou who prophesiest, who believest, be- mon below was blessing me, — this had gin thou to fulfil. Here or nowhere, now been something. Out of my sight, ye beg- equally as at any time ! That outcast garly five hundred scalps of banker's-thou- help-needing thing or person, trampled sands: I will try for something other, 40 down under vulgar feet or hoofs, no help or account my life a tragical futility ! ' ' possible ' for it, no prize offered for * * * the saving of it, — canst not thou save it. But truly it is beautiful to see the then, without prize? Put forth thy hand, brutish empire of Mammon cracking in God's name; know that 'impossible,' everywhere ; giving sure promise of dy- 45 where Truth and Mercy and the ever- ing, or of being changed. A strange, lasting Voice of Natural order, has no chill, almost ghastly dayspring strikes up place in the brave man's dictionary, in Yankeeland itself: my Transcendental That when all men have said ' Impos- friends announce there, in a distinct, sible,' and tumbled noisily elsewhither, though somewhat lankhaired, ungainly 5° and thou alone art left, then first thy manner, that the Demiurgus Dollar is time and possibility have come. It is for dethroned ; that new unheard-of Demiur- thee now ; do thou that, and ask no gusships, Priesthoods, Aristocracies, man's counsel, but thy own only, and Growths and Destructions are already God's. Brother, thou hast possibility in visible in the gray of coming Time. 55 thee for much: the possibility of writing Chronos is dethroned by Jove; Odin by on the eternal skies the record of a heroic St. Olaf: the Dollar cannot rule in like. That noble downfallen or yet un- 732 THOMAS CARLYLE born ' Impossibility,' thou canst lift it up, and there is no other greatness. To thou canst, by thy soul's travail, bring it make some nook of God's Creation a into clear being. That loud inane Ac- little fruitfuller, better, more worthy of tuality, with millions in its pocket, too God; to make some human hearts a little 'possible' that, whicli rolls along there, 5 wiser, manfuller, happier, — more blessed, with quilted trumpeters blaring round it, less accursed! It is work for a God. and all the world escorting it as mute or Sooty Hell of mutiny and savagery and vocal flunky, — escort it not thou; say to despair can, by man's energy, be made a it, either nothing, or else deeply in thy kind of Heaven; cleared of its soot, of heart: 'Loud-blaring Nonentity, no force lo its mutiny, of its need to mutiny; the of trumpets, cash, Long-acre art, or uni- everlasting arch of Heaven's azure over- versal flunkyhood of men, makes thee si)anning it too, and its cunning mechan- an Entity ; thou art a A''o;ientity, and de- isms and tall chimney-steeples, as a birth ceptive Simulacrum, more accursed than of Heaven ; God and all men looking on thou seemest. Pass on in the Devil's 15 it well pleased. name, unworshipped by at least one man, Unstained by wasteful deformities, by and leave the thoroughfare clear ! ' wasted tears or heart's-blood of men, or Not on Ilion's or Latium's plains; on any defacement of the Pit, noble fruitful far other plains and places henceforth Labor, growing ever nobler, will come can noble deeds be now done. Not on 20 forth, — the grand sole miracle of Man ; Ilion's plains ; how much less in May- whereby Man has risen from the low fair's drawingrooms ! Not in victory places of this Earth, very literally, into over poor brother French or Phrygians ; divine Heavens. Ploughers, Spinners, but in victory over Frost-jotuns, Marsh- Builders; Prophets, Poets, Kings; Brind- giants, over demons of Discord, Idleness, 25 leys and Goethes, Odins and Arkwrights; Injustice, Unreason, and Chaos come all martyrs, and noble men, and gods are again. None of the old Epics is longer of one grand Host; immeasurable; possible. The Epic of French and Phry- marching ever forward since the begin- gians was comparatively a small Epic; nings of the World. The enormous, ail- but that of Flirts and Fribbles, what is 3° conquering, flame-crowned Host, noble that? A thing that vanishes at cock- every soldier in it; sacred, and alone crowing, — that already begins to scent noble. Let him who is not of it hide the morning air. Gamepreserving Aris- himself; let him tremble for himself, tocracies, let them ' bush ' never so ef- Stars at every button cannot make him fectually, cannot escape the Subtle 35 noble ; sheaves of Bath-garters, nor Fowler. Game seasons will be excel- bushels of Georges; nor any other con- lent, and again will be indifferent, and trivance but manfully enlisting in it, val- by and by they will not be at all. The iantly taking place and step in it. O Last Partridge of England, of an Eng- Heavens, will he not bethink himself; land where millions of men can get no 40 he too is so needed in the Host ! It corn to eat, will be shot and ended. were so blessed, thrice-blessed, for him- Aristocracies with beards on their chins self and for us all ! In hope of the Last will find other work to do than amuse Partridge, and some Duke of Weimar themselves with trundling-hoops. among our English Dukes, we will be But it is to you, ye Workers, who do 45 patient yet a while, already work, and are as grown men, noble and honorable in a sort, that the The Future hides in it whole world calls for new work and Gladness and sorrow; nobleness. Subdue mutiny, discord, wide- We press still thorow, spread despair, by manfulness, justice, 5o Naught that abides in it mercy and wisdom. Chaos is dark, deep Daunting us,— onward, as Hell; let light be, and there is instead * * * a green flowery World. Oh, it is great, (1843) JOHN RUSKIN (1819-1900) Ruskin's literary career divides itself into two periods : iu the first, his supreme interest was art ; in the second, his attention was chiefly directed to social problems and ethical teaching. When he was only seventeen his indignation was aroused by the current deprecia- tion of the great landscape painter, Turner, to whom he wrote offering his pen in defence. The offer was declined, but this youthful project was realized in Modern Painters, the first volume of which Ruskin published when he was twenty-four, and the sixth when he was forty- one. His main principles are that truth is the standard of all excellence, and nature the inspiration of all great art ; he applies these tests to establish the conclusion that Turner is the only perfect landscape painter the world has ever seen. In the midst of this undertaking, which was expanded far beyond its original object, Ruskin wrote The Seven Lamps of Architecture — (Sacrifice, Truth, Power, Beauty, Life, Memory, Obedience). He developed his ideas further in T]ie Stones of Venice, in which he defended Gothic architecture on the same grounds as he had defended Turner — ^ truthfulness and the love of nature. These works and the successive volumes of Modern Painters gave him an unprecedented position as an art critic, but he was already beginning to turn his attention to other subjects. He was greatly influenced by Carlyle, with whom he formed a close friendship; and he was deeply interested in the Workmen's College conducted by Maurice and Kingsley, writing for his pupils there The Elements of Drawing and The Elements of Perspective. In 1857 he said that the kind of painting they wanted in London was painting cheeks red with health, and in the same year he gave fuller utterance to his new ideas in a course of lectures at Manchester on ' The Political Economy of Art.' Four essays which appeared in The Corn- hill Magazine in 18G0 (afterwards republished under the title Unto This Last) were even more outspoken, and caused so much dissatisfaction that the editor refused to continue the series ; Eraser's Magazine a little later took the same course with the papers now included in Ruskin's works as Miinera Pulveris. He advocated the application of christian principles to the organization of labor, and condemned the accepted political economy of the day as self-seeking and unsound. His idea of political economy was that it was not an abstract science, but ' a system of conduct founded on the sciences, and impossible, except under certain conditions of moral culture.' He accordingly devoted his maiu energies henceforth to arousing the upper classes to a sense of their duties to the poor, and helping the lower classes to realize their opportunities. To this end he wrote, gave his money, and labored with his own hands. Time and Tide hy Vt'eare and Tijne and Eors Claviycra are letters to workingmen; Sesame and Lilies and The Croicn of Wild Olive are lectures delivered in various parts of England, dealing with political, social, and economical questions. He held the Professorship of Fine Art at Oxford for many years, and his courses there were the foundation of several of his later works on art ; after his retirement he wrote a series of sketches of his past life under the title Prwterita (things gone by). His last years were spent in seclusion at Brantwood, on the shores of Coniston Water in the Lake District. On his eightieth birthday Edward, Prince of Wales, headed an address which was signed by the most distinguished men of the time to assure Ruskin of their ' deepest respect and sincerest affection.' While there have been wide differences of opinion about his theories of art and his views of political economy and social reform, his entire singleness of aim and his preeminence as a writer of English prose are beyond dispute. TRAFFIC you are going to build : but earnestly and seriously asking you to pardon me, I am (A lecture delivered in the Town Hall, going to do nothing of the kind. I can- Bradford, afterwards included in The not talk, or at least can say very little, Croivn of Wild Olive) 5 about this same Exchange. I must talk My good Yorkshire friends, you asked of quite other things, though not will- me down here among your hills that I ingly ; — I could not deserve your pardon, might talk to you about this Exchange if when you invited me to speak on one 72,2, 734 JOHN RUSKIN subject, I zvilfully spoke on another. But sermons even were you able to preach I cannot speak, to purpose, of anything them, which may be doubted.' about which I do not care; and most Permit me, therefore, to fortify, this simply and sorrowfully I have to tell you, old dogma of mine somewhat. Taste is in the outset, that I do not care about 5 not oniy a part and an index of morality this Exchange of yours. — it is the only morality. The first, and If, however, when you sent me your in- last, and closest trial question to any vitation, I had answered, 'I won't come, living creature is, 'What do you like?' I don't care about the Exchange of Brad- Tell me what you like, and I '11 tell you ford,' you would have been justly of- ,3 what you are. Go out into the street, fended with me, not knowing the rea- and ask the first man or woman you sons of so blunt a carelessness. So I meet, what their 'taste' is, and if they have come down, hoping that you will answer candidly, you know them, body patiently let me tell you why, on this, and soul. ' You, my friend in the rags, and many other such occasions, I now ,5 with the unsteady gait, what do you remain silent, when formerly I should like?' 'A pipe and a quartern of gin.' have caught at the opportunity of speak- I know you. ' You, good woman, with ing to a gracious audience. the quick step and tidy bonnet, what do In a word, then, I do not care about you like?' 'A swept hearth and a clean this Exchange, — because you don't; and 20 tea-table, and my husband opposite me, because you know perfectly well I can- and a baby at my breast.' Good, I know- not make you. Look at the essential you also. ' You, little girl with the conditions of the case, which you, as golden hair and the soft eyes, what do l)usiness men, know perfectly well, you like?' 'My canary, and a run though perhaps you think I forget them. 25 among the wood hyacinths.' ' You, little You are going to spend £30,000, which to boy with the dirty hands and the low you, collectively, is nothing; the buying forehead, what do you like?' _' A shy at a new coat is, as to the cost of it, a the sparrows, and a game at pitch farth- much more important matter of consider- ing.' Good; we know them all now. ation to me than building a new Ex- 3° What more need v^^e ask? change is to you. But you think you 'Nay,' perhaps you answer: 'we need may as well have the right thing for rather to ask what these people and chil- your money. You know there are a dren do, than what they like. If they do great many odd styles of architecture right, it is no matter that they like what about; you don't want to do anything 3S is wrong; and if they do wrong, it is ridiculous ; you hear of me, among others, no matter that they like what is right. as a respectable architectural man-mil- Doing is the great thing; and it does liner; and you send for me, that I may not matter that the man likes drinking, tell you the leading fashion ; and what so that he does not drink ; nor that the is, in our shops, for the moment, the 40 little girl likes to be kind to her canary, newest and sweetest thing in pinnacles. if she will not learn her lessons; nor that Now, pardon me for telling you the little boy likes throwing stones at frankly, you cannot have good architec- the sparrows, if he goes to the Sunday ture merely by asking people's advice on School.' Indeed, for a short time, and occasion. All good architecture is the 45 in a provisional sense, this is true. For expression of national life and character; if, resolutely, people do what is right, in and it is produced by a prevalent and time they come to like doing it. But eager national taste, or desire for beauty, they only are in a right moral state when And I want you to think a little of the they have come to like doing it; and as deep significance of this word ' taste ; ' 5° Jong as they don't like it, they are still in for no statement of mine has been more a vicious state. The man is not in health earnestly or oftener controverted than of body who is always thinking of the that good taste is essentially a moral bottle in the cupboard, though he bravely quality. ' No,' say many of my antago- bears his thirst; but the man who heartily nists, 'taste is one thing, morality is an- 55 enjoys water in the morning and wine other. Tell us what is pretty: we shall in the evening, each in its proper quan- be glad to know that; but we need no tity and time. And the entire object of TRAFFIC 735 true education is to make people not you lil , o ■' worship and Athenian Virgin-worship are both ex- ^ etzel S trading. pressions of adoration of divine Wisdom and Purity. Then, thirdly, there followed the re- Next to these great deities rank, in power over the JJ^Jon gf pleasure, in which all EuropC national mind, Dionvsus and Ceres, the givers of ^ -i ir ^ i i- • j Ji human strength and life: then, for heroic example.^ g^ve itself tO luxury, endmg HI death. Hercules. There is no N'enus-worship among the" First, bals uiasques in every saloon. and Greeks in the great times: and the Muses are essen- then guillotilies ill every Square. And tially teachers of Truth, and of its harmonies. H ^^^ ^^ WOrshipS isSUC ill VaSt Compare Aratra Pentelici, § 200. •^ 740 JOHN RUSKIN temple building. Your Greek worshipped you know, all beautiful architecture must Wisdom, and built you the Parthenon — be adorned with sculpture or painting; the Virgin's temple. The Medieval wor- and for sculpture or painting, you must shipped Consolation, and built you Virgin have a subject. And hitherto it has been temples also — but to our Lady of Salva- 5 a received opinion among the nations of tion. Then the Revivalist worshipped the world that the only right subjects for beauty, of a sort, and built you Versailles, either, were heroisms of some sort, and the Vatican. Now, lastly, will you Even on his pots and his flagons, the tell me what zve worship, and what zuc Greek put a Hercules slaying lions, or build? 10 an Apollo slaying serpents, or Bacchus You know we are speaking always of slaying melancholy giants, and earth- the real, active, continual, national wor- liorn despondencies. On his temples, the ship; that by which men act while they Greek put contests of great warriors in live; not that which they talk of when founding states, or of gods with evil they die. Now, we have, indeed, a 15 spirits. On his houses and temples alike, nominal religion, to which we pay tithes the Christian put carvings of angels con- of property and sevenths of time; but we qucring devils; or of hero-martyrs ex- have also a practical and earnest reli- changing this world for another; subjects gion, to which we devote nine-tenths of inappropriate, I think, to our direction of our property and sixth-sevenths of our 20 exchange here. And the Master of time. And we dispute a great deal about Christians not only left his followers the nominal religion; but we are all without any orders as to the sculpture of unanimous' about this practical one, of affairs of exchange on the outside of which I think you will admit that the buildings, but gave some strong evidence ruling goddess may be best generally 25 of his dislike of affairs of exchange within described as the ' Goddess of Getting-on,' them. And yet there might surely be a or ' Britannia of the Market.' The Athe- heroism in such affairs ; and all commerce nians had an ' Athena Agoraia,' or become a kind of selling of doves, not Athena of the Market ; but she was a impious. The wonder has always been subordinate type of their goddess, while 30 great to me that heroism has never been our Britannia Agoraia is the principal supposed to be in anywise consistent with type of ours. And all your great archi- the practice of supplying people with tectural works, are, of course, built to food, or clothes ; but rather with that of her. It is long since you built a great quartering one's self upon them for food, cathedral; and how you would laugh at 35 and stripping them of their clothes, me, if I proposed building a cathedral on Spoiling of armor is a heroic deed in the top of one of these hills of yours, to all ages ; but the selling of clothes, old make it an Acropolis ! But your railroad or new, has never taken any color of mounds, vaster than the walls of Babylon ; magnanimity. Yet one does not see why your railroad stations, vaster than the 40 feeding the hungry and clothing the temple of Ephesus, and innumerable; naked should ever become base business, your chimneys how much more mighty even when engaged in on a large scale, and costly than cathedral spires! your H one could contrive to attach the notion harbor piers; your warehouses; your ex- of conquest to them anyhow! so that, changes ! — all these are built to your 45 supposing there were anywhere an ob- great Goddess of 'Getting-on'; and she stinate race, who refused to be comforted, has formed, and will continue to form, one might take some pride in giving them your architecture, as long as you worship compulsory comfort ! ^ and as it were, her; and it is quite vain to ask me to 'occupying a country' with one's gifts, tell you how to build to her; you know 50 instead of one's armies ? H one could far better than I. only consider it as much a victory to There might indeed, on some theories, get a barren field sown, as to get an be a conceivably good architecture for eared field stripped ; and contend who Exchanges — that is to say, if there were should build villages, instead of who any heroism in the fact or deed of ex- ss should 'carry' them! Are not all forms change, which might be typically carved of heroism, conceivable in doing these on the outside of your building. For, 1 Quite serious, all this, thniigh it reads like jest. TRAFFIC 741 serviceable deeds? You doubt who is spear, she might have a weaver's beam; strongest? It might be ascertained by and on her shield, instead of St. George's push of spade, as well as push of sword. Cross, the Milanese boar, semi-fleeced, Who is wisest? There are witty things with the town of Gennesaret proper, in to be thought of in planning other busi- 5 the field, and the legend ' In the best ness than campaigns. Who is bravest? market,'^ and her corselet, of leather. There are always the elements to fight folded over her heart in the shape of a with, stronger than men; and nearly as purse, with thirty slits in it for a piece merciless. of money to go in at, on each day of The orily absolutely and unapproach- 10 the month. And I doubt not but that ably heroic element in the soldier's work people would come to see your exchange, seems to be — that he is paid little for and its goddess, with applause, it — and regularly: while you traffickers, Nevertheless, I want to point out to and exchangers, and others occupied in you certain strange characters in this presumably benevolent business, like to 15 goddess of yours. " She differs from the be paid much for it — and by chance. great Greek and Medieval deities essen- I never can make out how it is that a tially in two things — first, as to the con- knight-eTrant does not expect to be paid tinuance of her presumed power; sec- for his trouble, but a peddler-tvrzni al- ondly, as to the extent of it. ways does; — that people are willing to 20 1st, as to the Continuance, take hard knocks for nothing, but never The Greek Goddess of Wisdom gave to sell ribbons cheap ; — that they are continual increase of wisdom, as the ready to go on fervent crusades to re- Christian Spirit of Comfort (or Com- cover the tomb of a buried God, but forter) continual increase of comfort, never on any travels to fulfil the orders 25 There was no question, with these, of any of a living one; — that they will go any- limit or cessation of function. But with where barefoot to preach their faith, but your Agora Goddess, that is just the must be well bribed to practise it, and most important question. Getting on — are perfectly ready to give the Gospel but where to? Gathering together — gratis, but never the loaves and fishes.^ 33 but how much? Do you mean to gather If you choose to take the matter up always — never to spend? If so, f wish on any such soldierly principle, to do you joy of your goddess, for I 'am just your commerce, and your feedmg of as well off as you, without the trouble nations, for fixed salaries; and to be as of worshipping her at all. But if you particular about giving people the best 3-, do not spend, som.ebody else will — some- food, and the best cloth, as soldiers are body else must. And it is because of this about giving them the best gunpowder, (among many other such errors) that I I could carve something for you on your have fearlessly declared your so-called exchange worth looking at. But I can science of Political Economy to be no only at present suggest decorating its ^o science; because, namely, it has omitted frieze with pendent purses; and making the study of exactly the most important its pillars broad at the base, for the branch of the business — the studv of sticking of bills. And in the innermost spending. For spend you must, and as chambers of it there might be a statue much 'as you make, ultimately. You of Britannia of the Market, who may 45 gather corn : — will you bury England have, perhaps advisably, a partridge for ^nder a heap of grain ; or will you, When her crest, typical at once of her courage you have gathered, finally eat? You in fighting for noble ideas, and of her gather gold : — will you make your interest in game; and round its neck house-roofs of it, or pave your streets the inscription m golden letters, Perrciu- 50 with it? That is still one way of spend- fovit quae non peperitr Then, for her ing it. But if you keep it, that you may 1 Please think over this paragraph, too briefly and get more, I'll give yOU more; I '11 give antithetically put, but one of those which I am yo^ ^11 the gold you want — all vou can happiest in having written. • • -r . i, i ' mi Uerem. xvii. ii (best in Septuagint and Vulgate). miagine — if VOU Can tell me what you 11 •As the partridge, fostering what she brought not 55 do With it. \ OU shall have thousands Ot forth, so lie that getteth riches, not by right shall leave them in the midst of his days, and at his end » Meaning fully, ' We have brought our pigs to shall be a fool.' it.' 742 JOHN RUSKIN gold pieces; — thousands of thousands — stables, and coach-houses; a moderately millions — mountains, of gold: where sized park; a large garden and hot- will you keep them? Will you put an houses; and pleasant carriage drives Olympus of silver ujion a golden Pclion through the shruhl)eries. In this man- — make Ossa like a wart? Do you think 5 sion are to live the favored votaries of tiie rain and dew would then come down the Goddess; the English gentleman, with to you, in the streams from such moun- his gracious wife, and his beautiful fam- tains, more blessedly than they will down ily; always able to have the boudoir and the mountains which God has made for the jewels for the wife, and the beauti- you, of moss and whinstone? But it is '° ful ball dresses for the daughters, and not gold that you want to gather! What hunters for the sons, and a shooting in is it? greenbacks? No; not those neither, the Highlands for himself. At the bot- What is it then — is it ciphers after a torn of the bank, is to be the mill; not capital I? Cannot you practise writing less than a quarter of a mile long, with ciphers, and write as many as you want? '5 a steam engine at each end, and two in Write ciphers for an hour every morn- the middle, and a chimney three hundred ing, in a big book, and say every even- feet high. In this mill are to be in con- ing, I am worth all those naughts more stant employment from eight hundred to than I was yesterday. Won't that do? a thousand workers, who never drink. Well, what in the name of Plutus is it 20 never strike, always go to church on you want? Not gold, not greenbacks, Sunday, and always express themselves not ciphers after a capital I? You will in respectful language. have to answer, after all, 'No; we want. Is not that, broadly, and in the main somehow or other, money.'s worth.' features, the kind of thing you propose to Well, what is that? Let your Goddess 25 yourselves ? It is very pretty indeed, of Getting-on discover it, and let her seen from above; not at all so pretty, learn to stay therein. seen from below. For, observe, while II. But there is yet another question to to one family this deity is indeed the be asked respecting this Goddess of Get- Goddess of Getting-on, to a thousand ting-on. The first was of the continu- 30 families she is the Goddess of not Get- ance of her power; the second is of its ting-on. 'Nay,' you say, 'they have all extent. their chance.' Yes, so has every one in Pallas and the Madonna were supposed a lottery, but there must always be the to be all the world's Pallas, and all same number of blanks. ' Ah I but in the world's Madonna. They could 35 a lottery it is not skill and intelligence teach all men, and they could com- which take the lead, but blind chance.' fort all men. But, look strictly into the W'hat then ! do you tliink the old prac- nature of the power of your Goddess of tice, that ' they should take who have Getting-on; and you will find she is the the power, and they should keep who Goddess — not of everybody's getting on 40 can,' is less iniquitous, when the power — but only of somebody's getting on. has become power of brains instead of This is a vital, or rather deathful, dis- fist? and that, though we may not take tinction. Examine it in your own ideal advantage of a child's or a woman's of the state of national life which this weakness, we may of a man's foolish- Goddess is to evoke and maintain. l4Sness? 'Nay, but finally, work must be asked you what it was, when I was last done, and some one must be at the top, here ; ^ — you have never told me. Now, some one at the bottom.' Granted, my shall I try to tell you? friends. Work must always be, and Your ideal of human life then is. I captains of work must always be; and think, that it should be passed in a pleas- so if you in the least remember the tone ant undulating world, with iron and coal of any of my writings, you must know everywhere underneath it. On each that they are thought unfit for this age, pleasant bank of this world is to be a because they are always insisting on need beautiful mansion, with two wings; and of governm'ent, and speaking w-ith scorn 55 of liberty. But I beg vou to observe I'The Two Paths,' p. 115 (small edition), and ., , , • •_, Alffprenre between p. 99 of vol. X of the ■ Revised Series of the ^"'^"^ ^"^^^ }^ ^ ^ '"^ aiHerence netwcen Entire Works.' being captains or governors of work, and TRAFFIC 743 taking tlie profits of it. It does not fol- of these, better or worse shall come ; and low, because you are general of an army; it is for you to choose which, that you are to take all the treasure, or I know that none of this wrong is done land, it wins (if it fight for treasure or with deliberate purpose. I know, on the land) ; neither, because you are king of a 5 contrary, that you wish your workmen nation, that you are to consume all the well; that you do much for them, and profits of the nation's work. Real kings, that you desire to do more for them, on the contrary, are known invariably by if you saw your way to such benevolence their doing quite the reverse of this, — safely. I know that even all this wrong by their taking the least possible quan- 10 and misery are brought about by a tity of the nation's work for themselves. warped sense of duty, each of you striv- There is no test of real kinghood so in- ing to do his best; but unhappily, not fallible as that. Does the crowned crca- knowing for whom this best should be ture live simply, bravely, unostcnta- done. And all our hearts have been be- tiously? probably he is a King. Does he 15 trayed by the plausible impiety of the cover his l)ody with jewels, and his table modern economist, that ' To do the best with delicates? in all probability he is for yourself, is finally to do the best not a King. It is possible he may be, for others.' Friends, our great Master as Solomon was ; but that is when the said not so ; and most absolutely we shall nation shares his splendor with him. 20 find this world is not made so. Indeed, Solomon made gold, not only to be in to do the best for others, is finally to do his own palace as stones, but to be in the best for ourselves; but it will not do Jerusalem as stones. But even so, for to have our eyes fixed on that issue, the most part, these splendid kinghoods The Pagans had got beyond that. Hear expire in ruin, and only the true king- 25 what a Pagan says of this matter; hear hoods live, which are of royal laborers what were, perhaps, the last written governing loyal laborers; who, both lead- words of Plato, — if not the last actually ing rough lives, establish the true dynas- written (for this we cannot know), yet ties. Conclusively you will find that be- assuredly in fact and power his parting cause you are king of a nation, it does not 3° words — in which, endeavoring to give follow that you are to gather for your- full crowning and harmonious close to self all the wealth of that nation; neither, all his thoughts, and to speak the sum becaQse you are king of a small part of of them by the imagined sentence of the the nation, and lord over the means of Great Spirit, his strength and his heart its maintenance — over field, or mill, or 35 fail him, and the words cease, broken off mine. — are you to take all the produce forever. of that piece of the foundation of na- They are at the close of the dialogue tional existence for yourself. called ' Critias,' in which he descrilDes, You will tell me I need not preach partly from real tradition, partly in ideal against these things, for I cannot mend 40 dream, the early state of Athens ; and the them. No, good friends, I cannot ; but genesis, and order, and religion, of the you can, and you will; or something else fabled isle of Atlantis; in which genesis can and will. Even good things have he conceives the same first perfection and no abiding power — and shall these evil final degeneracy of man, which in our things persist in victorious evil? All 45 own Scriptural tradition is expressed by history shows, on the contrary, that to be saying that the Sons of God intermar- the exact thing they never can do. ried with the daughters of men, for he Change must come; but it is ours to supposes the earliest race to have been determine whether change of growth, or indeed the children of God ; and to have change of death. Shall the Parthenon be 5o corrupted themselves, until ' their spot in ruins on its rock, and Bolton priory was not the spot of his children.' And in its meadow, but these mills of yours this, he says, was the end; that indeed be the consummation of the buildings of ' through many generations, so long as the the earth, and their wheels he as the God's nature in them yet was full, the\ wheels of eternity? Think you that ^5 were submissive to the sacred laws, and 'men may come, and men may go,' but carried themselves lovingly to all that — mills — go on forever? Not so; out had kindred with them in divineness; for 744 JOHN RUSKIN their uttermost spirit was faithful and The rest is silence. Last words of the true, and in every wise great; so that, chief wisdom of the heathen, spoken of in all meekness of wisdom, they dealt this idol of riches ; this idol of yours; this with each other, and took all the chances golden inia.c^c hi^h hy measureless cubits, of life; and despising all things except 5 set up where your green fields of Eng- virtue, they cared little what hapi)ened land are furnace-burnt into the likeness day by day, and bore lightly the burden of the plain of Dura: this idol, forbidden of gold and of possessions; for they saw to us, first of all idols, by our own that, if only their common love and vir- Master and faith; forbidden to us also tue increased, all these things would be 10 by every human lip that has ever, in increased together with them; but to set any age or people, been accounted of as their esteem and ardent pursuit upon able to speak according to the purposes material possession would be to lose that of God. Continue to make that forbid- first, and their virtue and affection to- den deity your principal one, and soon gether with it. And by such reasoning, r, no more art, no more science, no more and what of the divine nature remained pleasure will be possible. Catastrophe in them, they gained all this greatness will come; or worse than catastrophe, of which we have already told ; but when slow moldering and withering into Hades, the God's part of them faded and became But if you can fix some conception extinct, being mixed again and again, 20 of a true human state of life to be and effaced by the prevalent mortality; striven for — life good for all men as and the human nature at last exceeded, for yourselves — if you can determine they then became unable to endure the some honest and simple order of exist- courses of fortune ; and fell into shape- ence ; following those trodden ways of lessness of life, and baseness in the sight 25 wisdom, which are pleasantness, and of him who could see, having lost every- seeking her quiet and withdrawn paths, thing that was fairest of their honor; which are peace ; ^ — then, and so sane- while to the blind hearts which could not tifying wealth into ' commonwealth,' all discern the true life, tending to happiness, your art, your literature, your daily la- it seemed that they were then chiefly 30 bors, your domestic affection, and citi- noble and happy, being filled with all zen's duty, will join and increase into iniquity of inordinate possession and one magnificent harmony. You will power. Whereupon, the God of gods, know then how to build, well enough ; whose Kinghood is in laws, beholding you will build with stone well, but with a once just nation thus cast into misery, 35 flesh better; temples not made with and desiring to lay such punishment upon hands, but riveted of hearts; and that kind them as might make them repent into of marble, crimson-veined, is indeed restraining, gathered together all the eternal. p-ods into his dwelling-place, which from , ... heaven's center overlooks whatever ^^<' ^iT^^Z^t^-^^-i 'S:£,^°t! 'Z part m creation; and having assembled somewhat fanciful Hnd; yet we may profitably make them, he said ' — it in reading the English. I ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (1809-1892)^ Tennyson was bom at Somersby Rectory in Lincolnshire. The rich level landscape of the reclaimed fen district is clearly visible in his poems. He soon began to imitate the English masters of verse and the compositions 'written between 15 and 17' in Poems by Two Brothers (1827) show his transitory allegiance to Byron and Scott. At Trinity College, Cambridge, he took the Newdigate prize in 1829 with a blank verse poem on Tiin- buctoo, and the next year issued Poems, Chiefly Lyrical. Numerous coUegiaus, of whom many were afterward eminent in scholarship and affairs, became his sworn admirers and steadily announced that a new poet had arrived. Poems (1833) showed a further advance in quality and scope, but this and the preceding volume were ridiculed by the reviews for certain obvious affectations and slips of taste and Tennyson waited nine years before publishing again. During this interval, he set himself with great earnestness to comprehend the thoughts and movements of his time, enriched his mind by constant study of the classics and of English literature, recreated the best of his old poems and composed with great deliberation his new ones. When his two volumes of 1842 appeared, such poems as The Lady of tihalott and The Palace of Art had been transformed and with them came Ulysses, Morte d' Arthur, Locksley Hall and many others of moderate length, every one exquisitely tempered and wrought. His reputation was immediately secure, and steadily increased during fifty years more of continuous authorship. In 18.50 he received the ' laurel greener from the brows of him that uttered nothing base.' The Pri)iccss had already appeared and In Mcmoriam which had been growing since the death of his friend Arthur Hallam in 1833, now sealed his title not only to the laureateship but to the position of chief spiritual guide to his age. Maud (1855) represented something of a departure from his previous methods toward a less restrained style and a more vigorous grasp on the realities of life, a departure which he carried still farther in some of his ' ballads ' and in realistic studies such as The Northern Farmer. The chief enterprise of his later years, however, was The Idylls of the King, at which he wrought from 185G-59, and again in 1868-72, when the poem became substantially complete. For nearly ten years his chief energies were given to the production of his seven dramas ; of these Queen Mary, Harold, and Becket were all written by 1879, though the last was not published until several years later. From 1880 until his death in 1892 every few years added another volume of miscellaneous poems. At least in his lyrics, Tennyson's voice remained to the last, ' unchanged to hoarse or mute,' a ' clear call ' with only a few dark overtones caught from the perplexities of the new era into which his life extended. In the few years since his death, we have moved fast and far from the platforms of the Victorian age ; its problems are not our problems, and still less its solutions. Our interest, Ihen, shifts more and more from Tennyson's ' message,' which was of his time, and attaches to the rich and instructed beauty of his art, which is imperishable. MARIANA With blackest moss, the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all : The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds looked sad and strange : Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, ' My life is dreary, He cometh not, she said ; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; She could not look on the sweet heaven, is Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats. When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by. And glanced athwart the glooming flats, 2° She only said, ' The night is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' Upon the middle of the night, 25 Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: 745 746 ALFRED TExNNYSON The cock sung out an hour ere light ; From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, 30 Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, ' My life is dreary. He Cometh not,' she said ; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 35 I would that I were dead ! ' About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blackened waters slept And o'er it many, round and small, The clustered marish-mosses crept. 4° Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, ' The night is dreary, He Cometh not,' she said; 46 She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' And ever when the moon was low. And the shrill winds were up and away, so In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell. The shadow of the poplar fell 55 Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, ' My life is dreary. He cometh not,' she said; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' 60 All day within the dreamy house. The doors upon their hinges creaked ; The blue fly sung in the pane ; the mouse Behind the moldering wainscot shrieked. Or from the crevice peered about, 65 Old faces glimmered through the doors. Old footsteps trod the upper floors. Old voices called her from without. She only said, ' My life is dreary. He cometh not,' she said; 70 She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof 75 The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-niuated sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. 80 Then, said she, ' I am very dreary. He will not come,' she said; She wept: 'I am aweary, aweary, O God, that I were dead ! ' (1830) SONG A spirit haunts the year's last hours Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: J To himself he talks; ■ For at eventide, listening earnestly. At his work you may hear him sob and sigh 5 In the walks ; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the moldering flowers: Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, n Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. The air is damp, and hushed, and close. As a sick man's room when he taketh repose An hour before death; is My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves. And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath. And the year's last rose. 20 Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock. Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. C1830) THE POET The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. He saw through life and death, through good and ill. s He saw through his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will An open scroll. THE LADY OF SHALOTT 747 Before him lay; with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame: "> The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And winged with flame, Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, And of so fierce a flight, From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, is Filling with light And vagrant melodies the winds which bore Them earthward till they lit ; Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, The fruitful wit ^o Cleaving took root, and springing forth anew Where'er they fell, behold, Like to the mother plant in semblance grew A flower all gold. And bravely furnished all abroad to fling The winged shafts of truth, 26 To throng with stately blooms the breath- ing spring. Of Hope and Youth. So many minds did gird their orbs with beams. Though one did fling the fire; 30 Heaven flowed upon the soul in many dreams Of high desire. Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world Like one great garden showed, And through the wreaths of floating dark up- curled, 35 Rare sunrise flowed. And Freedom reared in that august sun- rise Her beautiful bold brow, When rites and forms before his burning eyes Melted like snow. 40 There was no blood upon her maiden robes Sunned by those orient skies ; But round about the circles of the globes Of her keen eyes And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame 45 Wisdom, a name to shake All evil dreams of power — a sacred name, And when she spake. Her words did gather thunder as they ran. And as the lightning to the thunder Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, Making earth wonder, 52 So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wrath her right arm whirled. But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word 55 She shook the world. (1830) THE LADY OF SHALOTT PART I On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye. That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road runs by To many-towered Camelot ; 3 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, 'o Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, is Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow-veiled. Slide the heavy barges trailed 20 By slow horses ; and unbailed The shallop flitteth silken-sailed Skimming down to Camelot; But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? 25 Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly 30 From the river winding clearly. 748 ALFRED TENNYSON Down to towered Camelot ; And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers ' 'T is the fairy 35 Lady of Shalott.' PART II There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay 4° 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 through a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year. Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot; 5° There the river eddy whirls. And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls. Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 55 An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. Or long-haired page in crimson clad. Goes by to towered Camelot ; And sometimes through the mirror blue 6o The knights come riding two and two : She hath no loyal knight and true. The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, 65 For often through 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; 7o * I am half sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott. PART III A bow-shot from her bower-eaves. He rode between the barley-sheaves. The sun came dazzling through the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves 76 Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneeled. To a lady in his shield, That sparkled in the yellow field, 8" Beside remote Shalott. The gcniiny bridle glittered free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily 85 A he rode down to Camelot ; And from his blazoned baldric slung A mighty silver bugle lumg, And as he rode his armor rung. Beside remote Shalott. 90 All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jeweled shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet -feather Burned like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot ; 95 As often through the purple night. Below the starry clusters bright. Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed ; On burnished hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flowed His coal-black curls as on he rode. As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river 105 He flashed into the crystal mirror, ' Tirra lirra,' by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom. She made three paces through the room, no She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume. She looked down at Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide ; The mirrow cracked from side to side; "5 ' The curse is come upon me,' cried The Lady of Shalott. 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 towered Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat. And round about the prow she wrote 125 The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance. Seeing all his own mischance — With a glassy countenance '3o Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day THE PALACE OF ART 749 She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. '35 Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right — The leaves upon her falling light — Through the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot ; 140 And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 145 Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. Till her blood was frozen slowly And her eyes were darkened wholly Turned to towered Camelot. For ere she reached upon the tide 150 The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, i55 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, 160 And round the prow they read her name. The Lady of Shalott. Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; 165 And they crossed 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, 170 The Lady of Shalott.' (1833) THE PALACE OF ART I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house. Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. I said, ' O Soul, make merry and carouse, Dear soul, for all is well.' A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnished brass, s I chose. The ranged ramparts bright From level meadow-bases of deep grass Suddenly scaled the light. Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf The rock rose clear, or winding stair, 10 My soul would live alone unto herself In her high palace there. And ' while the world runs round and round,' I said, ' Reign thou apart, a quiet king. Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade 'S Sleeps on his luminous ring.' To which my soul made answer readily : 'Trust me, in bliss I shall abide In this great mansion, that is built for me. So royal-rich and wide.' 20 Four courts I made, East, West, and South and North, In each a squared lawn, wherefrom The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fountain-foam. And round the cool green courts there ran a row 25 Of cloisters, branched like mighty woods. Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain-floods. And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands, 3° Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky Dipped down to sea and sands. From those four jets four currents in one swell Across the mountain streamed below In misty folds, that floating as they fell, 35 Lit up a torrent-bow. And high on every peak a statue seemed To hang on tiptoe, tossing up A cloud of incense of all odor steamed From out a golden cup. 40 So that she thought, ' And who shall gaze upon My palace with unblinded eyes, While this great bow will waver in the sun, And that sweet incense rise?' For that sweet incense rose and never failed, 45 And, while day sank or mounted higher, The light aerial gallery, golden-railed, Burnt like a fringe of fire. 750 ALFRED TENNYSON Likewise the deep-set windows, stained and traced, Would seem slow-flaniing crimson fires so From shadowed grots of arches interlaced, And tipped with frost-like spires. Full of long-sounding corridors it was, That over-vaulted grateful gloom, Through which the livelong day my soul did pass, 55 Well-pleased, from room to room. Full of great rooms and small the palace stood. All various, each a perfect whole From living Nature, fit for every mood And change of my still soul. 60 For some were hung with arras green and blue, Showing a gaudy summer-morn. Where with puffed cheek the belted hunter blew His wreathed bugle-horn. One seemed all dark and red — a tract of sand, 65 And some one pacing there alone, Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, Lit with a low large moon. One showed an iron coast and angry waves, You seemed to hear them climb and fall And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves, 71 Beneath the windy wall. And one, a full-fed river winding slow By herds upon an endless plain. The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, With shadow-streaks of rain. 76 And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. In front they bound the sheaves. Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, And hoary to the wind. 80 And one a foreground black with stones and slags. Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barred with long white cloud the scorn- ful crags. And highest, snow and fire. And one, an English home — gray twilight poured 85 On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep — all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace. Nor these alone, but every landscape fair. As fit for every mood of mind, 9" Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, Not less than truth designed. Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, In tracts of pasture sunny-warm. Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx, 95 Sat smiling, babe in arm. Or in a clear-walled city on the sea, Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair Wound with white roses, slept Saint Cecily; An angel looked at her. 100 Or thronging all one porch of Paradise A group of Houris bowed to see The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes That said. We wait for thee. Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son 105 In some fair space of sloping greens Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, And watched by weeping queens. Or hollowing one hand against his ear. To list a foot-fall, ere he saw no The wood-nymph, stayed the Ausonian king to hear Of wisdom and of law. Or over hills with peaky tops engrailed. And many a tract of palm and rice, The throne of Indian Cania slowly sailed n5 A summer fanned with spice. Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasped, From off her shoulder backward borne , From one hand drooped a crocus; one hand grasped The mild bull's golden horn. "^^ Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh Half-buried in the eagle's down, Sole as a flying star shot through the sky Above the pillared town. Nor these alone; but every legend fair 1^5 Which the supreme Caucasian mind Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, Not less than life, designed. THE PALACE OF ART 751 Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, Moved of themselves, with silver sound; And with choice paintings of wise men I hung 131 The royal dais round. For there was Milton like a seraph strong, Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild ; And there the world-worn Dante grasped his song, 135 And somewhat grimly smiled. And there the Ionian father of the rest; A million wrinkles carved his skin ; A hundred winters snowed upon his breast. From cheek and throat and chin. mo Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set Many an arch high up did lift, And angels rising and descending met With interchange of gift. Below was all mosaic choicely planned 145 With cycles of the human tale Of this wide world, the times of every land So wrought, they will not fail. ' The people here, a beast of burden slow, I Toiled onward, pricked with goads and I stings; iSo Here played, a tiger, rolling to and fro 1 The heads and crowns of kings; j Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind All force in bonds that might endure, And here once more like some sick man declined, 155 And trusted any cure. I But over these she trod; and those great I bells '< Began to chime. She took her throne; I She sat betwixt the shining oriels, , To sing her songs alone. 160 And through the topmost oriels' colored flame Two godlike faces gazed below ; Plato the wise, and large-browed Verulam, The first of those who know. And all those names that in their motion were 165 Full-welling fountain-heads of change. Betwixt the slender shafts were blazoned fair In diverse raiment strange; I Through which the lights, rose, amber, em- erald, blue, Flushed in her temples and her eyes, ^7° And from her lips, as morn from Mem- non, drew Rivers of melodies. No nightingale delighteth to prolong Her low preamble all alone, More than my soul to hear her echoed song Throb through the ribbed stone; 176 Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth. Joying to feel herself alive. Lord over Nature, lord of the visible earth, Lord of the senses five; 180 Communing with herself: 'All these are mine. And let the world have peace or wars, 'T is one to me.' She — when young night divine Crowned dying day with stars. Making sweet close of his delicious toils — Lit light in wreaths and anadems, 186 And pure quintessences of precious oils In hollowed moons of gems, To mimic heaven; and clapped her hands and cried, ' I marvel if my still delight 190 In this great house so royal-rich and wide Be flattered to the height. ' O all things fair to sate my various eyes ! shapes and hues that please me well ! O silent faces of the Great and Wise, '95 My Gods, with whom I dwell ! ' O Godlike isolation which art mine, 1 can but count thee perfect gain. What time I watch the darkening droves of swine That range on yonder plain. 200 'In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; And oft some brainless devil enters in. And drives them to the deep.' Then of the moral instinct would she prate .'\nd of the rising from the dead, -06 As hers by right of full-accomplished Fate; And at the last she said : 752 ALFRED TENNYSON 'I take possession of man's mind and deed. I care not what the sects may brawl, -'"' I sit as God holding no form of creed, But contemplating all.' Full oft the riddle of the painful earth Flashed through her as she sat alone, Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, And intellectual throne. -''' And so she throve and prospered; so three years She prospered; on the fourth she fell. Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, Struck through with pangs of hell. 220 Lest she should fail and perish utterly, God, before whom ever lie bare The abysmal deeps of Personality, Plagued her with sore despair. When she would think, where'er she turned her sight, --5 The airy hand confusion wrought. Wrote ' Mene, mene,' and divided quite The kingdom of her thought. Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Fell on her, from which mood was born Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood 231 Laughter at her self-scorn. 'What! is not this my place of strength,' she said, ' My spacious mansion built for me. Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid 235 Since my first memory ? ' But in dark corners of her palace stood Uncertain shapes ; and unawares On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood. And horrible nightmares, 240 And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, And, with dim fretted foreheads all. On corpses three-months-old at noon she came. That stood against the wall. A spot of dull stagnation, without light 245 Or power of movement, seemed my soul. Mid onward-sloping motions infinite Making for one sure goal. A still salt pool, locked in with bars of sand, Left on the shore, that hears all night -'So rile plunging seas draw backward from the land Their moon led waters white. A star that with the choral starry dance Joined not, but stood, and standing saw The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 255 Rolled round by one fixed law. Back on herself her serpent pride had curled. ' No voice,' she shrieked in that lone hall, ' No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world : One deep, deep silence all ! ' 260 She, moldering with the dull earth's mold- ering sod, In wrapt tenfold in slothful shame, Lay there exiled from eternal God, Lost to her place and name ; And death and life she hated equally, 26s And nothing saw, for her despair. But dreadful time, dreadful eternity. No comfort anywhere; Remaining utterly confused with fears. And ever worse with growing time, 270 And ever unrelieved by dismal tears. And all alone in crime : Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round With blackness as a solid wall, Far off she seemed to hear the dully sound Of human footsteps fall 276 As in strange lands a traveler walking slow, In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moonrise hears the low Moan of an unknown sea; 280 And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, ' I have found A new land, but I die.' She howled aloud, ' I am on fire within. 283 There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die? ' So when four years were wholly finished, She threw her royal robes away. 290 ' Make me a cottage in the vale,' she said, * Where I may mourn and pray. A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 753 'Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are So lightly, beautifully built : Perchance I may return with others there. When I have purged my guilt.' 296 (1833-1842) A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN I read, before my eyelids dropped their shade, The Legend of Good Women, long ago Sung by the morning star of song, who made His music heard below ; Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath S Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still. And, for a while, the knowledge of his art Held me above the subject, as strong gales Hold swollen clouds from raining, though my heart, " Brimful of those wild tales, Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land I saw, wherever light illumineth. Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand i5 The downward slope to death. 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 battered with clanging I hoofs; j And I saw crowds in columned sanctu- I aries, j And forms that passed at windows and on I roofs Of marble palaces ; Corpses across the threshold ; heroes tall 25 Dislodging pinnacle and parapet Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall ; Lances in ambush set ; And high shrine doors burst through with heated blasts That run before the fluttering tongues of fire; 30 White surf wind-scattered over sails and masts, And ever climbing higher; Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates. Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes. Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, 35 And hushed seraglios. 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 seemed 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. And once my arm was lifted to hew down A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 46 That bore a lady from a leaguered town ; And then, I know not how, All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought Streamed onward, lost their edges, and did creep S'> Rolled on each other, rounded, smoothed, and brought Into the gulfs of sleep. At last methought that I had wandered far In an old wood; fresh-washed in coolest dew The maiden splendors of the morning star Shook in the steadfast blue. 56 Enormous elm-tree boles 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. 754 ALFRED TENNYSON llalf-fallcMi across the threshold of the sun, Never to rise again. There was no motion in the dumb dead air, 65 Not any song of bird or sound of rill; Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre Is not so deadly still As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine turned Their liumid arms festooning tree to tree, 70 And at the root through lush green grasses burned The red anemone. I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drenched in dew, 75 Leading from lawn to lawn. The smell of violets, hidden in the green. Poured back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remember to have been Joyful and free from blame. 80 And from within me a clear undertone Thrilled through mine ears in that unbliss- ful clime, Pass freely through ; the wood is all thine own, Until the end of time.' At length I saw a lady within call, §5 Stiller than chiseled marble, standing there ; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. Her loveliness with shame and with sur- prise Froze my swift speech; she turning on my face 90 The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, Spoke slowly in her place. ' I had great beauty ; ask thou not my name : No one can be more wise than destiny. Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came 95 I brought calamity.' 'No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair field Myself for such a face had boldly died,' I answered free ; and turning 1 appealed 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. ' I was cut off from hope in that sad place Which men called Aulis in those iron years; ■'^(J My father held his hand upon his face; I, blinded with my tears, 'Still strove to speak: my voice was thick with sighs As in a dream. Dimly 1 could descry The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes, ''o Waiting to see me die. 'The high masts flickered as they lay afloat; The crowds, the temples, wavered, and the shore; The bright death quivered at the victim's throat ; Touched; and I knew no more.' 115 Whereto the other with a downward brow: ' I would the white cold heavy-plunging foam. Whirled by the wind, had rolled me deep below. Then when I left my home.' Her slow full words sank through the silence drear, '-" As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea : Sudden I heard a voice that cried ' Come here, That 1 may look on thee.' I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise. One sitting on a crimson scarf un- rolled; '-.s A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes, Brow-bound with burning gold. She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began : ' I governed men by change, and so I swayed All moods. 'T is long since T have seen a man. 130 Once, like the moon, I made A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 755 ' The ever-shifting currents of the blood According to my humor ebb and flow. I have no men to govern in this wood : That makes my only woe. '35 'Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not bend One will ; nor tame and tutor with mine eye That dull cold-blooded Cresar. Prythce, friend, Where is Mark Antony? ' The man, my lover, with whom I rode sub- lime 140 On Fortune's neck ; we sat as God by God; The Nilus would have risen before his time And flooded at our nod. ' We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit Lamps which out-burned Canopus. O, my life "45 In Egypt! O, the dalliance and the wit. The flattery and the strife, 'And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms. My Hercules, my Roman Antony, My mailed Bacchus leaped into my arms, Contented there to die! 'Si ' And there he died : and when I heard my name Sighed forth with life, I would not brook my fear Of the other: with a worm I balked his fame. What else was left? look here! " — '55 With that she tore her robe apart, and half The polished argent of her breast to sight Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, Showing the aspic's bite. — 159 ' I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, A name for ever ! — lying robed and crowned Worthy a Roman spouse.' Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance 165 From tone to tone, and glided through all change Of liveliest utterance. When she made pause I knew not for de- light Because with sudden motion from the ground She raised her piercing orbs, and filled with light >7o The interval of sound. 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. 175 Slowly my sense undazzlcd. Then I heard A noise of some one coming through the lawn. And singing clearer than the crested bird That claps his wings at dawn : 'The torrent brooks of hallowed Israel 180 From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, Sound all night long, in falling through the dell, Far-heard beneath the moon. ' The balmy moon of blessed Israel Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine; '85 All night the splintered crags that wall the dell With spires of silver shine.' As one that museth where broad sunshine laves The lawn by some cathedral, through the door Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 190 Of sound on roof and floor Within, and anthem sung, is charmed 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, '95 The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, A maiden pure ; as when she went along From Mizpah's towered gate with welcome light. With timbrel and with song. My words leaped forth : ' Heaven heads the count of crimes ^00 With that wild oath.' She rendered an- swer high; 756 ALFRED TENNYSON 'Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times I would be born and die. ' Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root 204 Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath, Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to fruit Changed, I was ripe for death. 'My God, my land, my father — these did move Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave. Lowered softly with a threefold cord of love 210 Down to a silent grave. * And I went mourning, " No fair Hebrew boy Shall smile away my maiden blame among The Hebrew mothers" — emptied of all joy. Leaving the dance and song. 215 'Leaving the olive-gardens far below. Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow Beneath the battled tower. 219 ' 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 darkened glen, ' Saw God divide the night with flying flame. And thunder on the everlasting hills. 225 I heard him, for he spake, and grief became A solemn scorn of ills. 'When the next moon was rolled into the sky, Strength came to me that equaled my de- sire, How beautiful a thing it was to die 230 For God and for my sire! '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. ^35 'Moreover it is written that my race Hewed Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer On Arnon unto Minneth.' Here her face Glowed, as I looked at her. She locked her lips; she left me where I stood : 240 ' Glory to God,' she sang, and past afar, Thridding the somber boskage of the wood, Toward the morning-star. Losing her carol I stood pensively. As one that from a casement leans his head, 245 When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly, And the old year is dead. 'Alas! alas! ' a low voice, full of care. Murmured beside me: 'Turn and look on me ; 249 I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, H what I was I be. ' Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor ! O me, that I should ever see the light! Those dragon eyes of angered Eleanor Do hunt me, day and night.' 255 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 through her side.' With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams, 260 Stolen to my brain dissolved the mystery Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Ruled in the eastern sky. Morn broadened on the borders of the dark Ere I saw her, who clasped in her last trance 265 Her murdered father's head, or Joan of Arc, A light of ancient France; Or her who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king. Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, 270 Sweet as new buds in spring. No memory labors 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 275 OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS 757 Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compassed, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again ! But no two dreams are like. As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, 280 Desiring what is mingled with past years, In yearnings that can never be expressed By sighs or groans or tears ; Because all words, though culled with choic- est art, 284 Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat. (1833) SAINT AGNES' EVE Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon : My breath to heaven like vapor goes : May my soul follow soon ! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord : Make thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies. Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies. As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground ; As this pale taper's earthly spark. To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, Through all yon starlight keen. Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go ; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below. And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits. To make me pure of sin. The Sabbaths of Eternity, One Sabbath deep and wide — A light upon the shining sea — The Bridegroom with his bride ! (1837) YOU ASK ME, WHY, THOUGH ILL AT EASE You ask me why, though ill at ease, Within this region I subsist. Whose spirits falter in the mist. And languish for the purple seas. It is the land that freemen till, 5 That sober-suited Freedom chose. The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will ; A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, 'o Where Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent: Where faction seldom gathers head. But, by degrees to fullness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought i5 Hath time and space to work and spread. Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute, 20 Though power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly great — Though every channel of the State Should fill and choke with golden sand — Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, 25 Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky. And I will see before I die The palms and temples of the South. (1842) OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice. Self-gathered in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. 758 ALFRED TENNYSON Then stepped she down through town and field To mingle with the human race, •» And part by part to men revealed The fulness of her face — Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, Godlike, grasps the triple forks, 'S And, king-like, wears the crown: Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. jNIay perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears ; ^o That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes! (1842) SIR GALAHAD My good blade carves the casques of men. My tough lance thrusteth sure. My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 5 The hard brands shiver on the steel. The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, 1° Perfume and flowers fall in showers. That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall! For them I battle till the end, »5 To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bowed in crypt and shrme: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. ^o More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair through faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, 25 A light before me swims. Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns : Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice but none are there; 3o The stalls are void, the doors are wide. The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 35 And solemn chants resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board : no helmsman steers : I float till all is dark: 40 A gentle sound, an awful light ! Three angels bear the holy Grail : With folded feet, in stoles of white. On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 4S My spirit beats her mortal bars. As down dark tides the glory slides. And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Through dreaming towns I go, 5o The cock crows ere the Christmas morn. The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads. And, ringing, springs from brand and mail ; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 55 And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 60 A maiden knight — to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, 65 Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace. Whose odors haunt my dreams ; And, stricken by an angel's hand. This mortal armor that I wear, 7o This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touched, are turned to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky. And through the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony 75 Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: ' O just and faithful knight of God ! Ride on ! the prize is near.' ^° So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale. All-armed I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail. (1842) MORTE D'ARTHUR 759 A FAREWELL Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea. Thy tribute wave deliver : No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet, then a river: Nowhere by thee my steps shall be. For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder-tree, And here thine aspen shiver; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver ; But not by thee my steps shall be. For ever and for ever. (1842) MORTE D'ARTHUR So all day long the noise of battle rolled Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's table, man by man. Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their lord, King Arthur; then, because his wound was deep, 5 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. On one side lay the ocean, and on one n Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- vere: ' The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 16 They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, 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, — Though Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more — but let what will be be, I am so deeply smitten through the helm 25 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. Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonder- ful, 31 Holding the sword and how I rowed 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; 35 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, 40 Aidless, alone, and smitten through the helm. A little thing may harm a wounded man. Yet I thy best will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.' So saying, from the ruined shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 46 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 zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, so 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 ; 55 For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth work Of subtlest jewelery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind. In act to throw ; but at the last it seemed 61 Better to leave Excalibur concealed There in the many-knotted water-flags, That whistled stifle and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded king. 65 Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: ' Hast thou performed my mission which I gave? 76o ALFRED TENNYSON What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard ? And answer made tlic bold Sir Bedivere: ' I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 7'J And the wild water lapping on the crag.' To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : ' Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseemed Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight ; 75 For surer sign had followed, either hand. Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful 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, fixed in thought ; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 85 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. Should thus be lost forever from the earth. Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 9^ What good should follow this, if this were done? What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king de- mand 95 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 And rumors of a doubt? but were this kept, Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, loi Some one might show 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 'OS Upon the hidden bases of the hills." So might some old man speak in the after- time To all the people, winning reverence; But now much honor and much fame were lost.' So spake he, clouded with his own con- ceit, '•" And hid Excalibur the second time, And so strode back slow to the wounded king. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: ' What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard? ' And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- vere: 115 ' 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! 120 Authority forgets a dying king. Laid widowed of the power in his eye That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art. For thou, the latest-left of all my knights. In whom should meet the offices of all, '^5 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; 130 But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 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 clutched the sword, 135 And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. Seen where the moving isles of winter shock '40 By night, with noises of the northern sea. So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur ; But ere he dipped the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 145 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 MORTE D'ARTHUR 761 And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- vere: ' 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 though I live three lives of mortal men, J55 So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; But when I looked again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonder- ful. That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 160 Three times, and drew him under in the mere.' And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: * My end draws nigh ; 't is time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin; yet I fear 165 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 through his tears, And would have spoken, but he tound not words, Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, And rising bore him through the place of tombs. But, as he walked. King Arthur panted hard, 176 Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sighed the king. Muttering and murmuring at his ear, ■ Quick, quick ! I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' 180 But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walked, 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. 185 Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clanged round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 190 And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. And the long glories of the winter moon. 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 195 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 shivered 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 murmured Arthur, ' Place me in the barge,' And to the barge they came. There those three queens 205 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 shattered casque, and chafed his hands. And called him by his name, complaining loud, 210 And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood; for all his face was white And colorless, and like the withered moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; And all his greaves and cuisses dashed with drops 215 Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls — That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-throne — were parched with dust ; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 220 So like a shattered column lay the king; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament. Shot through the lists at Camelot, and charged 762 ALFRED TENNYSON Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 22s 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 The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole round table is dis- solved ^^4 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. 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, ^-^5 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. ^49 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 ? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 255 But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seest — if indeed I go — (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the island-valley of Avilion ; 259 Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.' So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 26s Moved from the brink, like some full- breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedi- vere Revolving many memories, till the hull 270 Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away. (1842) ULYSSES It little profits that an idle king. By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. S I cannot rest from travel ; I will drink Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suf!^ered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 9 Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea. I am become a name ; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known, — cities of men And manners, climates, councils, govern- ments. Myself not least, but honored of them all; '5 And drunk delight of battle with my peers. Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades 20 For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use ! As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me 25 Little remains ; but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, LOCKSLEY HALL 763 j A bringer of new things ; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard my- I self, I And this gray spirit yearning in desire 30 I To follow knowledge like a sinking star, ' Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the scepter and the isle — Well-loved of me, discernnig to fulfil 3S This labor, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and through soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere ! Of common duties, decent not to fail 40 In offices of tenderness, and pay ' Meet adoration to my household gods. When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail : There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, 45 Souls that have toiled and wrought, and thought with me — That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. 5° Death closes all ; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; The long day wanes ; the slow moon climbs ; the deep 55 Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 60 Of ail the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Though much is taken, much abides ; and though t)5 We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts. Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 69 To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. (1842) LOCKSLEY HALL Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn : Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn. 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall; Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, s And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest. Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade. Glitter like a swarm of fire-tlies tangled in a silver braid. 10 Here about the beach I wandered, nourish- ing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time; When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed : When I dipped into the future far as human eye could see; 15 Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. — In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets him- self another crest; In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove ; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. 20 Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. And I said, ' My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, >64 ALFRED TENNYSON Tru.,t inc, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee.' On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light, ^s As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. And she turned — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — Saying, 'I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong ' ; Saying, ' Dost thou love me, cousin ? ' weep- ing, ' I have loved thee long.' 30 Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in his glowing hands ; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, 35 And her whisper thronged my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships. And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more ! O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the bar- ren, barren shore! 40 Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung. Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! Is it well to wish thee happy? having known me — to decline On a range of lower feelings and a nar- rower heart than mine ! Yet it shall be; thou shalt lower to his level day by day, 45 What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. thou art As the husband is, the wif( mated with a clown. And the grossiicss of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force. Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. 50 What is this? his eyes are heavy; think not they are glazed with wine. Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, take his hand in thine. It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought; Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 53 Better thou wert dead before me, though I slew thee with my hand 1 Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the hearts' disgrace, Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth ! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! 60 Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened forehead of the fool ! Well — 't is well that I should bluster ! — hadst thou less unworthy proved — Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? 65 I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at the root. Never, though my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many-wintered crow that leads the clanging rookery home. Where is comfort? in division of the rec- ords of the mind? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind ? 7o LOCKSLEY HALL 765 I remember one that perished ; sweetly did she speak and move ; Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore? No — she never loved me truly; love is love for evermore. Comfort? comfort scorned of devils! this is truth the poet sings, 7S That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remem- bering happier things. Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, \Vhere the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. 80 Tlien a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Thou shalt hear the ' Never, never,' whis- pered by the phantom years, And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. 85 Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again. Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a I tender voice will cry, 'Tis a purer life than thine, a lip to drain ' thy trouble dry. Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest rival brings thee rest. I Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from \ the mother's breast. 9° O, the child too clothes the father with a I dearness not his due. Half is thine and half is his; it will be 1 worthy of the two. 0, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy I petty part, ! With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. ' They were dangerous guides, the feelings — she herself was not exempt — 95 Truly, she herself had suffered' — Perish in thy self -contempt! Overlive it — lower yet — be happy! where- fore should I care? I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. What is that which I should turn to, light- ing upon days like these? Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Joo Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy; what is that which I should do ? I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground. When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels, 105 And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age ! Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life; no Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield. Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field. And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, "5 Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men ; Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new ; That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do. ^(^ ALFRED TENNYSON For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see. Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; 120 Saw the heavens fill with commerce, ar- gosies of magic sails, Pilot of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, 125 With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunder-storm; Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle-flags were furled In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe. And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapped in universal law. 130 So I triumphed ere my passion sweeping through me left me dry, Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint; Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point; Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher, 135 Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. Yet I doubt not through the ages one in- creasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Though the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's? "40 Knowledge coaies, but wisdom lingers, and 1 linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, I'ull of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn, MS They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moldered string? I am shamed through all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasure, woman's pain — Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain: 150 Woman is the lesser man, and all thy pas- sions, matched with mine. Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — Here at least, where nature sickens, noth- ing. Ah, for some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat, Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starred ; — 155 I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away. On from island unto island at the gate- ways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies. Breadths of tropic shade and palms in clus- ter, knots of Paradise. 160 Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind. '^5 In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. THE POET'S SONG 1^ There the passions cramped no longer shall I have scope and breathing space ; ! I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, and they shall run, • Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun; '7o I Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, ! Not with blinded eyesight poring over mis- ' erable books — Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild, j But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. i I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of j our glorious gains, "75 Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime ! I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon! i8o Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day ; Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. Mother- Age, — for mine I knew not, — help me as when life begun; i8s Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the sun. I O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit j hath not set. i Ancient founts of inspiration well through I all my fancy yet. i I Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. 190 Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt. Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. (1842) BREAK, BREAK, BREAK Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, S That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill ; 'o But O for the touch of a vanished hand. And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break. At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. 16 (1842) THE POET'S SONG The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He passed by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place, 5 And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopped as he hunted the fly, The snake slipped under a spray, 10 The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, And stared, with his foot on the prey. 768 ALFRED TENNYSON And the nightingale thought, ' 1 have sung many songs, But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be 'S • When the years have died away.' (1842) SONGS From THE PRINCESS Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine de- spair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. 5 Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. That brings our friends up from the under- world, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge ; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. '« Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. ^ s Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; O Death in Life, the days that are no more ! -o (1847) The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes iiig, 5 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. fiy- O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going ! O, sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 10 l^.low, let us hear the purple glens replying; Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dymg, dyilig, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky. They faint on hill or field or river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, '5 And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes Hy- ing, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. (1850) Thy voice is heard through rolling drums That beat to battle where he stands ; Thy face across his fancy comes. And gives the battle to his hands: A moment, while the trumpets blow, 5 He sees his brood about thy knee ; The next, like fire he meets the foe, And strikes him dead for thine and thee. (1850) Home they brought her warrior dead ; She nor swooned nor uttered cry: All her maidens, watching, said, ' She must weep or she will die.' Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved. Truest friend and noblest foe ; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place. Lightly to the warrior stepped, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee — Like summer tempest came her tears — ' Sweet my child, I live for thee.' (1850) Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; IN MEMORIAM 769 But O too fond, when have I answered thee? Ask mc no more. s Ask me no more : what answer should I give? I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! Ask me no more, lest I should bid thcc live ; Ask me no more. Jo Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are sealed ; I strove against the stream and all in vain ; Let the great river take me to the main. No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; Ask me no more. is (1850) IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face. By faith, and faith alone, embrace. Believing where we cannot prove ; Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; s Thou madest Life in man and brute; Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made. Thou wilt not leave us in the dust; Thou madest man, he knows not why, 10 He thinks he was not made to die ; And thou hast made him: thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou : Our wills are ours, we know not how; i5 Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Our little systems have their day. They have their day and cease to be; They are but broken lights of thee. And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 20 We have but faith : we cannot know ; For knowledge is of things we see ; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness : let it grow. Let knowledge grow from more to more, 25 But more of reverence in us dwell ; 49 That mind and soul, according well. May make one music as before. But vaster. We are fools and slight ; We mock thee when we do not fear : 30 But help thy foolish ones to bear ; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. Forgive what seemed my sin in me ; What seemed my worth since I began ; For merit lives from man to man, 35 And not from man, O Lord, to thee. Forgive my grief for one removed, Thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved. 40 Forgive these wild and wandering cries. Confusions of a wasted youth; Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise. O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter in a breath. What whispers from thy lying lip? ' The stars,' she whispers, ' blindly run ; A web is woven across the sky, From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun ; ' And all the phantom, Nature, stands — With all the music in her tone, A hollow echo of my own, — A hollow form with empty hands.' And shall I take a thing so blind. Embrace her as my natural good; Or crush her, like a vice of blood. Upon the threshold of the mind? XIX The Danube to the Severn gave The darkened heart that beat no more : They laid him by the pleasant shore. And in the hearing of the wave. There twice a day the Severn fills ; The salt sea-water passes by. And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills. The Wye is hushed nor moved along. And hushed my deepest grief of all, 1 770 ALFRED TEN NV SON When tilled with tears that cannot fall, 1 brim with sorrow drowning song. The tide Hows down, the wave again Is vocal in its wooded walls; My deeper anguish also falls, '5 And I can speak a little then. XXVII I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage. That never knew the summer woods ; I envy not the beast that takes s His license in the field of time, Unfettered by the sense of crime. To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest. The heart that never plighted troth ><> But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate'er befall ; I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 'T is better to have loved and lost 'S Than never to have loved at all. LV The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave. Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul? Are God and Nature then at strife, 5 That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems. So careless of the single life; That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, lo And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear, I falter where I firmly trod. And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs, '5 That slope through darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope. 20 Dost thou look back on what hath been. As some divinely gifted man. Whose life in low estate began And on a simple village green ; Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, s And grasps the skirts of happy chance. And breasts the blows of circumstance, And grapples with his evil star; Who makes by force his merit known And lives to clutch the golden keys, 'o To mold a mighty state's decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne; And moving up from high to higher, Becomes in Fortune's crowning slope The pillar of a people's hope, is The center of a world's desire; Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, When all his active powers are still, A distant dearness in the hdl, A secret sweetness in the stream, 20 The limit of his narrower fate, While yet beside its vocal springs He played at counselors and kings With one that was his earliest male ; Who ploughs with pam his native lea 25 And reaps the labor of his hands, Or in the furrow musing stands : ' Does my old friend remember me ? ' LXVII When on my bed the moonlight falls, I know that in thy place of rest By that broad water of the west There comes a glory on the walls; Thy marble bright in dark appears, s As slowly steals a silver flame, Along the letters of thy name. And o'er the number of thy years. The mystic glory swims away; From ofi' my bed the moonlight dies; 'f And closing eaves of wearied eyes I sleep till dusk is dipped in gray: And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the dark church like a ghost '5 Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. LXXXVIII Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet. Rings Eden through the budded quicks, O, tell me where the senses mix, O, tell me where the passions meet, MAUD 771 Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ s Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, And in the midmost heart of grief Thy passion clasps a secret joy; And I — my harp would prelude woe — I cannot all command the strings, 1° The glory of the sum of things Will flash along the chords and go. CXXIII There rolls the deep where grew the tree. earth, what changes hast thou seen ! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow 5 From form to form, and nothing stands ; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go. But in my spirit will I dwell. And dream my dream, and hold it true; 10 For though my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell, cxxx Thy voice is on the rolling air; 1 hear thee where the waters run; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair. What art thou then? I cannot guess; 5 But though I seem in star and flower. To feel thee some diffusive power, I do not therefore love thee less. My love involves the love before; My love is vaster passion now ; lo Though mixed with God and Nature thou, I seem to love thee more and more. t Far off thou art, but ever nigh; I I have thee still, and I rejoice; I prosper, circled with thy voice; I I shall not lose thee though I die. cxxxi O living will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock, Flow through our deeds and make them pure, That we may lift from out of dust 5 A voice as unto him that hears. A cry above the conquered years To one that with us works, and trust, With faith that comes of self-control, The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved, And all we flow from, soul in soul. (1850) MAUD; A MONODRAMA PART I I I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath, The red-ribbed ledges drip with a silent hor- ror of blood, And Echo there, whatever is asked her, an- swers ' Death.' For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, 5 His who had given me life — O father! O God ! was it well ? — Mangled and flattened, and crushed, and dinted into the ground: There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a vast speculation had failed. And ever he muttered and maddened, and ever wanned with despair, 10 And out he walked, when the wind like a broken worlding wailed. And the flying gold of the ruined wood- lands drove through the air. I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirred By a shuflied step, by a dead weight trailed, by a whispered fright. And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard 'S The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night. Villainy somewhere! whose? One says, we are villains all. Not he: his honest fame should at least by me be maintained. But that old man, now lord of the broad es- tate and the Hall, 772 ALFRED TENNYSON Dropped off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drained. Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? we have made them a curse, 20 Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own ; And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone? But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind, When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word? -=5 Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. Sooner or later I too may passively take the print Of the golden age — why not, I have neither hope nor trust; May make my heart 'as a millstone, set my face as a flint, 30 Cheat and be cheated, and die; who knows? we are ashes and dust. Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by. When the poor are hoveled, and hustled to- gether, each sex, like swine. When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie ; Peace in her vineyard — yes! — but a com- pany forges the wine. 35 And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head. Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife, And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread, And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life, And Sleep must lie down armed, for the villainous center-bits 4° Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights, While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits To pestle a poisoned poison behind his crimson lights. When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee. And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones, 45 Is it peace or war? better, war! loud war by land and by sea, War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones. For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill. And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam, That the smooth-faced snubnosed rogue would leap from his counter and till, 50 And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yardwand, home. — What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood? Must / too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and die Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood On a horror of shattered limbs and a wretched swindler's lie? 55 Would there be sorrow for mc? there was love in the passionate shriek, Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave — Wrapt in a clock, as I saw him, and thought he would rise and speak And rave at the lie and the liar, ah, God, as he used to rave. I am sick of the Hall, and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main. 60 Why should I stay? can a sweeter chance ever come to me here? O, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of pain. Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the pit and the fear? Workmen up at the Hall ! — they are coming back from abroad ; The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a millionaire; 65 I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud ; I played with the girl when a child ; she promised then to be fair. Maud with her venturous climbings, and tumbles and childish escapes, Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall, MAUD 773 Alaud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes, 70 Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon- faced darling of all, — What is she now? My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse, No, there is fatter game on the moor; she will let me alone. Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse. I will bury myself in myself, and the Devil may pipe to his own. 75 III Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek, Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drowned. Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the cheek, Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound; Woman-like, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong 80 Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as before Growing and fading and growing upon me without a sound, Luminous, gem-like, ghost-like, death-like, half the night long Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear it no more, But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden ground, 85 Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung shipwrecking roar, Now to the scream of a maddened beach dragged down by the wave. Walked in a wintry wind by a ghastly glim- mer, and found The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave. A voice by the cedar tree 90 In the meadow under the Hall ! She is singing an air that is known to me, A passionate ballad gallant and gay, A martial song like a trumpet's call ! Singing alone in the morning of life, 95 In the happy morning of life and of May, Singing of men that in battle array. Ready in heart and ready in hand, March with banner and bugle and fife. To the death, for their native land. '0° Maud with her exquisite face. And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, And feet like sunny gems on 'an English green, Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, Singing of Death, and of Honor that can- not die, los Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean. And myself so languid and base. Silence, beautiful voice! Be still, for you only trouble the mind With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, no A glory I shall not find. Still! I will hear you no more. For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice But to move to the meadow and fall before Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore. Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, Not her, not her, but a voice. 117 XI O, let the solid ground Not fail beneath my feet Before my life has found 120 What some have found so sweet; Then let come what come may, What matter if I go mad, I shall have had my day. Let the sweet heavens endure, "S Not close and darken above me Before I am quite quite sure That there is one to love me; Then let come what come may To a life that has been so sad, 130 I shall have had my day. XII Birds in the high Hall-garden, When twilight was falling, Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, They were crying and calling. 135 Where was Maud? in our wood; And I — who else ? — was with her, Gathering woodland lilies, Myriads blow together. Birds in our wood sang HO Ringing through the valleys, Maud is here, here, here In among the lilies. 774 ALFRED 1 EX XV SON 1 kissed Iicr sleiulcT liaiul, She took the kiss sedately; MS Maud is not seventeen, But she is tall and stately. I to cry out on pride Who have won her favor! O. Maud were sure of heaven 'So If lowluiess could save her! I know the way she went Home with her maiden posy, For her feet have touched the meadows And left the daisies rosy. 'ss Birds in the high Hall-garden Were crying and calling to her, Where is Maud, Maud, Maud? One is come to woo her. Look, a horse at the door, '^o And little King Charley snarling! Go back, my lord, across the moor, You are not her darling. XVII Go not, happy day. From the shining fields, 165 Go, not, happy day. Till the maiden yields. Rosy is the West, Rosy is tlie South, Roses are her cheeks, 170 And a rose her mouth. When the happy Yes Falters from her lips, Pass and blush the news Over glowing ships; i75 Over blowing seas, Over seas at rest, Pass the happy news. Blush it through the West; Till the red man dance '80 By his red cedar-tree. And the red man's babe Leap, beyond the sea. Blush from West to East, Blush from East to West, 185 Till the West is East, Blush it through the West. Rosy is the West, Rosy is the South, Roses are her cheeks, »9o And a rose her mouth. XVHI I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none. And never yet so warmly ran my blood And sweetly, on and on 193 Calming itself to the long-wished- for end. Full to the banks, close on the promised good. None like her, none. Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk Seemed her light foot along the garden walk, -200 And shook my heart to think she comes once more ; But even then I heard her close the door; The gates of heaven are closed, and she is gone. There is none like her, none. Nor will be when our summers have de- ceased. 20s O, art thou sighing for Lebanon In the long breeze that streams to thy de- licious East, Sighing for Lebanon, Dark cedar, though thy limbs have here in- creased, Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 210 And looking to the South and fed With honeyed rain and delicate air. And haunted by the starry head Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate. And made my life a perfumed altar-flame. And over whom thy darkness, must have spread 216 With such delight as theirs of old, thy great Forefathers of the thornless garden, there Shadowing the snow-limbed Eve from whom she came? Here will I lie, while these long branches sway, 220 And you fair stars that crown a happy day Go in and out as if at merry play. Who am no more so all forlorn As when it seemed far better to be born To labor and the mattock-hardened hand 225 Than nursed at ease and brought to under- stand A sad astrology, the boundless plan That makes you tyrants in your iron skies, Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. Cold fires, yet with power to burn ^and brand ' *3o MAUD 775 His nothingness into man. But now shine on, and what care I Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl The countercharm of space and hollow sky, And do accept my madness, and would die To save from some slight shame one simple girl ? — 236 Would die, for sullen-seeming Death may give More life to Love than is or ever was In our low world, where yet 't is sweet to live. Let no one ask me how it came to pass ; It seems that I .am happy, that to me 241 A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, A purer sapphire melts into the sea. Not die, but live a life of truest breath, And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs, 245 O, why should Love, like men in drinking songs. Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death ? Make answer, Maud my bliss, Maud made my Maud by that long loving kiss, 249 Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this? ' The dusky strand of Death inwoven here With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more dear.' j Is that enchanted moan only the swfell Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? And hark the clock within, the silver knell Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white, 256 I And died to live, long as my pulses play; t But now by this my love has closed her sight. And given false death her hand, and stolen away To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell 260 Among the fragments of the golden day. May nothing there her maiden grace af- fright! Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell. My bride to be, my evermore delight. My own heart's heart, my ownest own, fare- well ; 265 It is but for a little space I go. And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow Of your soft splendors that you look so bright? 270 / have climbed nearer out of lonely Hell. Beat, happy stars, timing with things be- low, Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell, Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe. That seems to draw — but it shall not be so : Let all be well, be well. 276 XXI Rivulet crossing my ground. And bringing me down from the Hall This garden-rose that I found. Forgetful of Maud and me, 280 And lost in trouble and moving round Here at the head of a tinkling fall. And trying to pass to the sea ; rivulet, born at the Hall, My Maud has sent it by thee— 285 HI read her sweet will right — On a blushing mission to me, Saying in odor and color, ' Ah, be Among the roses to-night.' XXII Come into the garden, Maud, 290 For the black bat, night, has flown. Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. And the musk of the rose is blown 295 For a breeze of morning moves. And the planet of love is on high. Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves. To faint in his light, and to die. 301 All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon ; All night has the casement jessamine stirred To the dancers dancing "in tune ; 305 Till a silence fell with the waking bird. And a hush with the setting moon. 1 said to the lily, ' There is but one, With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone? 3io She is weary of dance and play.' Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day; 77^ ALFRED TENNYSON Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away. 3iS I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, For one that will never be thine? But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose, 'Forever and ever, mine.' 321 And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clashed in the Hall; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall 3^5 From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all; From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet 330 In violets blue as your eyes. To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise. The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; 335 The white lake-blossom fell into the lake As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake, 34o They sighed for the dawn and thee. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls. Come hither, the dances are done. In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; 345 Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun. There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; 35o She is commg, my life, my fate. The red rose cries, ' She is near, she is near ; ' And the white rose weeps, ' She is late ; ' The larkspur listens, ' I hear, I hear ; ' And the lily whispers, ' I wait.' She is coming, my own, my sweet; 3S6 Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear lier and beat. Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, 360 Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet. And blossom in purple and red. PART II II See what a lovely shell. Small and pure as a pearl, 36s Lying close to my foot. Frail, but a work divine, Made so fairly well With delicate spire and whorl, How exquisitely minute, 370 A miracle of design! What is it? a learned man Could give it a clumsy name. Let him name it who can, The beauty would be the same. 375 The tiny cell is forlorn, Void of the little living will That made it stir on the shore. Did he stand at the diamond door Of his house in a rainbow frill? 380 Did he push, when he was uncurled, A golden foot or a fairy horn Through his dim water- world? Slight, to be crushed with a tap Of my finger-nail on the sand, 38s Small, but a work divine. Frail, but of force to withstand. Year upon year, the shock Of cataract seas that snap The three-decker's oaken spine 39° Athwart the ledges of rock, Here on the Breton strand! Breton, not Briton ; here Like a shipwrecked man on a coast Of ancient fable and fear — 395 Plagued with a flitting to and fro, A disease, a hard mechanic ghost That never came from on high Nor ever arose from below. But only moves with the moving eye, 400 Flying along the land and the main — Why should it look like Maud? Am I to be overawed By what I cannot but know Is a juggle born of the brain? 405 MAUD m Back from the Breton, coast, Sick of a nameless fear, Back to the dark sea-line Looking, thinking of all I have lost; An old song vexes my ear; 4io But that of Lamech is mine. For years, a measureless ill. For years, for ever, to part — But she, she would love me still ; And as long, O God, as she 4is Have a grain of love for me. So long, no doubt, no doubt. Shall I nurse in my dark heart, However weary, a spark of will Not to be trampled out. 420 Strange, that the mind, when fraught With a passion so intense One would think that it well Might drown all life in the eye, — That it should, by being so overwrought. Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 426 For a shell, or a flower, little things Which else would have been past by ! And now I remember, I, When he lay dying there, 430 I noticed one of his many rings (For he had many, poor worm) and thought It is his mother's hair. Who knows if he be dead? Whether I need have fled 435 Am I guilty of blood? However this may be, Comfort her, comfort her, all things good. While I am over the sea ! Let me and my passionate love go by, 440 But speak to her all things holy and high, Whatever happen to me ! Me and my harmful love go by; But come to her waking, find her asleep, Powers of the height. Powers of the deep. And comfort her though I die. 446 ! HI I Courage, poor heart of stone, I will not ask thee why i Thou canst not understand i That thou art left for ever alone: 45o Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. — Or, if I ask thee why. Care not thou to reply; She is but dead, and the time is at hand When thou shalt more than die. 4SS I O that 't were possible After long grief and pain To find the arms of my true love Round me once again ! When I was wont to meet her In the silent woody places By the home that gave me birth. We stood tranced in long embraces Mixed with kisses sweeter, sweeter Than anything on earth. 460 46s A shadow flits before me. Not thou, but like to thee, Ah Christ, that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be ! 471 It leads me forth at evening. It lightly winds and steals In a cold white robe before me. When all my spirit reels 475 At the shouts, the leagues of lights. And the roaring of the wheels. Half the night I waste in sighs, Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies; 480 In a wakeful doze I sorrow For the hand, the lips, the eyes. For the meeting of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter. The delight of low replies. 485 'T is a morning pure and sweet. And a dewy splendor falls On the little flower that clings To the turrets and the walls; 'T is a morning pure and sweet, 49o And the light and shadow fleet; She is walking in the meadow. And the woodland echo rings; In a moment we shall meet; She is singing in the meadow, 495 And the rivulet at her feet Ripples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings. Do I hear her sing as of old. My bird with the shining head, 500 My own dove with the tender eye? But there rings on a sudden, a passionate cry. There is some one dying or dead. And a sullen thunder is rolled ; For a tumult shakes the city, 505 And I wake, my dream is fled ; In the shuddering dawn, behold, Without knowledge, without pity^ By the curtains of my bed 778 ALFRED TENNYSON That abiding phantom cold! sio Get thee hence, nor come again, Mix not memory with doubt, Pass, thou death-like type of pain, Pass and cease to move about ! 'T is the blot upon the brain S'S That will show itself without. Then I rise, the eave-drops fall, And the yellow vapors choke The great city sounding wide; The day comes, a dull red ball S20 Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke On the misty river-tide. Through the hubbub of the market I steal, a wasted frame; It crosses here, it crosses there, s^s Through all that crowd confused and loud, The shadow still the same; And on my heavy eyelids My anguish hangs like shame. Alas, for her that met me, 53o That heard me softly call, Came glimmering through the laurels At the quiet evcnfall. In the garden by the turrets Of the old manorial hall! S3S Would the happy spirit descend From the realms of light and song, In the chamber or the street. As she looks among the blest. Should I fear to greet my friend S4o Or to say ' Forgive the wrong,' Or to ask her, ' Take me, sweet. To the regions of thy rest ' ? But the broad light glares and beats, And the shadow flits and fleets 545 And will not let me be; And I loathe the squares and streets, And the faces that one meets. Hearts with no love for me. Always J long to creep 550 Into some still cavern deep, There to weep, and weep, and weep My whole soul out to thee. (185s) SONG: From GUINEVERE 'Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill ! Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. ' No light had we ; for that we do re- pent ; And learning this, the bridegroom will re- lent. 5 Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. ' No light ! so late ! and dark and chill the night ! O, let us in, that we may find the light! Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. ' Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet? 'o O, let us in, though late, to kiss his feet! No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter now.' (I8S9) TITHONUS The woods decay, the woods decay and fall. The vapors weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies be- neath. And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality 5 Consumes; I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world, .A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. 10 Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed To his great heart none other than a God ! I asked thee, ' Give me immortality.' 'S Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile. Like wealthy men who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills, And beat me down and marred and wasted me, And though they could not end me, left me maimed ^o To dwell in presence of immortal youth. Immortal age beside immortal youth. And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love. Thy beauty, make amends, though even now. Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, ^s Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears To hear me? Let me go; take back thy gift; NORTHERN FARMER 779 Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 3° Where all should pause, as is most meet for all? A soft air fans the cloud apart ; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoul- ders pure, 35 And bosom beating with a heart renewed. Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, 40 And shake the darkness from their loosened manes. And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 45 Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears. And make me tremble lest a saying learnt. In days far-oflf, on that dark earth, be true? ' The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.' Ay me ! ay me ! with what another heart so In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch — if I be he that watched — The lucid outline forming round thee ; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood 55 Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy- warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, 61 Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. Yet hold me not for ever in thine East ; How can my nature longer mix with thine? Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 66 Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, 70 And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground; Thou secst all things, thou wilt see my grave; Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn ; I earth in earth forget these empty courts, 75 And thee returning on thy silver wheels. (i860) MILTON (alcaics) O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternily, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages: Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 5 Starred from Jehovah's gorgeous armories, Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean Rings to the roar of an angel onset! Me rather all that bowery loneliness. The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, 'o And bloom profuse and cedar arches Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean. Where some refulgent sunset of India Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle. And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods Whisper in odorous heights of even. 16 (1863) NORTHERN FARMER OLD STYLE Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea Hggin' 'ere aloan ? Noorse ? thoort novvt o' a noorse ; whoy. Doctor 's abean an' agoan ; Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale, but I beant a fool ; Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gawin' to break my rule. Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what 's nawways true ; 5 Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. I 've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere. An' I 've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year. Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' ere o' my bed. ' The Amoighty "s a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend,' a said, 10 78o ALFRED TENNYSON An' a towd ma my sins, an' 's toithe were due, an' I gicd it in bond; I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond. Larn'd a ma' boa. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn. But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy Har- ris's barne. Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch an' staate, is An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur nivcr agin the raate. An' I hallus coom'd to 's choorch afoor moy Sally wur dead. An' 'eard 'um a bummin' awaay loike a buz- zard-clock ower my 'ead, An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad summut to saay, An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said, an' I coom'd awaay. 20 Bessy Marris's barne! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha mun imderstond ; I done moy duty boy *um, as I 'a done boy the lond. But Parson a cooms an' a goas, an' a says it easy an' f rea : 25 * The Amoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend,' says 'ea. I weant saay men be loiars, thaw summun said it in 'aaste; But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weak, an' I 'a stubb'd Thurnaby waaste. D' ya moind the waaste, my lass? naw, naw, tha was not born then; Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eard 'um mysen ; 3o Moast loike a butter-bump, fur I 'eard 'um about an' about, But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raaved an' rembled 'um out. Reaper's it wur; fo' they fun 'um theer a-laaid of 'is faace Down i' the woild 'enemies afoor I coom'd to the plaace. Noaks or Thimbleby — toaner 'ed shot 'um as dead as a naail. Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma my aale. Dubbut loook at the waaste; theer warn't not feead for a cow; Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook at it now — Warn't worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer 's lots o' feead, Fourscoor yows upon it, an' some on it down i' seead. 40 Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall, Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all, If Godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan, — Mea, wi' haate hoonderd haacre o' Squoire's, an lond o' my oan. Do Godamoighty knaw what a's doing a- taakin' o' mea? 45 I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an yonder a pea; An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — a' dear, a' dear! And I 'a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas thutty year. A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant not a 'aapoth o' sense. Or a mowt a' taaen young Robins — a niver mended a fence; so But Godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma now, Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby hoalms to plow ! Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeas ma a passin' boy, Says to thessen, naw doubt, ' What a man a bea sewerloy!' Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin' fust a coom'd to the 'All; ss I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty boy hall. Squoire 's i' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite. For whoa 's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma quoit; Sartin-sewer I bea thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, Naw, nor a moant to Robins — a niver rem- bles the stoans. 60 But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steam Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the divil's oan team. THE REVENGE 781 Sin' I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they says is sweet, But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it. What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn bring ma the aale? 65 Doctor 's a 'toattler, lass, an a's hallus i' the owd taale ; I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy; Git ma my aale, I tell tha, an' if I mun doy I mun doy. (1864) THE REVENGE A BALLAD OF THE FLEET At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Gren- ville lay, And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from far away ; 'Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three ! ' Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : ' 'Fore God I am no coward ; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, 5 And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three ? ' Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : ' I know you are no coward ; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I 've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. '° I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.' So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day. Till he melted like a cloud in the silent sum- mer heaven ; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land '5 Very careful and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down be- low : For we brought them all aboard. And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, 2° To the thumb-screw and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight. With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. 'Shall we fight or shall we fly? 25 Good Sir Richard, tell us now. For to fight is but to die ! There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.' And Sir Richard said again : ' We be all good English men. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the chil- dren of the devil, 30 For I never turned my back upon Don or devil yet.' Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe. With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below ; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, 35 And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea-lane between. Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laughed. Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delayed By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons, 40 And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns. Took the breath from our sails, and we stayed. And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud. 782 ALFRED TENNYSON Four galleons drew away From the Spanish ileet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all. But anon the great San Philip, she be- thought herself and went, so Having that within her womb that had left her ill content ; And the rest they came aboard us, and ihcy fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, And a dozen tnncs we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land. And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, 56 But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame ; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. 60 For some were sunk and many were shat- tered, and so could fight us no more — God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? For he said, ' Fight on ! fight on ! ' Though his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, 65 With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head. And he said, ' Fight on ! fight on ! ' And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, 70 And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring ; But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting, So they watched what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, 75 Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain. And half of the rest of us maimed for life In the crash of the cannonades and the des- perate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold. And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent ; 80 And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side ; P>ut Sir Richard cried in his English pride : ' We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again ! We have won great glory, my men ! 85 And a day less or more At sea or ashore. We die — does it matter when? Sink me the ship. Master Gunner — sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain ! ' 9° XII And the gunner said, ' Ay, ay,' but the sea- men made reply : ' We have children, we have wives. And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.' 95 And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. XIII And the stately Spanish men to their flag- ship bore him then. Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last. And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace ; 99 But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : ' 1 have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true ; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do. With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Gren- ville die ! ' And he fell upon their decks, and he died. XIV And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, '"S And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap I VASTNESS 783 That he dared her with one little ship and his English few ; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, And they manned the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, "<* And away she sailed with her loss and longed for her own ; When a wind from the lands they had ruined awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, "S Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shattered navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main. (1878) TO VIRGIL Roman Virgil, thou that singest Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire, Ilion falling, Rome arising, wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre ; Landscape-lover, lord of language more than he that sang the ' Works and Days,' All the chosen coin of fancy flashing out from many a golden phrase ; Thou that singest wheat and woodland, tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd ; 5 All the charm of all the Muses often flower- ing in a lonely word; Poet of the happy Tityrus piping under- neath his beechen bowers; Poet of the poet-satyr whom the laughing shepherd bound with flowers; Chanter of the PoUio, glorying in the bliss- ful years again to be. Summers of the snakeless meadow, unla- borious earth and oarless sea; 10 Thou that seest Universal Nature moved by Universal Mind ; Thou majestic in thy sadness at the doubtful doom of human kind; Light among the vanished ages; star that gildest yet this phantom shore ; Golden branch amid the shadows, kings and realms that pass to rise no more ; Now thy Forum roars no longer, fallen every purple Caesar's dome — '5 Though thine ocean-roll of rhythm sound forever of Imperial Rome — Now the Rome of slaves hath perished, and the Rome of freemen holds her place, I, from out the Northern Island sundered once from all the human race, I salute thee, Mantovano, I that loved thee since my day began, Wielder of the stateliest measure ever molded by the lips of man. 20 (1882) 'FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE' Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sir- mione row ! So they rowed, and there we landed — ' O venusta Sirmio ! ' There to me through all the groves of olive in the summer glow, There beneath the Roman ruin where the purple flowers grow. Came that ' Ave atque Vale ' of the Poet's hopeless woe, 5 Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen hun- dred years ago, ' Frater Ave atque Vale ' — as we wandered to and fro, Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the Garda Lake below. Sweet Catullus's all-but-island, olive-silvery Sirmio ! (1883) VASTNESS Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after many a vanished face, Many a planet by many a sun may roll with the dust of a vanished race. Raving politics, never at rest — as this poor earth's pale history runs, — What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns? Lies upon this side, lies upon that side, truthless violence mourned by the wise, 5 784 ALFRED TENNYSON Thousands of voices drowning his own in a popular torrent of lies upon lies ; Stately purposes, valor in battle, glorious annals of army and fleet. Death for the right cause, death for the wrong cause, trumpets of victory, groans of defeat; Innocence seethed in her mother's milk, and Charity setting the martyr aflame; Thraldom who walks with the banner of Freedom, and recks not to ruin a realm in her name. '° Faith at her zenith, or all but lost in the gloom of doubts that darken the schools; Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her hand, followed up by her vassal legion of fools ; Trade flying over a thousand seas with her spice and her vintage, her silk and her corn ; Desolate offing, sailorless harbors, famish- ing populace, wharves forlorn ; Star of the morning, Hope in the sunrise; gloom of the evening, Life at a close; ^5 Pleasure who flaunts on her wide downway with her flying robe and her poisoned Pain that has crawled from the corpse of Pleasure, a worm which writhes all day, and at night Stirs up again in the heart of the sleeper, and stings him back to the curse of the light ; Wealth with his wines and his wedded har- lots; honest Poverty, bare to the bone; Opulent Avarice, lean as Poverty; Flattery gilding the rift in a throne; 20 Fame blowing out from her golden trumpet a jubilant challenge to Time and to Fate; Slander, her shadow, sowing the nettle on all the laureled graves of the great; Love for the maiden, crowned with mar- riage, no regrets for aught that has been. Household happiness, gracious children, debtless competence, golden mean ; National hatreds of whole generations, and pigmy spites of the village spire; ^5 Vows that will last to the last death-ruckle, and vows that are snapped in a mo- ment of fire; He that has lived for the lust of the min ute, and died in the doing it, flesh with- out mind ; He that has nailed all flesh to the Cross, till Self died out in the love of his kind; Spring and Sunmier and Autumn and Win- ter, and all these old revolutions of earth ; All new-old revolutions of Empire — change of the tide — what is all of it worth? 30 What the philosophies, all the sciences, poesy, varying voices of prayer? All that is noblest, all that is basest, all that is filthy with all that is fair? What is it all, if we all of us end but in being our own corpse-coffins at last? Swallowed in Vastness, lost in Silence, drowned in the deeps of a meaningless Past? What but a murmur of gnats in the gloom, or a moment's anger of bees in their hive? — 35 Peace, let it be ! for I loved him, and love him for ever : the dead are not dead but alive. (1885) CROSSING THE BAR Sunset and evening star. And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar. When I put out to sea. But such a tide as moving seems asleep, s Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the bound- less deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell. And after that the dark! 'o And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face »s When I have crossed the bar. (1889) ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889). ' Browning, born in Camberwell, a London suburb, was the son of a clerk in the Bank } of England, who gave him a good education and encouraged his youthful inclination towards ' poetry. His first poem, Pauline, the Fragment of a Confession, was published anonymously ' in 1833 ; it is strongly marked by the influence of Shelley, and gives only a hint of its 1 author's later style. After a visit to Russia, he produced Paracelsus (1835), which shows a considerable advance in artistic power, especially in the delineation of character. It brought about an invitation from Macready, the leading actor-manager of the day, to write a play, and in response Strafford was written and acted in 1837, with only moderate success. I Browning wrote other plays, some for the stage and others for the study, A Blot in the \ 'Scutcheon being his best tragedy, and Colomhe's Birthday his best comedy. Meanwhile he ) was working at a long narrative poem, Sordello, discussing the philosophic issues raised in , connection with the life of a medieval troubadour ; for the historical background he made I elaborate studies in the British Museum and in Italy, to which he paid his first visit in I 1838. Sordello was published in 1840, and had an unfavorable reception, owing to its ; extraordinarily concise and allusive style, which made it exceedingly difficult to understand. i Browning was compelled to issue his next volumes in very cheap form at his own expense; j the early numbers of the Bells and Pomegranates series, as he called it, could be bought for I a few cents. The first issue, a dramatic poem entitled Pippa Passes, at once became popular, j but many years elapsed before the injury done to the poet's reputation by Sordcllo was over- ij come. \ The crucial event in Browning's life and in his poetic career was his marriage in 1846 j to the most gifted of English poetesses, Elizabeth Barrett : owing partly to the state of her I health and partly to her father's disapproval of the match, they lived in Italy, chiefly at ! Florence, till Mrs. Browning's death in 18G1. During his married life Browning produced |his best work — the dramatic monologues included in the volume known as Men and Women (1S55). His wife's influence is also to be discerned in another collection of shorter poems, \ Dramatis Persona; (18G4), and in his longest narrative poem, llie Ring and the Book (18G8-9), an elaborate treatment of a Roman murder trial, of which Browning found the pleadings in an old book he picked up from a second-hand book stall at Florence. He did not return to Florence after the death of his wife, but resided in London, and slowly won for himself a leading place in public esteem along with Tennyson, with whom he was on very friendly terms. His later work is marred by an excessive tendency to philosophical specula- tion and psychological analysis as well as grotesqueness of expression, but these defects are naturally most noticeable in his longer poems. He continued to produce beautiful lyrics and dramatic monologues of unsurpassed power and intensity until his death at Venice in 1889. It is probably by his shorter rather than by his longer poems that Browning will hold his place among the leading English poets. He is unsurpassed as a master of the dramatic monologue — a short poem in which the speaker reveals his soul at some critical moment by 1 telling his thoughts or his story to someone else. Although Browning had unusual metrical I facility, he indulged at times in abrupt transitions and grotesque rimes which give to his ' work an appearance of oddity and sometimes of obscurity. The charge of intentional obscurity ' sometimes leveled against him is, of course, absurd. He wrote to an admirer who drew at- tention to this accusation: 'I can have little doubt that my writing has been in the main too hard for many I should have been pleased to communicate with ; but I never designedly I tried to puzzle people, as some of my critics have supposed. On the other hand, I never pre- j tended to offer such literature as should be a substitute for a cigar or a game at dominoes I to an idle man. So, perhaps, on the whole I get my deserts, and something over — not a ! crowd, but a few I value more.' Swinburne's comment was that Browning is ' something too much the reverse of obscure ; he is too brilliant and subtle for the ready reader of a ready writer to follow with any certainty the track of an intelligence which moves with such inces- 1 sant rapidity. ... He never thinks but at full speed ; and the rate of his thought is j to that of another man's as the speed of a railway to that of a waggon, or the speed of a : telegraph to that of a railway.' Fortunately for' the ordinary reader, his best poems are not ! his most diflicult ones, and the patient student will find that even his worst are marked by ! extraordinary intellectual vigor and insight into character. While his reputation has hardly j kept the supreme place given to it by his admirers at the close of the Victorian era, he remains I one of the greatest figures in English poetry, remarkable alike for his message to his time and I for the skill and power with which he delivered it. ' 50 785 786 ROBERT BROWNING SONGS FROM ' PirPA PASSES ALL SERVICE RANKS THE SAME WITH GOD All service ranks the same vifith God : If now, as formerly he trod Paradise, his presence fills Our earth, each only as God wills Can work — God's puppets, best and worst, s Are we: there is no last nor first. THE YEAR S AT THE SPRING The year 's at the spring And day 's at the morn ; Morning 's at seven ; The hill-side 's dew-pearled ; The lark 's on the wing ; The snail 's on the thorn : God 's in his heaven — All 's right with the world ! GIVE HER BUT A LEAST EXCUSE TO LOVE ME Give her but a least excuse to love me ! When — where — How — can this arm establish her above me, If fortune fixed her as my lady there, There already, to eternally reprove me? s ('Hist!' — said Kate the Queen; But 'Oh!' — cried the maiden, binding her tresses, ' 'T is only a page that carols unseen, Crumbling your hounds their messes!") Is she wronged? — To the rescue of her honor, lo My heart! Is she poor? — What costs it to be styled a donor? Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her ! ('Nay, list!' — bade Kate the Queen; '5 And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, ' 'Tis only a page that carols unseen. Fitting your hawks their jesses ! ') (1841) MY LAST DUCHESS FERRARA That 's my last Duchess painted on the wall. Looking as if she were alive. 1 call That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will t please you sit and look at her? I said 5 'Fra Pandolf' by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 'i"he depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 10 And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps is Fra Pandolf chanced to say, 'Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much,' or ' Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat:' such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 20 For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went every- where. Sir, 't was all one ! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, ^6 The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace — all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 30 Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good ! but thanked Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill 35 In speech — (which I have not) — to make j'our will Quite clear to such an one, and say, ' Just this Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark' — and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 40 Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made ex- cuse, — E'en then would be some stooping ; and I choose COUNT GISMOND 787 Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed with- out Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands ; 45 Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet The company below then. I repeat. The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense 50 Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; I Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we '11 go I Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though. Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 5S ■ Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me ! (1842) COUNT GISMOND AIX IN PROVENCE Christ God who savest man, save most Of men Count Gismond who saved me! Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, Chose time and place and company To suit it ; when he struck at length 5 My honor, 't was with all his strength. And doubtlessly ere he could draw All points to one, he must have schemed! That miserable morning saw Few half so happy as 1 seemed, 10 While being dressed in queen's array To give our tourney prize away. I thought they loved me, did me grace To please themselves; 't was all their deed ; God makes, or fair or foul, our face; '5 If showing mine so caused to bleed My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped A word, and straight the play had stopped. They, too. so beauteous ! Each a queen By virtue of her brow and breast; Not needing to be crowned, I mean, As I do. E'en when I was dressed, Had cither of them spoke, instead Of glancing sideways with still head! But no : they let me laugh, and sing ^S My birthday song quite through, adjust The last rose in my garland, fling A last look on the mirror, trust My arms to each an arm of theirs. And so descend the castle-stairs — 30 And come out on the morning-troop Of merry friends who kissed my cheek. And called me queen, and made me stoop Under the canopy — (a streak That pierced it, of the outside sun, 33 Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun) — And they could let me take my state And foolish throne amid applause Of all come there to celebrate My queen's-day — Oh, I think the cause 40 Of much was, they forgot no crowd Makes up for parents in their shroud ! Howe'er that be, all eyes were bent Upon me, when my cousins cast Theirs down ; 't was time I should present The victor's crown, but . . . there, 't will last 46 No long time . . . the old mist again Blinds me as then it did. How vain I See! Gismond 's at the gate, in talk With his two boys : I can proceed. 5° Well, at that moment, who should stalk Forth boldly — to my face, indeed — But Gauthier, and he thundered, ' Stay! ' And all stayed. ' Bring no crowns, 1 say ! ' Bring torches ! Wind the penance-sheet S5 About her ! Let her shun the chaste. Or lay herself before their feet! Shall she whose body I embraced A night long, queen it in the day? For honor's sake no crowns, I say ! ' 60 I? What I answered? As I live, I never fancied such a thing 788 ROBERT BROWNING As answer possible to give. What says tlie body when they spring Some monstrous torture-engine's whole Strength on it? No more says the soul. Till out strode Gismond ; then T knew That I was saved. I never met His face before, but, at first view, I felt quite sure that God had set Himself to Satan; who would spend A minute's mistrust on the end? He strode to Gauthier, in his throat Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth With one back-handed blow that wrote 75 In blood men's verdict there. North, South, East, West, I looked. The lie was dead. And damned, and truth stood up instead. This glads me most, that I enjoyed The heart of the joy, with my content In watching Gismond unalloyed By any doubt of the event : God took that on him — I was bid Watch Gismond for my part : I did. Did I not watch him while he let 83 His armorer just brace his greaves, Rivet his hauberk, on the fret The while ! His foot ... my memory leaves No least stamp out, nor how anon He pulled his ringing gauntlets on. 9° And e'en before the trumpet's sound Was finished, prone lay the false knight, Prone as his lie, upon the ground: Gismond flew at him, used no sleight O' the sword, but open-breasted rove, 95 Cleaving till out the truth he clove. Which done, he dragged him to my feet And said, ' Here die, but end thy breath In full confession, lest thou fleet From my first, to God's second death I ic Say, hast thou lied?' And, 'I have lied To God and her,' he said, and died. Then Gismond. kneeling to me, asked — What safe my heart holds, though no word Could I repeat now, if I tasked My powers for ever, to a third Dear even as you are. Pass the rest Until I sank upon his breast. Over my head his arm he flung Against the world; and scarce I felt no His sword (that dripped by me and swung) A little shifted in its belt ; For he began to say the while How South our home lay many a mile. So 'mid the shouting multitude »'S Wc two walked forth to never more Return. My cousins have pursued Their life, untroubled as before I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place God lighten! May his soul find grace! 120 Our elder boy has got the clear Great brow; though when his brother's black Full eye shows scorn, it . . . Gismond here? And have you brought my tercel back? I just was telling Adcla 125 How many birds it struck since May. (1842) INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound. Napoleon Stood on our storming-day ; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind. As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused, ' My plans That soar, to earth may fall, '° Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,' — Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 'S Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy. And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect — THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND 789 (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. * Well,' cried he, ' Emperor, by God's grace We 've got you Ratisbon ! 26 The Marshal 's in the market-place. And you '11 be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, 3° Perched him!' The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. i The chief's eye flashed ; but presently ; Softened itself, as sheathes \ A film the mother-eagle's eye 3S When her bruised eaglet breathes ; You 're wounded ! ' ' Nay,' the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said : I 'm killed, Sire ! ' And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. 40 (1842) THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND That second time they hunted me From hill to plain, from shore to sea. And Austria, hounding far and wide Her blood-hounds through the country-side, Breathed hot and instant on my trace, — 5 1 made six days a hiding-place Of that dry green old aqueduct Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked The fire-flies from the roof above, Bright creeping through the moss they love : — How long it seems since Charles was lost! II Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed The country in my very sight; And when that peril ceased at night, The sky broke out in red dismay 15 With signal fires ; well, there I lay Close covered o'er in my recess. Up to the neck in ferns and cress. Thinking on Metternich our friend. And Charles's miserable end, 20 And much beside, two days ; the third, Hunger o'ercame me when I heard The peasants from the village go To work among the maize ; you know, With us in Lombardy, they bring ^s Provisions packed on mules, a string With little bells that cheer their task, And casks, and boughs on every cask To keep the sun's heat from the wine ; These I let pass in jingling line, 30 And, close on them, dear noisy crew. The peasants from the village, too; For at the very rear would troop Their wives and sisters in a group To help, I knew. When these had passed, 35 1 threw my glove to strike the last. Taking the chance: she did not start, Much less cry out, but stooped apart. One instant rapidly glanced round, And saw me beckon from the ground. 40 A wild bush grows and hides my crypt ; She picked my glove up while she stripped A branch off, then rejoined the rest With that; my glove lay in her breast. Then I drew breath ; they disappeared : 45 It was for Italy I feared. An hour, and she returned alone Exactly where my glove was thrown. Meanwhile came many thoughts; on me Rested the hopes of Italy. so I had devised a certain tale Which, when 't was told her, could not fail Persuade a peasant of its truth; I meant to call a freak of youth This hiding, and give hopes of pay, 55 And no temptation to betray. But when I saw that woman's face, Its calm simplicity of grace. Our Italy's own attitude In which she walked thus far, and stood, 60 Planting each naked foot so firm, To crush the snake and spare the worm — At first sight of her eyes, I said, ' I am that man upon whose head They fix the price, because I hate 65 The Austrians over us; the State Will give you gold — oh, gold so much — If you betray me to their clutch, And be your death, for aught I know. If once they find you saved their foe. 7° Now, you must bring me food and drink. And also paper, pen and ink. And carry safe what I shall write To Padua, which you '11 reach at night Before the duomo shuts; go in, 75 And wait till Tenebrae begin; Walk to the third confessional. Between the pillar and the wall. And kneeling whisper, IP' hence comes peace f Say it a second time, then cease ; 8° And if the voice inside returns. From Christ and Freedom; what concerns 790 ROBERT BROWNING The cause of Peace f—ior answer, slip My letter where you placed your lip; Then come back happy we have done 85 Our mother service — I, the son, As you the daughter of our land ! ' Three mornings more, she took her stand In the same place, with the same eyes: I was no surer of sunrise 90 Than of her coming. We conferred Of her own prospects, and I heard She had a lover — stout and tall, She said — then let her eyelids fall, 'He could do much' — as if some doubt 95 Entered her heart, — then, passing out, ' She could not speak for others, who Had other thoughts; herself she knew; And so she brought me drink and food. After four days, the scouts pursued ^°° Another path ; at last arrived The help my Paduan friends contrived To furnish me: she brought the news. For the first time I could not choose But kiss her hand, and lay my own i°s Upon her head — ' This faith was shown To Italy, our mother ; she Uses my hand and blesses thee.' She followed down to the sea-shore; I left and never saw her more. "° How very long since I have thought Concerning — much less wished for — aught Beside the good of Italy, For which I live and mean to die ! I never was in love; and since "S Charles proved false, what shall now con- vince My inmost heart I have a friend? However, if I pleased to spend Real wishes on myself — say, three — I know at least what one should be. i-o I would grasp Metternich until I felt his red wet throat distil In blood through these two hands. And next — Nor much for that am I perplexed — Charles, perjured traitor, for his part, J^s Should die slow of a broken heart Under his new employers. Last — Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast Do I grow old and out of strength. If I resolved to seek at length '30 My father's house again, how scared They all would look, and unprepared! My brothers live in Austria's pay — Disowned me long ago, men say ; And all my early mates who used i3S To praise me so — perhaps induced More than one early step of mine — Are turning wise : while some opine ' Freedom grows license,' some suspect ' Haste breeds delay,' and recollect 140 They always said, such premature Beginnings never could endure! So, with a sullen ' All 's for best,' The land seems settling to its rest. I think then, I should wish to stand '45 This evening in that dear, lost land. Over the sea the thousand miles, And know if yet that woman smiles With the calm smile; some little farm She lives in there, no doubt; what harm 'So If I sat on the door-side bench. And, while her spindle made a trench Fantastically in the dust, Inquired of all her fortunes — just Her children's ages and their names, '55 And what may be the husband's aims For each of them. I 'd talk this out. And sit there, for an hour about, Then kiss her hand once more, and lay Mine on her head, and go my way. 160 So much for idle wishing — how It steals the time! To business now. (1845) THE LOST LEADER Just for a handful of silver he left us. Just for a riband to stick in his coat — Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us. Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, 5 So much was theirs who so little allowed : How all our copper had gone for his serv- ice ! Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud ! We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 'o Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Alade him our pattern to live and to die! Shakspere was of us, Milton was for us. Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from their graves ! He alone breaks from the van and the free- men, '5 — He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! SAUL 791 We shall march prospering, — not through his presence ; Songs may inspirit us,— not from his lyre ; Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire ; -'^ Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more foot- path untrod. One more devil's-triuniph and sorrow for angels. One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! -5 There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again ! Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own ; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, 31 Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! (1845) HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD Oh, to be in England, Now that April 's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf 5 Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf. While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England — now! And after April, when May follows. And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! 10 Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — That 's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over. Lest you should think he never could re- capture IS The first fine careless rapture ! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower — Far brighter than this gaudy mclon- flovver ! 20 (1845) HOME-THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA Nobly, nobly. Cape Saint Vincent to the Northwest died away ; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, recking into Cadiz Bay ; Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; In the dimmest Northeast distance dawned Gibraltar, grand and gray ; ' Here and here did England help me : how can I help England ? ' — say, 5 Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray. While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. (1845) SAUL I Said Abner, ' At last thou art come ! Ere I tell, ere thou speak, Kiss my cheek, wish me well ! ' Then I wished it, and did kiss his cheek. And he: 'Since the King, O my friend, for thy countenance sent. Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tent Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet, 5 Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet. For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days. Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise. To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife. And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life. 'Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with his dew On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue 792 ROBERT BROWNING Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild lieat Were now raging to torture the desert.' Then I, as was meet, Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet, '5 And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. Tlic tent was unloopcd ; I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped ; Hands and knees on the slippery grass- patch, all withered and gone. That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on Til! I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed, 20 And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid But spoke, ' Here is David, thy servant ! ' And no voice replied. At the first I saw naught but the black- ness ; but soon I descried A something more black than the blackness — the vast, the upright Main prop which sustains the pavilion ; and slow into sight 25 Grew a figure against it, gigantic and black- est of all. Then a sunbeam, that burst through the tent roof, showed Saul. He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide On the great cross-support in the center, that goes to each side ; He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs 30 And waiting his change, the king serpent all heavily hangs. Far away from his kind, in the pine, till de- liverance come With the spring-time, — so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb. Then I tuned my harp, — took off the lilies we twine round its chords Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noon- tide — those sunbeams like swords ! 35 And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one. So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed Where the long grasses stifle the water with- in the stream's bed ; And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star 40 Into eve and the blue far above us, — so blue and so far! — Then the tune, for which quails on the cornland will each leave his mate To fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate Till for boldness they fight one another; and then, what has weight To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand-house — 45 There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse! God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here. Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when hand Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expand 5° And grow one in the sense of this world's life. — And then, the last song When the dead man is praised on his jour- ney — 'Bear, bear him along With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! Are balm-seeds not here To console us? The land has none left such as he on the bier. Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother ! ' — And then, the glad chaunt 55 Of the marriage, — first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vaunt As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling. — And then, the great march Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch Naught can break; who shall harm them, our friends ? — Then, the chorus in- toned As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. 60 But I stopped here : for here in the dark- ness Saul groaned. And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart; And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shud- dered : and sparkles 'gan dart SAUL 793 From the jewels that woke in his turban, at once with a start, All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart. ^5 So the head; but the body still moved not, still hung there erect. And I bent once again to my playing, pur- sued it unchecked, As I sang: — 'Oh, our manhood's prime vigor! No spirit feels waste, Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock, 7° The strong rending of boughs from the fir- tree, the cool silver shock Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear, And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair. And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine, And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draft of wine, 75 And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. How good is man's life, the mere living? how fit to employ All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy! Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst guard 8o When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward? Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung The low song of the nearly-departed, and hear her faint tongue Joining in while it could to the witness, " Let one more attest I have lived, seen God's hand through a lifetime, and all was for best?" §5 Then they sung through their tears in strong triumph, not much, but the rest. And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true: And the friends of thy boyhood — that boy- hood of wonder and hope. Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope, — 9" Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch ; a people is thine : And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine ! On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throe That, a-work in the rock, helps its labor and lets the gold go), High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them, — all 95 Brought to blaze on the head of one crea- ture — King Saul.' And lo, with that leap of my spirit,— heart, hand, harp and voice, Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice Saul's fame in the light it was made for — as when, dare I say. The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its array, »°° And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot — ' Saul ! ' cried I, and stopped. And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung propped By the tent's cross-support in the center, was struck by his name. Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy sum- mons goes right to the aim, And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he alone, 'os While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of stone A year's snow bound about for a breast- plate, — leaves grasp of the sheet? Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunder- ously down to his feet, And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old, With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold — "° Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest — all hail, there they are! — Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crest For their food in the ardors of summer. One long shudder thrilled "5 All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware. What was gone, what remained? All to traverse "twixt hope and despair; 794 ROBERT BROWNING Death was past, life not come: so he waited. Awhile his right hand Held the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant, forthwith to remand '-° To their place what new objects should enter: 't was Saul as before. I looked up, and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore, At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean — a sun's slow decline Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine '^s Base with base to knit strength more in- tensely; so, arm folded arm O'er the chest whose slow heavings sub- sided. What spell or what charm (For, awhile there was trouble within me), what next should I urge To sustain him where song had restored him? — Song tilled to the verge His cup with the wine of this life, press- ing all that it yields 130 Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty : beyond, on what fields. Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye. And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by? He saith, 'It is good;' still he drinks not: he lets me praise life. Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. 135 XII Then fancies grew rife Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep Fed in silence — above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep; And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie 'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky: And I laughed — ' Since my days are or- dained to be passed with my flocks, 140 Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks. Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know ! Schemes of life, its best rules and right ^ uses, the courage that gains. And the prudence that keeps what men strive for!' And now these old trains Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; so, once more the string '4^ Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus — ' Yea, my King,' I began — 'thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute : In our flesh grows the branch of this life, In our soul it bears fruit. >5o Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree, — how its stem trembled first Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; then safely outburst The fan-branches all round ; and thou mind- cst when these too, in turn Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect : yet more was to learn, E'en the good that comes in with the palm- fruit. Our dates shall we slight, 'SS When their juice brings a cure for all sor- row? or care for the plight Of the palm's self whose slow growth pro- duced them ? Not so ! stem and branch Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall stanch Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine. Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for ! the spirit be thine ! '60 By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy More indeed, than at first when unconscious, the life of a boy. Crush that life, and behold its wine run- ning ! Each deed thou hast done Dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the sun Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests efface, '65 Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace The results of his past summer-prime, — so, each ray of thy will. Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill Thy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till they too give forth A like cheer to their sons; who in turn, fill the South and the North 170 With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past ! But the license of age has its limit ; thou diest at last: SAUL 79: As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height, So with man — so his power and his beauty for ever take flight. No! Again a long draft of my soul-wine! Look forth o'er the years! '75 Thou hast done now with eyes for the ac- tual ; begin with the seer's ! Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make his tomb — bid arise A gray mountain of marble heaped four- square, till, built to the skies,* Let it mark where the great First King slumbers: whose fame would ye know? Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go '^° In great characters cut by the scribe, — Such was Saul, so he did ; With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid, — For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there ! Which fault to amend, In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend (See, in tablets 't is level before them) their praise, and record '^s With the gold of the graver, Saul's story,— the statesman's great word Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river 's a-wave With smooth paper- reeds grazing each other when prophet-winds rave : So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art ! ' 190 XIV And behold while I sang ... but O thou who didst grant me that day, And before it not seldom has granted thy help to essay, Carry on and complete an adventure, — my shield and my sword In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word,— Still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavor '95 And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever On the new stretch of heaven above me — till, mighty to save. Just one lift of thy hand cleared that dis- tance — God's throne from man's grave ! Let me tell out my tale to its ending — my voice to my heart Which can scarce dare believe in what mar- vels last night I took part, 200 As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep. And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep! For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves The dawn struggling with night on his shoul • der, and Kidron retrieves Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. 20s XV I say then, — my song While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and, ever more strong. Made a proffer of good to console him — he slowly resumed His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right hand replumed His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes Of his turban, and see — the huge sweat that his countenance bathes, 210 He wipes off with the robe ; and he girds now his loins as of yore, And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before. He is Saul, ye remember in glory, — ere error had bent The broad brow from the daily communion ; and still, though much spent Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose, 215 To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose. So sank he along by the tent-prop, till, stayed by the pile Of his armor and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there awhile. And sat out my singing, — one arm round the tent-prop, to raise His bent head, and the other hung slack — till I touched on the praise 220 I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there; And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'ware That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak roots which please To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know 225 If the best I could do had brought solace: he spoke not, but slow Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow : through my hair 796 ROBERT BROWNING The largo fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind power — All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. *-Jo Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine — And oh, all my heart how it loved him ! but where was the sign? I yearned — ' Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, I would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this; I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence, 235 As this moment, — had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense ! ' Then the truth came upon me. No harp more — no song more ! outbroke — ' I have gone the whole round of creation : I saw and I spoke: I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my brain And pronounced on the rest of his handwork — returned him again -40 His creation's approval or censure : I spoke as I saw, I report, as a man may of God's work — all "s love, yet all 's law. Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty tasked To perceive him has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked. Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare. -45 Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite Care ! Do I task any faculty highest, to image suc- cess? I but open my eyes, — and perfection, no more and no less. In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod. ^S" And thus looking within and around mc, I ever renew (With that stoop of the soul which in bend- ing upraises it too) The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's all-complete. As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet. Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known, 255 I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. There 's a faculty pleasant to e.xercise, hard to hoodwink, I am fain to keep still in abeyance (I laugh as I think) Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst V.'cn the Giver in one gift. — Behold, I could love if I durst! 260 i'.ut I sink, the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake (iod's own speed in the one way of love: I abstain for love's sake. — What, my soul ? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small, Ninc-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appal ? In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all? 265 Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift. That I doubt his own love can compete with it? Here, the parts shift? Here, the creature surpass the Creator, — the end, what Began? Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man. And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can? 270 Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power, To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvelous dower Of the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul, Such a body, and then such an earth for in- sphering the whole? And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest), -75 These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best ? Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height This perfection, — succeed with life's day- spring, death's mniute of night? Interpose at the diflicult minute, snatch Saul the mistake, Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now, — and bid him awake 280 From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set Clear and safe in new light and new life, — a new harmony yet To be run and continued, and ended — who knows? — or endure! The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to make sure; LOVE AMONG THE RUINS 797 By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning in- tensified bliss, 285 And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this. ' I believe it ! 'T is thou, God, that givest, 't is I who receive : In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe. All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayer As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air. 290 From thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaoth : / will? — the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not loth To look that, even that in the face too? Why is it I dare Think but lightly of such impuissance? What stops my despair? This ; — 't is not what man Does which ex- alts him, but what man Would do ! -95 See the King — I would help him but can- not, the wishes fall through. Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich. To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would — knowing which, I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now ! Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst thou — so wilt thou ! 300 So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablcst, uttermost crown — And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down One spot for the creature to stand in ! It is by no breath, Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death! As thy Love is discovered almighty, al- mighty be proved 305 Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved ! He who did most, shall bear most ; the strongest shall stand the most weak. 'T is the weakness in strength, that I cry for ! my flesh, that I seek In the Godhead ! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be A Face like my face that receives thee ; a Man like to me, 310 Thou shalt love and be loved by, for ever : a Hand like this hand Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ stand!' I know not too well how I found my way home in the night. There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right. Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware : 31s I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there. As a runner beset by the populace famished for news — Life or death. The whole earth was awak- ened, hell loosed with her crews ; And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowl- edge : but I fainted not, 320 For the hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressed All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest. Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth — Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth; 3^5 In the gathered intensity brought to the gray of the hills; In the shuddering forests' held breath ; in the sudden wind-thrills; In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling still. Though averted with wonder and dread ; in the birds stiff and chill That rose heavily as I approached them, made stupid with awe : 330 E'en the serpent that slid away silent, — he felt the new law. The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers ; The same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine-bowers : And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low. With their obstinate, all but hushed voices — ' E'en so, it is so! ' 335 (1845-1855) LOVE AMONG THE RUINS Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles Miles and miles On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep 798 ROBERT BROWNING Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop 5 As they crop — Was the site once of a city groat and gay (So they say), Of our country's very capital, its prince Ages since '° Held his court in, gathered councils, wield- ing far Peace or war. jsTow, — the country does not even boast a tree, As you see. To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills "5 From the hills Intersect and give a name to (else they run Into one). Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires Up like f^res 2° O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all. Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed. Twelve abreast. And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass ^5 Never was ! Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'cr- spreads And embeds Every vestige of the city, guessed alone. Stock or stone — 3° Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold 35 Bought and sold. Now,— the single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, 4° While the patching houseleek's head of blos- som winks Through the chinks — Marks the basement whence a tower in an- cient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced 45 As they raced. And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games. y\nd I know — while thus the quiet-colored eve Smiles to leave 5° To their folding, all our many tinkling fleece In such peace. And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray Melt away — That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there s6 In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul For the goal. When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb Till I come. 60 But he looked upon the city, every side. Far and wide. All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades' Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, — and then, 65 All the men ! When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand. Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first em- brace Of my face, 7° Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each. VII In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high 75 As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force — Gold, of course. Oh heart ! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns ! Earth's returns 80 A TOCCATA OF GALUPPl'S 799 For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin ! IX Shut them in, That shall be to-morrow, With their triumphs and their glories and Not tu-night: the rest! I must bury sorrow 35 Love is best. Out of sight : (1855) X — Must a little weep. Love, A WOMAN'S LAST WORD (Foolish me!). J And so fall asleep, Love Let 's contend no more, Love, Loved by thee. 4° Strive nor weep : (1855) All be as before. Love, — Only sleep ! II A TOCCATA OF GALUPPl'S What so wild as words are? S I I and thou Oh Galuppi, Baldassare, this is very sad to In debute, as birds are, finrl 1 Hawk on bough ! I can hardly misconceive you ; it would prove me deaf and blind ; Ill Bu although I take your meaning, 't is with See the creature stalking such a heavy mind ! While we speak ! 10 Hush and hide the talking, II Cheek on cheek. Here you come with your old music, and IV here's all the good it brings What so false as truth is. What, they lived once thus at Venice where False to thee? Where the serpent's tooth is the merchants were the kmgs, s IS Wh ere St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings? Shun the tree — V Ill Where the apple reddens Ay because the sea's the street there; and Never pry — 't is arched by . . . what you call Lest we lose our Edens, . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, Eve and L 20 where they kept the carnival : I was never out of England — it 's as if I VI saw it all. Be a god and hold me With a charm ! IV Be a man and fold me Did young people take their pleasure when With thine arm ! the sea was warm in May? 10 Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning VII ever to mid-day. Teach me, only teach. Love ! 25 When they made up fresh adventures for As I ought the morrow, do you say ? I will speak thy speech. Love, Think thy thought — v Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round VIII and lips so red, — Meet, if thou require it, On her neck the small face buoyant, like a Both demands, 30 bell-flower on its bed. Laymg Hcsh and spirit O'er the breast's superb abundance where In thy hands. a man might base his head? is Soo ROBERT BROWNING Well, and it was graceful of them — they'd break talk off and afford — She, to bite her mask's l)lack velvet — he, to finger on his sword, While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord? What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh, Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions — 'Must we die?' -'o Those commiserating sevenths — 'Life might last ! we can but try ! ' 'Were you happy?' — 'Yes.' — 'And are you still as happy?' — 'Yes. And you?' — ' Then, more kisses ! ' — ' Did / stop them, when a million seemed so few?' Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to ! So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say ! ^5 ' Brave Galuppi ! that was music ! good alike at grave and gay ! I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play ! ' Then they left you for their pleasure : till in due time, one by one, Some with lives that came to nothmg, some with deeds as well undone. Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun. 3o XI But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve. While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve. In you come with your cold music till I creep through every nerve. Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned : ' Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned. 35 The soul, doubtless, is immortal — where a soul can be discerned. 'Yours for instance: you know physics, something of geology, Mathematics are your pastime ; souls shall rise in their degree ; Butterflies may dread extinction, — you'll not die, it cannot be ! ' As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop, 4o Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop: ^Vhat of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop? ' Dust and ashes ! ' So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what 's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old. 45 (1855) MY STAR All that I know Of a certain star Is, it can throw (Like the angled spar) Now a dart of red, 5 Now a dart of blue ; Till my friends have said They would fain see, too. My star that dartles the red and the blue! Then it stops like a bird ; like a flower, hangs furled; "o They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. What matter to me if their star is a world? Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it. (1855) THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER I said — Then, dearest, since 't is so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails. Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be— 5 THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER 80 1 i\Iy whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave, — I claim Only a memory of the same, — And this beside, if you will not blame, 'o Your leave for one more last ride with me. II My mistress bent that brow of hers ; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through. Fixed me a breathing-while or two '5 With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenished me again ; My last thought was at least not vain : I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, 20 So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to- night ? Ill Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions — sun's 25 And moon's and evening-star's at once — And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, 3° Till flesh must fade for heaven was here ! — Thus leant she and lingered — joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast. Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll 3S Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this. So might I gain, so might I miss. 40 Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell ! Where had I been now if the worst befell ? And here we are riding, she and I. Fail I alone, in words and deeds? 45 Why, all men strive, and who succeeds? We rode ; it seemed my spirit flew. Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side. I thought, — All labor, yet no less 50 Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast. This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me ; here we ride. 51 What hand and brain went evet paired? s6 What heart alike conceived and dared ? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. 60 There 's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey- stones. 6s My riding is better, by their leave. What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, 70 And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'T is something, nay 't is nmch : but then. Have you yourself what's best for men? Are you — poor, sick, old ere your time — Nearer one whit your own sublime 73 Than we who never have turned a rhyme? Sing, riding 's a joy ! For me, I ride. And you, great sculptor — so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that 's your Venus, whence we turn 80 To yonder girl that fords the burn ! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say. Is this your sole praise from a friend, 85 ' Greatly his opera's strains intend. But in music we know how fashions end! I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine. Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate 90 My being — had I signed the bond — Still one must lead some life beyond. Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal. This glory-garland round my soul, 95 Could I descry such ? Try and test ! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. And yet — she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong 8o2 ROBERT BROWNING At life's best, with our eyes upturned Whither Hfe's flower is lirst discerned, We, fixed so. ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two, los With life for ever old yet new, Oianged not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity, — And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, for ever ride? "o (1855) MEMORABILIA Ah, did you once see Shelley plain. And did he stop and speak to you, And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems and new ! But you were living before that. And also you are living after; And the memory I started at — My starting moves your laughter ! I crossed a moor, with a name of its own And a certain use in the world no doubt, Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone ^ 'Mid the blank miles round about : For there I picked up on the heather And there I put inside my breast A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! i5 Well, I forget the rest. (1855) 'DE GUSTIBUS— ' Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, (If our loves remain) In an English lane. By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. Hark, those two in the hazel coppice — 5 A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, flaking love, say, — The happier they ! Draw yourself up from the light of the moon. And let them pass, as they will too soon, >o With the beanflowers' boon, And the blackbird's tune. And May, and June ! What I love best in all the world Is a castle, precipice-encurled, '5 In a gash of the wind-grieved Apcnnine. Or look for me, old fellow of mine, (If I get my head from out the mouth O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands, And come again to the land of lands) — ~o In a sea-side house to the farther South, Where the baked cicala dies of drouth. And one sharp tree — 'tis a cypress — stands, By the many hundred years red-rusted, Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted, My sentinel to guard the sands -26 To the water's edge. For, what expands Before the house, but the great opaque Blue breadth of sea without a break? While, in the house, forever crumbles 30 Some fragment of the frescoed walls, From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons. And says there's news to-day — the king 35 Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing. Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling : — She hopes they have not caught the felons. Italy, my Italy! Queen Mary's saying serves for me — 40 (When fortune's malice Lost her Calais) — Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it, ' Italy.' Such lovers old are I and she: 45 So it always was, so shall ever be ! (1855) ANDREA DEL SARTO CALLED 'the FAULTLESS PAINTER* But do not let us quarrel any more, No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. You turn your face, but does it bring your heart ? ^ 1 '11 work then for your friend's friend, never fear, 5 Treat his own subject after his own way. Fix his own time, accept too, his own price. And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. Will it? ten- derly? Oh, I '11 content him, — but to-morrow. Love ! I often am much wearier than you think, " This evening more than usual, and it seems As if — forgive now — should you let me sit ANDREA DEL SARTO 803 Here by the window with your hand in mine And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, "S Both of one mind, as married people use, Quietly, quietly the evening through, I might get up to-morrow to my work Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this ! Your soft hand is a woman of itself, -' And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve For each of the five pictures we require : It saves a model. So ! keep looking so — ^5 My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds ! — How could you ever prick those perfect ears. Even to put the pearl there ! oh, so sweet — i\Iy face, my moon, my everybody's moon, Which everybody looks on and calls his, 30 And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, While she looks — no one's : very dear, no less. You smile? why, there's my picture ready made, There 's what we painters call our harmony ! A common grayness silvers everything, — 35 All in a twilight, you and I alike — You, at the point of your first pride in me (That's gone you know), — but I, at every point; My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 4° There 's the bell clinking from the chapel- top ; That length of convent-wall across the way Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside ; The last monk leaves the garden ; days de- crease. And autumn grows, autumn in everything. 45 Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape As if I saw alike my work and self And all that I was born to be and do, A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. How strange now looks the life he makes us lead ; 50 So free we seem, so fettered fast we are ! I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! This chamber for example — turn your head — All that 's behind us ! You don't under- stand Nor care to understand about my art. 55 But you can hear at least when people speak : And that cartoon, the second from the door — It is the thing, Love ! so such thing should be — Behold Madonna! — I am bold to say. I can do with my pencil what I know, 60 What I see, what at bottom of my heart I wish for, if I ever wish so deep — Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly, I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, Who listened to the Legate's talk last week. And just as much they used to say in France. 66 At any rate, 't is easy, all of it ! No sketches first, no studies, that 's long past : I do what many dream of all their lives, — Dream ? strive to do, and agonize to do, 7° And fail in doing. I could count twenty such On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, Who strive — you don't know how the others strive To paint a little thing like that you smeared Carelessly passing with your robes afioat, — Yet do much less, so much less. Someone says, 76 (I know his name, no matter) — so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia : I am judged. There burns a truer light of God in them, In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped- up brain, 80 Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. Their works drop groundward. but them- selves, I know. Reach many a time a heaven that "s shut to me. Enter and take their place there sure enough, 85 Though they come back and cannot tell the world. My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. The sudden blood of these men ! at a word — Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. I, painting from myself, and to myself, 9° Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame Or their praise either. Somebody remarks Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, His hue mistaken; what of that? or else. Rightly traced and well ordered ; what of that ? 95 Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? 8o4 ROBERT BROWNING Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for? All is silver- gray Placid and perfect with my art: the worse! I know both what I w\int and what might gain, 100 And yet how profitless to know, to sigh ' Had I been two, another and myself. Our head would have o'erlooked the world ! ' No doubt. Yonder 's a work now, of that famous youth The Urbinate who died five years ago. los ('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) Well, I can fancy how he did it all. Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see. Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, Above and through his art — for it gives way; no That arm is wrongly put — and there again — A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines. Its body, so to speak: its soul is right. He means right — that, a child may under- stand. Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: ns But all the play, the insight and the stretch — Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul. We might have risen to Rafael, I and you! Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think — 120 More than I merit, yes, by many times. But had you — oh, with the same perfect brow, And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth. And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare — Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind ! i -6 Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged ' God and the glory ! never care for gain. The present by the future, what is that? Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! uo Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!' I might have done it for you. So it seems: Perhaps not. All is as God overrules. Beside, incentives come from the soul's self; The rest avail not. Why do I need you ? What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? 136 In this world, who can do a thing, will not ; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive : Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — .And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, "40 God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict, That I am something underrated here. Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. I dared not, do you know, leave home all day. '4S For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. The best is when they pass and look aside; But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all. Well may they speak ! That Francis, that first time. And that long festal year at Fontainebleau ! I surely then could sometimes leave the ground, isi Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, In that humane great monarch's golden look, — One finger in his beard or twisted curl Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, I5S One arm about my shoulder, round my neck, The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, I painting proudly with his breath on me. All his court round him, seeing with his eyes, Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls I'o Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts, — And, best of all, this, this, this face be- yond. This in the background, waiting on my work. To crown the issue with a last reward! 164 A good time, was it not, my kingly days? And had you not grown restless . . . but I know — 'T is done and past ; 't was right, my in- stinct said ; Too live the life grew, golden and not gray, And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt Out of his grange whose four walls make his world. '/o How could it end in any other way? You called me, and I came home to your heart. The triumph was — to reach and stay there ; since I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, 175 You beautiful Lucrczia that are mine! ANDREA DEL SARTO 805 ' Rafael did this, Andrea painted that ; The Roman's is the better when you pray, Ihit still the other's Virgin was his wife' — Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge Both pictures in your presence ; clearer grows '81 My better fortune, I resolve to think. For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, Said one day Agnolo, his very self, To Rafael ... I have known it all these years ... '85 (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, Too lifted up in heart because of it) ' Friend, there 's a certain sorry little scrub Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, '90 Who, were he set to plan and execute As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, Would bring the sweat into that brow o'f yours ! ' To Rafael's! — And indeed the arm is wrong. I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see. Give the chalk here — quick, thus the line should go ! 196 Ay, but the soul ! he 's Rafael ! rub it out ! Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? Do you forget already words like those?). If really there was such a chance, so lost, — Is, whether you're — not grateful — but more pleased. 202 Well, let me think so. And you smile in- deed ! This hour has been an hour ! Another smile? If you would sit thus by me every night -205 I should work better, do you comprehend? I mean that I should earn more, give you more. See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; Morello 's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. 210 Come from the window, Love, — come in, at last, Inside the melancholy little house We built to be so gay with. God is just. King Francis may forgive me; oft at nights. When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, 2 I 5 The walls become illumined, brick from brick Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold. That gold of his I did cement them with ! Let us but love each other. Must you go? That Cousin here again? he waits outside? Must see you — you, and not with me? Those loans? 221 More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend ? While hand and eye and something of a heart Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth ? 225 I '11 pay my fancy. Only let me sit The gray remainder of the evening out, Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly How I could paint, were I but back in France, One picture, just one more — the Virgin's face, 230 Not yours this time! I want you at my side To hear them — that is, Michel Agnolo — Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend I take the subjects for his corridor, 235 Finish the portrait out of hand — there, there, And throw him in another thing or two If he demurs; the whole should prove enough To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Be- side, What 's better and what 's all I care about, Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! 241 Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he. The Cousin ! what does he to please you more ? I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. I regret little, 1 would change still less. 245 Since there my past life lies, why alter it? The very wrong to Francis! — it is true I took his coin, was tempted and complied. And built this house and sinned, and all is said. My father and my mother died of want. 250 Well, had I riches of my own? you see How one gets rich ! Let each one bear his lot. They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: And I have labored somewhat in my time And not been paid profusely. Some good son 255 Paint my two hundred pictures — let him try! 8o6 ROBERT BROWNING No doubt, there 's something strikes a balance. Yes, You loved me quite enough, it seems to- night This must suffice me here. What would one have? In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance — ^*'° Four great walls in the new Jerusalem, Meted on each side by the angel's reed, For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me To cover — the three first without a wife. While I have mine! So — still they over- come 2^5 Because there 's still Lucrezia, — as I choose. Again the Cousin's whistle ! Go, my Love. (1855) THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL A PICTURE AT FANG I Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave That child, when thou hast done with him, for me ! Let me sit all the day here, that when eve Shall find performed thy special ministry, And time come for departure, thou, suspend- ing, 5 Thy flight, may'st see another child for tending. Another still, to quiet and retrieve. Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more. From where thou standest now, to where I gaze, — And suddenly my head is covered o'er 'o With those wings, white above the child who prays Now on that tomb — and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world; for me, discard- ing Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door. I would not look up thither past thy head 15 Because the door opes, like that child, I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead, Thou bird of God ! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands to- gether, And lift them up to pray, and gently tether Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread? 2' If this was ever granted, I would rest My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, 25 Back to its proper size again, and smooth- ing Distortion down till every nerve had sooth- ing, And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed. How soon all worldly wrong would be re- paired ! I think how I should view the earth and skies 30 And sea, when once again my brow was bared After thy healing, with such different eyes. O world, as God has made it ! All is beauty: And knowing this, is love, and love is duty. What further may be sought for or de- clared? 35 Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend !)— that little child to pray. Holding the little hands up, each to each Pressed gently, — with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him 40 Of work to do, though heaven was open- ing o'er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach. We were at Fano, and three times we went To sit and see him in his chapel there. And drink his beauty to our soul's content 45 — My angel with me too : and since I care For dear Guercino 's fame (to which in power And glory comes this picture for a dower, Fraught with a pathos so magnificent) — A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 807 And since he did not work thus earnestly so At all times, and has else endured some wrong — I took one thought his picture struck from me, And spread it out, translating it to song. My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend? How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end? 55 This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. (1855) A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIV.XL OF LEARNING IN EUROPE Let us begin and carry up this corpse. Singing together. Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes Each in its tether Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, 5 Cared-for till cock-crow : Look out if yonder be not day again Rimming the rock-row! That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought. Rarer, intenser, 10 Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, Chafes in the censer. Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; Seek we sepulture On a tall mountain, citied to the top, '5 Crowded with culture ! All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; Clouds overcome it ; No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's Circling its summit. -20 Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights : Wait ye the warning? Our low life was the level's and the night's; He 's for the morning. Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 25 'Ware the beholders ! This is our master, famous calm and dead. Borne on our shoulders. Sleep, crop and herd ! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft. Safe from the weather! 30 He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, Singing together. He was a man born with thy face and throat. Lyric Apollo! Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note 3S Winter would follow? Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone ! Cramped and diminished. Moaned he, ' New measures, other feet anon ! My dance is finished?' 40 No, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side, IMake for the city!) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride Over men's pity ; Left play for work, and grappled with the world 45 Bent on escaping: ' What 's in the scroll,' quoth he, ' thou keep- est furled? Show me their shaping. Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,— Give ! ' — So, he gowned him, so Straight got by heart that book to its last page: Learned, we found him. Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead. Accents uncertain : ' Time to taste life,' another would have said, ss ' Up with the curtain ! ' This man said rather, ' Actual life comes next ? Patience a moment! Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text. Still there 's the comment. 60 Let me know all ! Prate not of most or least. Painful or easy! Even to the crumbs I 'd fain eat up the feast. Ay, nor feel queasy.' Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, 65 When he had learned it, When he had gathered all books had to give ! Sooner, he spurned it. Image the whole, then execute the parts — Fancy the fabric 7° Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, Ere mortar dab brick. 8o8 ROBERT BROWNING there 's the He said, (.Here's the town-gate reached market-place Gaping before us.) Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace 75 (Hearten our chorus!) That before living he'd learn how to live — No end to learning. Earn the means first — God surely will con- trive Use for our earning. ^° Others mistrust and say, ' But time escapes : Live now or never ! ' What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes ! Man has Forever!' Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head; ^^ Calculus racked him: Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: Tussis attacked him. • Now, master, take a little rest ! '— not he ! (Caution redoubled, ^o Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) Not a whit troubled, Back to his studies, fresher than at first, Fierce as a dragon He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) 95 Sucked at the flagon. Oh, if we draw a circle premature. Heedless of far gain. Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure Bad is our bargain! ^°° Was it not great? did not he throw on God (He loves the burthen) — God's task to make the heavenly period Perfect the earthen, not he magnify the mind, show clear Just what it all meant? 'o^ would not discount life, as fools do here. Paid by instalment, ventured neck or nothing — heaven's success Found, or earth's failure: I'o 'Wilt thou trust death or not?' He an- swered ' Yes : Hence with life's pale lure!' That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it ; This high man, with a great thing to pur- sue, "5 Dies ere he knows it. That low man goes on adding one to one, His hundred 's soon hit ; This high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit, '^' should he need Did He He That, has the world here the next, Let the world mind him ! This, throws himself on God, and unpcr- plexed Seeking shall find Him. So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, '-'5 Ground he at grammar ; Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife: While he could stammer He settled Iloti's business — let it be ! — Properly based Oun — '3° Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic Dc, Dead from the waist down. Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place : Hail to your purlieus, All ye highfliers of the feathered race, us Swallows and curlews! Here 's the top-peak, the multitude below Live, for they can, there: This man decided not to Live but Know — Bury this man there? '4° Here — here 's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form. Lightnings are loosened. Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, Peace let the dew send ! Lofty designs must close in like effects: '45 Loftily lying. Leave him — still loftier than the world sus- pects, Living and dying. (1855) ONE WORD MORE There they are, my fifty men and women Naming me the fifty poems finished! Take them, Love, the book and me together : Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. Rafael made a century of sonnets, 5 Made and wrote them in a certain volume Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil Else he only used to draw Madonnas : These, the world might view — but one, the volume. Who that one, you ask? Your heart in- structs you. ONE WORD MORE 809 Did she live and love it all her lifetime? Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets, Die, and let it drop beside her pillow Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory, Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving — 's Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's? You and I would rather read that volume (Taken to his beating bosom by it) Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael, 20 Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas — Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, Her, that visits Florence in a vision. Her, that 's left with lilies in the Louvre — Seen by us and all the world in circle. 25 You and I will never read that volume. Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple. Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it. Guido Reni dying, all Bologna Cried, and the world cried too, ' Ours, the treasure ! ' 30 Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. Dante once prepared to paint an angel : Whom to please ? You whisper ' Beatrice.' While he mused and traced it and retraced it (Peradventure with a pen corroded 35 Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked. Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma. Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment, Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle, 40 Let the wretch go festering through Flor- ence) — Dante, who loved well because he hated. Hated wickedness that hinders loving, Dante, standing, studying his angel — In there broke the folk of his Inferno. 45 Says he — 'Certain people of •importance' (Such he gave his daily dreadful line to) ' Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet.' Says the poet — ' Then I stopped my paint- ing.' You and I would rather see that angel, so Painted by the tenderness of Dante, Would we not? — than read a fresh Inferno. You and I will never see that picture. While he mused on love and Beatrice, While he softened o'er his outlined angel, 55 In they broke, those 'people of importance': We and Bice bear the loss forever. What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture? This : no artist lives and loves, that longs not Once, and only once, and for one only 60 (Ah, the prize!), to find his love a language Fit and fair and simple and sufficient — Using nature that 's an art to others. Not, this one time, art that 's turned his nature. Ay, of all the artists living, loving, 65 None but would forego his proper dowry. Does he paint? he fain would write a poem, Does he write? he fain would paint a picture, — Put to proof art alien to the artist's, Once, and only once, and for one only, 70 So to be the man and leave the artist. Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow. IX Wherefore? Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement ! He who smites the rock and spreads the water. Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him. Even he, the minute makes immortal, 76 Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute. Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. While he smites, how can he but remem- ber, So he smote before, in such a peril, 80 When they stood and mocked — ' Shall smit- ing help us? ' When they drank and sneered — ' A stroke is easy! ' When they wiped their mouths and went their journey, Throwing him for thanks — ' But drought was pleasant.' Thus old memories mar the actual triumph ; 85 Thus the doing savors of disrelish; 7SI0 ROBERT BROWNING Thus achievement lacks a gracious some- what; O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate, Carelessness or consciousness — the gesture, For he bears an ancient wrong about him, 90 Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces, Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed pre- lude — ' How shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us ? ' Guesses what is like to prove the sequel — ' Egypt's flesh-pots — nay, the drought was better.' 95 Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant ! Theirs, the Sinai-forehead's cloven bril- liance. Right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat. Never dares the man put off the prophet. Did he love one face from out the thou- sands '00 (Were she Jethro's daughter, white and wifely, Were she but the Ethiopian bondslave) He would envy yon dumb, patient camel, Keeping a reserve of scanty water Meant to save his own life in the desert, 105 Ready in the desert to deliver (Kneeling down to let his breast be opened) Hoard and life together for his mistress. XII I shall never, in the years remaining. Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues, "o Make you music that should all-express me ; So it seems : I stand on my attainment, This of verse alone, one life allows me; Verse and nothing else have I to give you. Other heights in other lives, God willing: i'5 All the gifts from all the heights, your own. Love! Yet a semblance of resource avails us — Shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly. Lines I write the first time and the last time. 1^0 He who works in fresco, steals a hair-brush. Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly, Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little. Makes a strange art of an art familiar. Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets. He who blows through bronze may breathe through silver, 126 Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. He who writes, may write for once as I do. XIV Love, you saw me gather men and women, Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy, '3o Enter each and all, and use their service. Speak from every mouth, — the speech, a poem. Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows, Hopes and fears, belief and disbelieving: I am nn'ne and yours — the rest be all men's, '35 Karshish, Cleon, Norbert, and the fifty. Let me speak this once in my true person. Not as Lippo, Roland, or Andrea, Though the fruit of speech be just this sen- tence : Pray you, look on these my men and women, mo Take and keep my fifty poems finished; Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also ! Poor the speech; be how I speak, for all things. XV Not but that you know me ! Lo, the moon's self! Here in London, yonder late in Florence, 145 Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured. Curving on a sky imbrued with color, Drifted over Fiesole by twilight, i Came she, our new crescent of a hair's- | breadth 1 Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato, ^5° Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder. Perfect till the nightingales applauded. Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished. Hard to greet, she traverses the house-roofs. Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver. Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish. 156 XVI What, there 's nothing in the moon note- worthy? Nay: for if that moon could love a mortal. Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy). All her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos). She would turn a new side to her mortal, 161 Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steers- man — Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace. Blind to Galileo on his turret. Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats — him, even ! 165 ABT VOGLER 8ii Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mor- tal— When she turns round, comes again in heaven, Opens out anew for worse or better! Proves she like some portent of an iceberg- Swimming full upon the ship it founders, 170 Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crys- tals? Proves she as the paved work of a sapphire. Seen by Moses when he climbed the moun- tain ? I\roscs, Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu Climbed and saw the very God, the High- est, 17s Stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. Like the bodied heaven in his clearness Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved work, When they ate and drank and saw God also! What were seen? None knows, none ever shall know. 'So Only this is sure — the sight were other. Not the moon's same side, born late in Flor- ence, Dying now impoverished here in London. God be thanked, the meanest of his crea- tures Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, 185 One to show a woman when he loves her ! xvin This I say of me, but think of you, Love! This to you — yourself my moon of poets! Ah, but that 's the world's side, there 's the wonder, Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you! '9° There, in turn I stand with them and praise you — Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. But the best is when I glide from out them. Cross a step or two of dubious twilight. Come out on the other side, the novel '95 Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of. Where I hush and bless myself with silence. Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno, Wrote one song — and in my brain I sing it. Drew one angel — borne, see, on my bosom! 201 R. B. (1855) ABT VOGLER AFTER HE HAS BEEN EXTEMl'GRIZING UPON THE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT OF HIS INVENTION Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I Luild, Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work. Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed Arnn'es of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, Alan, brute, reptile, fly,— alien of end and of aim, 5 Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed, — .Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name, And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved ! Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine. This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise! 'o Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dis- part now and now combine, Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise ! And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell. Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things. Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well, 15 Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. Ill And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was. Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, Raising my rampired walls of gold as trans- parent as glass. Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest : -'" For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire. When a great illumination surprises a fes- tal night — Outlining round and round Rome's dome from space to spire) 8l2 ROBERT BROWNING Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight. IV In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's birth, ^5 Nature in turn conceived, obeying an im- pulse as I ; And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth. As the earth had done her best, in my pas- sion, to scale the sky : Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine, Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star; 3" Meteor-moons, balls of blaze : and they did not pale nor pine. For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far. Nay more ; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow, Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast, Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow, 35 Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last ; Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and gone, But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new : What never had been, was now ; what was, as it shall be anon ; And what is, — shall I say, matched both? for I was made perfect too. 4o All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth. All through music and me I For think, had I painted the whole. Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth : Had I written the same, made verse — still, effect proceeds from cause, 45 Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told ; It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, Painter and poet are proud in the artist- list enrolled: — VII But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can. Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they are ! 5o And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. Consider it well : each tone of our scale in itself is naught; It is everywhere in the world — loud, soft, and all is said: Give it to me to use ! I mix it with two in my thought ; 55 And there ! Ye have heard and seen ; con- sider and bow the head ! Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared ; Gone ! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow ; For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared. That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. 6o Never to be again ! But many more of the kind As good, nay, better perchance : is this your comfort to me? To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind To the same, same self, same love, same God : ay, what was, shall be. Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the in- effable Name? 65 Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands ! What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same? Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands? There shall never be one lost good ! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is naught, is silence imply- ing sound ; 70 What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round. All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist; RABBI BEN EZRA 813 Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power Whose voice has gone forth, but each sur- vives for the melodist 75 When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky. Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard ; Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by and by. 80 And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence For the fullness of the days? Have we withered or agonized? Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? Why rushed the discords in, but that har- mony should be prized? Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, 85 Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe: ' But God has a few of us whom he whispers [ in the ear; The rest may reason and welcome : 't is we musicians know. XII I Well, it is earth with me ; silence resumes her reign: [ I will be patient and proud, and soberly I acquiesce. 90 Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again. Sliding by semitones till I sink to the minor, — yes. And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground, Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep ; Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found, 95 The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep. (1864) RABBI BEN EZRA Grow old along with me I The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made : Our times are in His hand Who saith, ' A whole I planned, s Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid ! ' II Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, ' Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?' Not that, admiring stars, 10 It yearned, ' Nor Jove, nor Mars ; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all ! ' Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth's brief years. Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark I i5 Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. Poor vaunt of life indeed. Were man but formed to feed - On joy, to solely seek and find and feast; Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men ; Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast ? Rejoice we are allied 25 To That which doth provide And not partake, effect and not receive ! A spark disturbs our clod; Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe. 30 Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! Be our joys three-parts pain ! Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 35 Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe I VII For thence, — a paradox Which comforts while it mocks, — 8i4 ROBERT BROWNING Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to he, 40 And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. VIII What is he but a brute Whose Hesh has sou! to suit. Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? 45 1\i man, propose this test — Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? Yet gifts should prove their use: I own the Past profuse so Of power each side, perfection every turn: Eyes, ears took in their dole, Brain treasured up the whole; Should not the heart beat once ' How good to live and learn '? Not once beat ' Praise be thine ! oS I see the whole design, I, who saw power, see now love perfect too : Perfect I call thy plan: Thanks that I was a man ! Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what thou shalt do! ' 60 For pleasant is this flesh; Our soul, in its rose-mesh Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest : Would we some prize might hold To match those manifold 65 Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did best! XII Let us not always say, ' Spite of this flesh to-day I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole ! ' As the bird wings and sings, 7° Let us cry, ' All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul ! ' XIII Therefore I summon age To grant youth's heritage, Life's struggle having so far reached its term : 75 Thciicc shall I pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed ])rute ; a God though in the germ. XIV And I shall thereupon Take rest, ere I be gone 80 Once more on my adventure brave and new : Fearless and unperplexed. When I wage battle next. What weapons to select, what armor to in- due. Youth ended, I shall try 85 My gain or loss thereby; Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold : And I shall weigh the same. Give life its praise or blame: Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. 90 For, note when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: A whisper from the west Shoots — 'Add this to the rest, 9S Take it and try its worth : here dies another day.' XVII So, still within this life. Though lifted o'er its strife, Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, ' This rage was right i' the main, 1°° That acquiescence vain : The Future I may face now I have proved the Past.' XVIII For more is not reserved To man, with soul just nerved To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: los Here, work enough to watch The Master work, and catch Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. XIX As it was better, youth Should strive, through acts uncouth, "o RABBI BEN EZRA 815 Toward making, than repose on aught found made : So, better, age, exempt From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedst age : wait death nor be afraid! XX Enough now, if the Right "S And Good and Infinite Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own. With knowledge absolute, Subject to no dispute From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. »2o Be there, for once and all, Severed great minds from small, Announced to each his station in the Past ! Was I, the world arraigned. Were they, my soul disdained, '-5 Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last ! XXII Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate. Shun what 1 follow, slight what I receive ; Ten, who in ears and eyes 130 Match me : we all surmise, They, this thing, and I, that: whom shall my soul believe? XXIII Not on the vulgar mass Called ' work,' must sentence pass. Things done, that took the eye and had the price; '35 O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand. Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: But all, the world's coarse thumb, i And finger failed to plumb, 140 1 So passed in making up the main account ; i .All instincts immature, I .A.11 purposes unsure. That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount : Thoughts hardly to be packed us Into a narrow act. Fancies that broke through language and escaped ; All I could never be. All, men ignored in me. This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. «5o XXVI Ay, note that Potter's wheel. That metaphor! and feel Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, — ■ Thou, to whom fools propound. When the wine makes its round, 155 'Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day ! ' XXVII Fool! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall ; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: What entered into thee, 160 That was, is, and shall be : Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter and clay endure. XXVIII He fixed thee mid this dance Of plastic circumstance, This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest: '^s Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent. Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. XXIX What though the earlier grooves Which ran the laughing loves '7o Around thy base, no longer pause and press? What though about thy rim. Skull-things in order grim Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? XXX Look not thou down but up! '75 To uses of a cup! The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal. 8i6 ROBERT BROWNING The new wine's foaming How, The Master's lips a-glow ! Thou, heaven's consunmiate cup, what nced'st thou with eartli's wheel? i8o XXXI But I need, now as then, Thee, God, who moldest men ; And since, not even while the whirl was worst, Did I — to the wheel of life With shapes and colors rife, i8s Bound dizzily, — mistake my end, to slake thy thirst. XXXII So, take and use thy work. Amend what flaws may lurk. What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim ! My times be in thy hand! 190 Perfect the cup as planned 1 Let age approve of youth, and death com- plete the same ! (1864) PROSPICE Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat. The mist in my face. When the snows begin, and the blasts de- note I am nearing the place. The power of the night, the press of the storm, 5 The post of the foe ; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form. Yet the strong man must go : For the journey is done and the summit at- tained, And the barriers fall, 1° Though a battle 's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, The best and the last ! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, '5 And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. -" For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black miimte 's at end, Antl the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend. Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 25 Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again. And with God be the rest ! (1864) HERVE RIEL On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hun- dred ninety-two. Did the English fight the French, — woe to France ! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue. Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue. Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Ranee, 5 With the English fleet in view. 'T was the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; 'o And they signaled to the place 'Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick — or, quicker still. Here 's the English can and will ! ' Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; '5 ' Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?' laughed they: ' Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored. Shall the " Formidable " here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way. Trust to enter where 't is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, 20 HERV£ RIEL 817 And with flow at full beside? Now, 't is slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!' Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate : ' Here 's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that 's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? 30 Better run the ships aground ! ' (Ended Damfreville his speech). ' Not a minute more to wait ! Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the ves- sels on the beach! 35 France must undergo her fate. ' Give the word ! ' But no such word Was ever spoke or heard ; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these — A Captain? A Lieutenant? A ]\Iate — first, second, third? 40 No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete ! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. And ' What mockery or malice have we here?' cried Herve Riel: 45 'Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river disembogues ? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying 's for? 50 Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues ! Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! Sirs, believe me there's a way! 55 52 Only let me lead the line. Have the biggest ship to steer. Get this " Formidable " clear. Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, 60 Right to Solidor past Greve, And there lay them safe and sound ; And if one ship misbehave, — Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life.— here's my head!' cries Ilarve Riel. 6^ Not a minute more to wait. 'Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron ! ' cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place ! He is Admiral, in brief. 70 Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! 75 See, safe through shoal and rock. How they follow in a flock. Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground. Not a spar that comes to grief ! The peril, see, is past, 80 All are harbored to the last. And just as Herve Riel hollas 'Anchor!'— sure as fate, Up the English come — too late! So, the storm subsides to calm : They see the green trees wave 85 On the heights o'erlooking Greve. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. ' Just our rapture to enhance. Let the English rake the bay. Gnash their teeth and glare askance 90 As they cannonade away ! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Ranee! ' How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, ' This is Paradise for Hell ! 95 Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing! What a shout, and all one word, ' Herve Riel ! ' 8i8 ROBERT BROWNING As he stepped in front once- more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. Then said Damfreville, 'My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips : You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. "Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! name's not Damfreville.' Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, "5 As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: ' Since I needs must say my say. Since on board the duty 's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?— '^° Since 't is ask and have, I may — Since the others go ashore — Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore ! ' That he asked and that he got,— nothing Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell: Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack, '30 In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack AH that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris : rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! '35 You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. So, for better and for worse, Herve Riel, accept my verse ! In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore! '4" (1871) THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC Such a starved bank of moss Till, that May-morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born ! Sky — what a scowl of cloud Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud: Splendid, a star ! World — how it walled about Life with disgrace Till God's own smile came out: That was thy face ! EPILOGUE I What a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time — Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or was it rhyme, '6 Greek or Latin? Greek, you said. While your shoulder propped my head. Anyhow there 's no forgetting This much if no more. That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know. Well, he had to sing, not merely Sing but play the lyre ; Playing was important clearly Quite as singing: I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that 's behind. There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, — Judges able, I should mention. To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss : such ears Had old judges, it appears! None the less he sang out boldly. Played in time and tune, THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC 819 Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, 40 Sure to smile ' In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!' When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed? Oh, and afterwards eleven, 45 Thank you ! Well, sir,— who had guessed Such ill luck in store?— it happed One of those same seven strings snapped. vii All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What 'cicada?' Pooh!) so — Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music — flew With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre. So that when (Ah, joy!) our singer For his truant string Feels with disconcerted finger. What does cricket else hut fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat? Ay, and ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need, Executes the hand's intending, Promptly, perfectly, — indeed Saves the singer from defeat With her chirrup low and sweet. Till, at ending, all the judges Cry with one assent, ' Take the prize — a prize who grudges Such a voice and instrument? Why, we took your lyre for harp, So it thrilled us forth F sharp ! ' Did the conqueror spurn the creature. Once its service done? That 's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's son Finds his Lotte's power too spent For aiding soul-development. No ! This other on returning Homeward, prize in hand, 8s Satisfied his bosom's yearning: (Sir, 1 hope you understand!) — Said ' Some record there must be Of this cricket's help to me! ' So, he made himself a statue: Marble stood, life-size; On the lyre, he pointed at you. Perched his partner in the prize; Never more apart you found Her, he throned, from him, she crowned. 90 XIV That's the tale: its application? Somebody I know Hopes one day for reputation Through his poetry that 's — Oh, All so learned and so wise And deserving of a prize! If he gains one, will some ticket, When his statue 's built. Tell the gazer ' 'T was a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt 100 Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? ' For as victory was nighest, While 1 sang and played, — With my lyre at lowest, highest. Right alike,— one string that made " Love " sound soft was snapt in twain, Never to be heard again, — ' Had not a kind cricket fluttered. Perched upon the place Vacant left, and duly uttered " Love, Love, Love," whene'er the bass Asked the treble to atone For its somewhat somber drone.' XVIII But you don't know music! Wherefore ' Keep on casting pearls To a — poet? All I care for Is — to tell him that a girl's ' Love ' comes aptly in when gruflf Grows his singing. (There, enough!) i (1878) 820 "ROBERT BROWNING PHEIDIPPIDES Xaipere, viKuifitv. First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock ! Gods of my birthplace, dsemons and heroes, honor to all ! Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise — Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the aegis and spear ! Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer, s Now, henceforth and for ever, — O latest to whom I upraise Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock ! Present to help, potent to save. Pan — patron I call! Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return ! See, 't is myself here standing alive, no spec- ter that speaks ! ^° Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you, ' Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid! Persia has come, we are here, where is She? ' Your command I obeyed, Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through, Was the space between city and city : two days, two nights did I burn is Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. Into their midst I broke: breath served but for ' Persia has come. Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth ; Razed to the ground is Eretria — but Athens, shall Athens sink. Drop into dust and die — the flower of Hellas utterly die, 2° Die with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the stander-by? Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er destruction's brink? How, — when ? No care for my limbs ! — there 's lightning in all and some — Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth ! ' O my Athens — Sparta love thee ? Did Sparta respond? -5 Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust. Malice, — each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate! Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stood Quivering, — the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry wood: ' Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate? 30 Thunder, thou Zeus ! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond Swing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them " Ye must " ! ' No bolt launched from Qlumpos! Lo, their answer at last ! ' Has Persia come, — does Athens ask aid, — may Sparta befriend? Nowise precipitate judgment — too weighty the issue at stake ! 35 Count we no time lost time which lags through respect to the gods ! Ponder that precept of old, ' No warfare, whatever the odds In your favor, so long as the moon, half- orbed, is unable to take Full-circle her state in the sky!' Already she rounds to it fast : Athens must wait, patient as we — who judgment suspend.' 40 Athens,— except for that sparkle, — thy name, I had moldered to ash ! That sent a blaze through my blood ; off, off and away was I back, — Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile ! Yet ' O gods of my land ! ' I cried, as each hillock and plain. Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rush- ing past them again, 4S 'Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you erewhilc? Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation ! Too rash Love in its choice, paid you so largely serv- ice so slack! ' Oak and olive and bay, — I bid you cease to enwreathe Brows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's foot, 5° You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave! PHEIDIPPIDES 821 Rather I hail thee, Parnes, — trust to thy wild waste tract! Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! What matter if slacked My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave No deity deigns to drape with verdure? — - at least I can breathe, S5 Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute ! ' Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Fames' ridge; Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. Right ! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across: 60 ' Where I could enter, there I depart liy ! Night in the fosse? Athens to aid? Though the dive were through Erebos, thus I obey — Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise ! No bridge Better ! ' — when — ha ! what was it I came on, of wonders that are? There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he — majestical Pan ! 65 Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof : AH the great god was good in the eyes grave-kindly — the curl Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw. ' Halt, Pheidippides ! '— halt I did, my brain of a whirl: 70 ' Hither to me! Why pale in my presence? ' he gracious began : 'How is it, — Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof? ' Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast ! Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of old? Ay, and still, and forever her friend ! Test Pan, trust me! 75 Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith In the temples and tombs ! Go, say to Athens, " The Goat-God saith : When Persia — so much as strews not the soil — is cast in the sea. Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least, Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold ! " 80 ' Say Pan saith : " Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge ! " ' (Gay, the liberal hand held out this her- bage I bear — Fennel, — I grasped it a-tremble with dew — 'Whatever it bode) ' While, as for thee . . ' But enough ! He was gone. If I ran hitherto — Be sure that the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew. 85 Parnes to Athens — earth no more, the air was my road : Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge ! Pan for Athens, Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare ! Then spoke Miltiades. ' And thee, best runner of Greece, Whose limbs did duty indeed, — what gift is promised thyself? 9° Tell it us straightway, — Athens the mother demands of her son ! ' Rosily blushed the youth: he paused; but, lifting at length His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strength Into the utterance — ' Pan spoke thus : " For what thou hast done Count on a worthy reward ! Henceforth be allowed thee release 95 From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf ! " ' I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind ! Fight I shall, with our foremost, where- ever this fennel may grow, — ■ Pound — Pan helping us — Persia to dust, and, under the deep, W' helm her away forever ; and then, — no Athens to save, — 'oo Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave, — Flie to my house and home : and, when my children shall creep Close to my knees, — recount how the God was awful yet kind, 822 ROBERT BROWKING Promised their sire reward to the full — rewarding him — so ! ' Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day: i°5 So, when Persia was dust, all cried ' To Akropolis ! Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due ! "Athens is saved, thank Pan," go shout!' He flung down his shield, Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennelfield And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, no Till in he broke: 'Rejoice, we conquer!' Like wine through clay, Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died — the bliss! So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute Is still 'Rejoice' — his word which brought rejoicing indeed. So is Pheidippides happy forever, — the noble strong man ''5 Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved so well ; He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, So to end gloriously — once to shout, there- after be mute : ' Athens is saved ! ' — Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed. i^o (1879) ASOLAXDO EPILOGUE At the midnight in the silence of the sleep- time. When you set your fancies free, Will they pass to where — by death, fools think, imprisoned — Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so. — — Pity me ? 5 Oh, to love so, be so loved, yet so mis- taken ! What had I on earth to do With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly ? Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel — 'Being — who? 10 One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better. Sleep to wake. 15 No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work- time Greet the unseen with a cheer ! Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, ' Strive and thrive ! ' cry ' Speed, — fight on, fare ever There as here ! ' 20 (1890) MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888) From his father. Dr. Thomas Arnold, afterward headmaster of Rugby, Matthew Arnold may well have inherited the academic tastes that dominated his life. After a schooling at Winchester and Rugby, Arnold won a classical scholarship, in 1841, at Balliol College, Oxford. During his second year at the university, he gained the Newdigate prize by a poem on Cromwell, and in 1845 he was elected to a fellowship at Oriel College. Arnold abandoned Oxford presently, however, iu order to become private secretary to the Marquis of Lausdowne, who procured for him, in 1851, an appointment as inspector of schools, from which he was released only a short time before his death. In 1848 he became known to a small circle of readers by his first volume of poems, The Strayed Reseller and other Poems, and during the next few years his poetical influence greatly' increased, especially through the poems contained in Poems by Matthew Arnold (1853), a volume to which he prefaced a notable critical essay on poetry. In 1857 Arnold was elected to the professorship of poetry at Oxford, which he held for ten years, and which provided him the stimulus for writing certain of his best critical essays. The substantial classic On Translating Homer: Three Lectures given at Oxford (18G1) was followed by Essays in Criticism (18G5), which promptly fascinated and influenced English readers, as did also the published lectures. On the Study of Celtic Literature (1867). From pure literary criticism Arnold passed, for a time, to studies in religion, ethics, and politics, such as Culture and Anarchy (18G9), Friendship's Garland (1871), Literature and Dogma (1873), and Last Essays on Church and Religion (1877). He returned subsequently, however, to literary criticism, occupying himself largely in editing, in making selections from poets, and in writing prefaces. In 1883 Arnold received a civil service pension of £'J50, which enabled him to retire from his duties as inspector of schools. In the winter of 1883-84, he lectured in America, as he did also in 188G. The lectures delivered during his first American tour were published in 1885 as Discourses in America. Arnold's poetry, small in volume, is of almost invariable excellence. Although it makes no strong popular appeal, it has always held a large audience through its grace, gravity, and melody. As a critic. Arnold is preeminent. For a generation or two his canons of poetry, securely expressed in a poised, gentle, and precise style, have dominated English literary criticism. THE STUDY OF POETRY Let me be permitted to quote these ' The future of poetry is immense, be- words of my own, as uttering the thought cause in poetry, where it is worthy of which should, in my opinion, go with us its high destinies, our race, as time goes and govern us in all our study of poetry, on, will find an ever surer and surer 5 I" the present work it is the course of stay. There is not a creed which is not one great contributory stream to the shaken, not an accredited dogma which world-river of poetry that we are invited is not shown to be questionable, not a to follow. We are here invited to trace received tradition which does not the stream of English poetry. But threaten to dissolve. Our religion has 10 whether we set ourselves, as here, to materialized itself in the fact, in the sup- follow only one of the several streams posed fact ; it has attached its emotion that make the mighty river of poetry, to the fact, and now the fact is failing or whether we seek to know them all, it. But for poetry the idea is every- our governing thought should be the thing: the rest is a world of illusion, is same. We should conceive of poetry of divine illusion. Poetry attaches its worthily, and more highlv than it has emotion to the idea; the idea is the fact. been the custom to conceive of it. We The strongest part of our religion to-day should conceive of it as capable of higher is its unconscious poetry.' ^^ses and called to higher destinies, than 823 824 MATTHEW ARNOLD those which in general men have as- sound and unsound or only half-sound, signed to it hitherto. More and more true and untrue or only half-true. It is mankind will discover that we have to charlatanism, conscious or unconscious, turn to poetry to interpret life for us, whenever we confuse or obliterate these, to console us, to sustain us. Without 5 And in poetry, more than anywhere else, poetry, our science will appear incom- it is unpermissible to confuse or obliter- plete; and most of what now passes with ate them. For in poetry the distinction us for religion and philosophy will be between excellent and inferior, sound and replaced by poetry. Science, I say, will unsound or only half-sound, true and un- appear incomplete without it. For finely lo true or only half-true, is of paramount and truly does Wordsworth call poetry importance. It is of paramount impor- * the impassioned expression which is in tance because of the high destinies of the countenance of all science;' and what poetry. In poetry, as a criticism of life is a countenance without its expression ? under the conditions fixed for such a Again, Wordsworth finely and truly calls 15 criticism by the laws of poetic truth and poetry ' the breath and finer spirit of all poetic beauty, the spirit of our race will knowledge : ' our religion, parading evi- find, we have said, as time goes on and dences such as those on which the popu- as other helps fail, its consolation and lar mind relies now; our philosophy, stay. But the consolation and stay will pluming itself on its reasonings al)out 20 be of power in proportion to the power of causation and finite and infinite being; the criticism of life. And the criticism of what are they but the shadows and life will be of power in proportion as the dreams and false shows of knowledge? poetry conveying it is excellent rather The day will come when we shall won- than inferior, sound rather than unsound der at ourselves for having trusted to 25 or half-sound, true rather than untrue or them, for having taken them seriously; half-true. and the more we perceive their hollow- The best poetry is what we want; the ness, the more we shall prize ' the breath best poetry will be found to have a power and finer spirit of knowledge ' offered to of forming, sustaining, and delighting us, us by poetry. 30 as nothing else can. A clearer, deeper But if we conceive thus highly of the sense of the best in poetry, and of the destinies of poetry, we must also set our strength and joy to be drawn from it, standard for poetry high, since poetry, is the most precious benefit which we to be capable of fulfilling such high can gather from a poetical collection such destinies, must be poetry of a high order 35 as the present. And yet in the very of excellence. We must accustom our- nature and conduct of such a collection selves to a high standard and to a strict there is inevitably something which tends judgment. Sainte-Beuve relates that Na- to obscure in us the consciousness of what poleon one day said, when somebody our benefit should be, and to distract was spoken of in his presence as a 40 us from the pursuit of it. We should charlatan : ' Charlatan as much as you therefore steadily set it before our minds please; but where is there not charlatan- at the outset, and should compel our- ism?' 'Yes,' answers Sainte-Beuve, 'in selves to revert constantly to the thought politics, in the art of governing mankind, of it as we proceed. that is perhaps true. But in the order of 45 Yes; constantly, in reading poetry, a thought, in art, the glory, the eternal sense for the best, the really excellent, honor is that charlatanism shall find no and of the strength and joy to be drawn entrance ; herein lies the inviolableness from it, should be present in our minds of that noble portion of man's being.' and should govern our estimate of what It is admirably said, and let us hold fast 50 we read. But this real estimate, the only to it. In poetry, which is thought and true one, is liable to be superseded, if we art in one, it is the glory, the eternal are not watchful, by two other kinds of honor, that charlatanism shall find no en- estimate, the historic estimate and the trance; that this noble sphere be kept in- personal estimate, both of which are fal- violate and inviolable. Charlatanism is 55 lacious. A poet or a poem may count for confusing or obliterating the distinc- to us historically, they may count to us tions between excellent and inferior, on grounds personal to ourselves, and THE STUDY OF POETRY 825 they may count to us really. They may goes too far when he says that ' the cloud count to us historically. The course of of glory playing round a classic is a mist development of a nation's language, as dangerous to the future of a literature thought, and poetry, is profoundly inter- as it is intolerable for the purposes of esting; and by regarding a poet's work 5 history.' 'It hinders,' he goes on, 'it as a stage in this course of development hinders us from seeing more than one we may easily bring ourselves to make single point, the culminating and excep- it of more importance as poetry than in tional point; the summary, fictitious and itself it really is, we may come to use a arbitrary, of a thought and of a work. language of quite exaggerated praise in 10 It substitutes a halo for a physiognomy, criticizing it; in short, to overrate it. it puts a statue where there was once a So arises in our poetic judgments the man, and hiding from us all trace of the fallacy caused by the estimate which we labor, the attempts, the weaknesses, the may call historic. Then, again, a poet or failures, it claims not study but vcnera- a poem may count to us on grounds 15 tion ; it does not show us how the thing is personal to ourselves. Our personal af- done, it imposes upon us a model. Above finities, likings, and circumstances, have all, for the historian this creation of great power to sway our estimate of this classic personages is inadmissible; for it or that poet's work, and to make us attach withdraws the poet from his time, from more importance to it as poetry than in 2° his proper life, it breaks historical re- itself it really possesses, because to us it lationships, it blinds criticism by con- is, or has been, of high importance. ventional admiration, and renders the Here also we overrate the object of our investigation of literary origins unac- interest, and apply to it a language of ceptable. It gives us a human personage praise which is quite exaggerated. And 25 no longer, but a God seated immovable thus we get the source of a second fallacy amidst his perfect work, like Jupiter on in our poetic judgments,— the fallacy Olympus; and hardly will it be possible caused by an estimate which we may call for the young student, to whom such personal. work is exhibited at such a distance from Both fallacies are natural. It is evi- 30 him, to believe that it did not issue ready dent how naturally the study of the made from that divine head.' history and development of a poetry may All this is brilliantly and tellingly said, incline a man to pause over reputations but we must plead for a distinction. and works once conspicuous but now ob- Everything depends on the reality of a scure, and to quarrel with a careless 35 poet's classic character. If he is a dubi- public for skipping, in obedience to mere ous classic, let us sift him; if he is a tradition and habit, from one famous false classic, let us explode him. But if name or work in its national poetry to he is a real classic, if his work belongs another, ignorant of what it misses, and to the class of the very best ( for this "is of the reason for keeping what it keeps, 40 the true and right meaning of the word and of the whole process of growth in classic, classical), then the great thing its poetry. The French have become for us is to feel and enjoy his work as diligent students of their own early deeply as ever we can, and to appreciate poetry, which they long neglected; the the wide difference between it and all study makes many of them dissatisfied 45 work which has not the same high char- with this so-called classical poetry, the acter. This is what is salutary, this is court-tragedy of the seventeenth century, what is formative; this is the great a poetry which Pellisson long ago re- benefit to be got from the study of poetry, proached with its want of the true poetic Everything which interferes with it, stamp, with its politcsse sterile et ram- 50 which hinders it, is injurious. True, we pante [sterile and servile politeness], must read our classic with open eyes, and but which nevertheless has reigned in not with eyes blinded with superstition ; France as absolutely as if it had been we must perceive when his work comes the perfection of classical poetry indeed. short, when it drops out of the class of The dissatisfaction is natural ; yet a lively 55 the very best, and we must rate it, in and accomplished critic, M. Charles such cases, at its proper value. But the d'Hericault, the editor of Clement Marot, use of this negative criticism is not in 826 MATTHEW ARNOLD itself, it is entirely in its enabling us to benefit, the benefit of clearly feeling and have a clearer sense and a deeper en- of deeply enjoying the really excellent, joyment of what is truly excellent. To the truly classic in poetry, that we do trace the labor, the attempts, the weak- well, I say, to set it fixedly before our nesses, the failures of a genuine classic, 5 minds as our object in studying poets to acquaint oneself with his time and his and poetry, and to make the desire of life and his historical relationships, is attaining it the one principle to which, mere literary dilettantism unless it has as the Imitation says, whatever we may that clear sense and deeper enjoyment for read or come to know, we always return, its end. It may be said that the more lo Cum mitlta legcris et cognovcris, ad we know about a classic the better we timim semper oportet rcdire principium shall enjoy him; and, if we lived as long [When you have read and known many as Methuselah and had all of us heads things, you ought always to revert to the of perfect clearness and wills of perfect one beginning]. steadfastness, this might be true in fact 15 The historic estimate is likely in es- as it is plausible in theory. But the case pecial to affect our judgment and our here is much the same as the case with language when we are dealing with an- the Greek and Latin studies of our cient poets; the personal estimate when schoolboys. The elaborate philological we are dealing with poets our contempo- groundwork which we require them to 20 raries, or at any rate modern. The ex- lay is in theory an admirable prepara- aggerations due to the historic estimate tion for appreciating the Greek and Latin are not in themselves, perhaps, of very authors worthily. The more thoroughly much gravity. Their report hardly en- we lay the groundwork, the better we ters the general ear; probably they do shall be able, it may be said, to enjoy ^5 not always impose even on the literary the authors. True, if time were not so men who adopt them. But they lead to short, and schoolboys' wits not so soon a dangerous abuse of language. So we tired and their power of attention ex- hear Caedmon, amongst our own poets, hausted; only, as it is, the elaborate compared to Milton. I have already philological preparation goes on, but the 30 noticed the enthusiasm of one accom- authors are little known and less enjoyed, plished French critic for ' historic ori- So with the investigator of ' historic gins.' Another eminent French critic, origins ' in poetry. He ought to enjoy M. Vitet, comments upon that famous the true classic all the better for his document of the early poetry of his na- investigations ; he often is distracted from 35 tion, the Chanson de Roland. It is in- the enjoyment of the best, and with the deed a most interesting document. The less good he overbusies himself, and is joculator or jongleur Taillefer, who was prone to overrate it in proportion to the with William the Conqueror's army at trouble which it has cost him. Hastings, marched before the Norman The idea of tracing historic origins 40 troops, so said the tradition, singing 'of and historical relationships cannot be ab- Charlemagne and of Roland and of sent from a compilation like the present. Oliver, and of the vassals who died at And naturally the poets to be exhibited Roncevaux ' ; and it is suggested that in in it will be assigned to those persons the Chanson de Roland by one Turoldus for exhibition who are known to prize 45 or Theroulde, a poem preserved in a them highly, rather than to those who manuscript of the twelfth century in the have no special inclination towards them. Bodleian Library at Oxford, we have Moreover the very occupation with an certainly the matter, perhaps even some author, and the business of exhibiting of the words of the chaunt which Tail- him, disposes us to affirm and amplify 50 lefer sang. The poem has vigor and his importance. In the present work, freshness; it is not without pathos. But therefore, we are sure of frequent tempta- M. Vitet is not satisfied with seeing in tion to adopt the historic estimate, or the it a document of some poetic value, and personal estimate, and to forget the real of very high historic and linguistic value: estimate; which latter, nevertheless, we 55 he sees in it a grand and beautiful work. must employ if we are to make poetry a monument of epic genius. In its gen- yield us its full benefit. So high is that eral design he finds the grandiose concep- THE STUDY OF POETRY 827 tion, in its details he finds the constant union of simplicity with greatness, which are the marks, he truly says, of the genuine epic, and distinguish it from the artificial epic of literary ages. One 5 thinks of Homer; this is the sort of praise which is given to Homer, and justly given. Higher praise there cannot well be, and it is the praise due to epic poetry of the highest order only, and to no other. 1° Let us try, then, the Chanson de Roland at its best. Roland, mortally wounded, lays himself down under a pine tree, with his face turned toward Spain and the enemy : i5 De plusurs choses a remembrer li prist De tantes teres cume li bcrs cunquist, De dulce France, dcs humes de sun lign, De Carlemagne sun seignor ki Tnurrit.^ 20 may be very dissimilar. But if we have any tact we shall find them, wiien we have lodged them well in our minds, an in- fallible touchstone for detecting the pres- ence or absence of high poetic quality, and also the degree of this quality, in all other poetry which we may place beside them. Short passages, even single lines, will serve our turn quite sufficiently. Take the two lines which I have just quoted from Homer, the poet's comment on Helen's mention of her brothers; or take his 'A SetAw Ti o-^oJt hofiev ITr/A^t avaKTi Oi'YjTM ; (i/xets 8' icTTOv ayripio t' dOavdrw re. ■I] Lva hv(TT7)V0LCJi fxer' di'Spdatv a'Aye' exrjTov ; '' the address of Zeus to the horses of Peleus; or, take finallv, his Kat ae, yepov, to irplv fikv aKovo/xep oX/Slov That is primitive work, I repeat, with dyai '^ an undeniable poetic quality of its own. It deserves such praise and such praise ^5 the words of Achilles to Ft' is sufficient Homer: for But now turn to "lis iXr] iv TrarpiSi yair).- ^° We are here in another world, another order of poetry altogether; here is rightly due such supreme praise as that which M. Vitet gives to the Chanson de Roland. 35 If our words are to have any meaning, if our judgments are to have any solidity, we must not heap that supreme praise upon poetry of an order immeasurably inferior. ^° Indeed there can be no more useful help for discovering what poetry belongs to the class of the truly excellent, and can therefore do us most good, than to have always in one's mind lines and ex- 4S pressions of the great masters, and to apply them as a touchstone to other poetry. Of course we are not to require this other poetry to resemble them : it ' ' Then began lie to call many things to re- membrance, — all the lands which his valor con- quered, and pleasant I'rance, and the men of his lineage, and Charlemagne his liege lord who nour- ished him.' — Chanson de Roland, iii. 939-942. ^ ' So said she; they long since in Earth's soft arms were reposing, ^5 There, in their own dear land, their father- land, Laceda'nion.' Iliad, iii. 243-4 (.translated by Dr. Hawtrey). lam, a sup- pliant before him. Take that incompar- able line and a half of Dante, Ugolino's tremendous words : lo no piangeva ; si dentro impietrai. Piangevan elli . . take the lovely words of Beatrice to Virgil; lo son fatta da Die, sua merce, tale, Che la vostra niiseria non mi tange, Ne fiamma d'esto incendio non m'assale . . . '^ take the simple, but perfect, single line: In la sua volontade e nostra pace.'^ Take of Shakespeare a line or two of Henry the Fourth's expostulation with sleep : Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast ' Ah, unhappy pair, why gave we you to K^ns Peleus, to a mortal? but ye are without old age. and immortal. Was it that with men born to mis- ery ye mi.uht have sorrow?' — Iliad, xvii. 443-445. ^ ' Nay, and thou too, old man, in former days wast, as we hear, happy.' — Iliad, xxiv. 543. "'I wailed not. so of stone grew I within; — they wailed.' — Inferno, xxxiii. 39, 40. * ' Of such sort hath God. thanked be his mercy, made me, that your misery toucheth me not, neither doth the flame of this fire strike me.' — Inferno, ii. 9' 93- In His will is our peace. Paradtso, iii 828 MATTHEW ARNOLD Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his being perused in the prose of the critic, brains Nevertheless if we are urgently pressed In cradle of the riulc imperious to give some critical account of them, surge ... we may safely, perhaps, venture on lay- . . . 5 ing down, not indeed how and why the and take, as well, Hamlet's dying request characters arise, but where and in what to Horatio: they arise. They are in the matter and -. , ... , ,, • M , . substance of the poetry, and they are in If thou dulst ever hold me m thy heart, .^^ ^^^,^^^^^^^ ^^^^ ^/ j^_ ^p^^^^,^ ^^ ^^ ^,^^ Absent thee from fehcUy awhile, .0 substance and matter on the one hand, And m this harsh world draw thy breath ^^^^ ^^^j^ ^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^,^^ ^^^^^^^ ,^^^^ '" ^^'" a mark, an accent, of high beauty, worth, To tell my story and power. But if we are asked to de- Take of Milton that Miltonic passage: j-^^^ ^^^.^ ^^'^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^^^ .^ ^,^^ ^,^^^^^^^_ Darkened so, yet shone '^ our answer must be : No, for we should Above them all the archai'iRe] ; but his face thereby be darkening the question, not Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and clearing it. The mark and accent are as care given by the substance and matter of that Sat on his faded cheek . . . poetry, by the style and manner of that 20 poetry, and of all other poetry which is add two such lines as : akin to it in quality. . Only one thing we may add as to the And courage never to submit or yield substance and matter of poetry, guiding And what IS else not to be over- ourselves by Aristotle's profound obser- '^°'"^ • • • 25 vation that the superiority of poetry over , ^ . , . , , . . , , history consists in its possessing a higher and finish with the exquisite close to the ^^^^^^ ^^^ ^ higher seriousness {^t\oaocl>o.- loss of Proserpine, the loss ^^^^^ ^^v a^ovSat6repov) [more philosophic . . . which cost Ceres all that pain and more serious]. Let us add, there- To seek her through the world. 3o fore, to what we have said, this : that the substance and matter of the best poetry These few lines, if we have tact and can acquire their special character from use them, are enough even of themselves possessing, in an eminent degree, truth to keep clear and sound our judgments and seriousness. We may add yet fur- about poetry, to save us from fallacious 35 ther, what is in itself evident, that to the estimates of it, to conduct us to a real style and manner of the best poetry their estimate. special character, their accent, is given The specimens I have quoted differ by their diction, and, even yet more, by widely from one another, but they have their movement. And though we distin- in common this: the possession of the 40 guish between the two characters, the two very highest poetical quality. H we are accents, of superiority, yet they are thoroughly penetrated by their power, we nevertheless vitally connected one with shall find that we have acquired a sense the other. The superior character of enabling us, whatever poetry may be laid truth and seriousness, in the matter and before us, to feel the degree in which a 45 substance of the best poetry, is insepa- high poetical quality is present or want- rable from the superiority of diction and ing there. Critics give themselves great movement marking its style and manner, labor to draw out what in the abstract The two superiorities are closely related, constitutes the characters of a high and are in steadfast proportion one to the quality of poetry. It is much better 50 other. So far as high poetic truth and simply to have recourse to concrete ex- seriousness are wanting to a poet's matter amples : — to take specimens of poetry and substance, so far also we may be of the high, the very highest quality, and sure, will a high poetic stamp of diction to say: The characters of a high quality and movement be wanting to his style of poetry are what is expressed there. iS ^nd manner. In proportion as this high They are far better recognized by being stamp of diction and movement, again, felt in the verse of the master, than by is absent from a poet's style and manner, THE STUDY OF POETRY we shall find, also, that high poetic truth mance-setting which was common to them and seriousness are absent from his sub- all, and which gained the ear of Europe, stance and matter. was French. This con: tituted for the So stated, these are but dry generali- French poetry, literature, and language, at ties; their whole force lies in their ap- 5 the height of the Middle Age, an un- plication. And I could wish every student challenged predominance. The Italian of poetry to make the application of them Brunetto Latini, the master of Dante, for himself. Made by himself, the appli- wrote his Treasure in French because, he cation would impress itself upon his mind says, 'la parlcnre en est plus dclitable et far more deeply than made by mt.io plus commune a toutcs gens.' In the Neither will my limits allow me to make same century, the thirteenth, the French any full application of the generalities romance-writer, Christian of Troyes, for- above propounded; but in the hope of mulates the claims, in chivalry and letters, bringing out, at any rate, some signifi- of France, his native country, as follows: cance in them, and of establishing an 15 important principle more firmly by their Or vous ert par ce livre apris, means, I will, in the space which remains Que Grcsse ot de chevalerie to me, follow rapidly from the com- Le premier los ct de clergie; mencement the course of our English Puis vint chevalerie a Rome, poetry with them in my view. 20 Et de la clergie la some, Once more I return to the early poetry Qui ore est en France venue, of France, with which our own poetry, in Diex domst qu'ele 1 soit retenue, its origins, is indissolubly connected. In Et que li bus li abehsse the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, that Tcint que de France n^isse seed-time of all modern language and 25 L'onor qui s 1 est arestee ! literature, the poetry of France had a clear predominance in Europe. Of the * Now by this book you will learn that two divisions of that poetry, its produc- first Greece had the renown for chivalry tions in the langue d' oil and its produc- and letters ; then chivalry and the primacy tions in the langue d' oc, the poetry of 30 in letters passed to Rome, and now it is the langue d' oc, of southern France, of come to France. God grant it may be the troubadours, is of importance because kept there; and that the place may please of its effect on Italian literature ; — the it so well, that the honor which has come first literature of modern Europe to strike to make stay in France may never depart the true and grand note, and to bring 35 thence ! ' forth, as in Dante and Petrarch it brought Yet it is now all gone, this French forth, classics. But the predominance of romance-poetry, of which the weight of French poetry in Europe, during the substance and the power of style are not twelfth and thirteenth centuries, is due unfairly represented by this extract from to its poetry of the langue d' oil, the 40 Christian of Troyes. Only by means of poetry of northern France and of the the historic estimate can we persuade our- tongue which is now the French Ian- selves now to think that any of it is of guage. In the twelfth century the bloom poetical importance. of this romance-poetry was earlier and But in the fourteenth century there stronger in England, at the court of our 45 comes an Englishman nourished on this Anglo-Norman kings, than in France it- poetry, taught his trade by this poetry, self. But it was a bloom of French getting words, rime, meter from this poetry; and as our native poetry formed poetry; for even of that stanza which the itself, it formed itself out of this. The Italians used, and which Chaucer derived romance-poems which took possession of 50 immediately from the Italians, the basis the heart and imagination of Europe in and suggestion was probably given in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries are France. Chaucer (I have already named French; 'they are,' as Southey justly him) fascinated his contemporaries, but says, ' the pride of French literature, nor so too did Christian of Troyes and Wol- have we anything which can be placed 55 fram of Eschenbach. Chaucer's power of 'in competition with them.' Themes were fascination, however, is enduring; his supplied from all quarters; but the ro- poetical importance does not need the 830 MATTHEW ARNOLD assistance of the historic estimate, it is his diction, the lovely charm of his move- real. He is a genuine source of joy and ment, he makes an epoch and founds a strength which is flowing still for us and tradition. In Spenser, Shakspere, Mil- will flow always. He will be read, as ton, Keats, we can follow the tradition time goes on, far more generally than s of the liquid diction, the fluid movement, he is read now. His language is a cause of Chaucer; at one time it is his liquid of difficulty for us; but so also, and I diction of which in these poets we feel think in quite as great a degree, is the the virtue, and at another time it is his language of Burns. In Chaucer's case, fluid movement. And the virtue is ir- as in that of Burns, it is difficulty to be 10 resistible, unhesitatingly accepted and overcome. Bounded as is my space, I must yet If we ask ourselves wherein consists find room for an example of Chaucer's the immense superiority of Chaucer's virtue, as I have given examples to show poetry over the romance-poetry, why it is the virtue of the great classics. I feel that in passing from this to Chaucer we is disposed to say that a single line is suddenly feel ourselves to be in another enough to show the charm of Chaucer's world, we shall find that his superiority verse; that merely one line like this: is both in the substance of his poetry and in the style of his poetry. His superiority O martyr souded 1 in virginitee! in substance is given by his large, free, 20 simple, clear yet kindly view of human has a virtue of manner and movement life, — so unlike the total want, in the such as we shall not find in all the verse romance-poets, of all intelligent command of romance-poetry; — but this is saying of it. Chaucer has not their helpless- nothing. The virtue is such as we shall ness ; he has gained the power to survey 2^ not find, perhaps, in all English poetry, the world from a central, a truly human outside the poets whom I have named as point of view. We have only to call to the special inheritors of Chaucer's tradi- niind the Prologue to The Canterbury tion. A single line, however, is too little Talcs. The right comment upon it is if we have not the strain of Chaucer's Dryden's : ' It is sufficient to say, accord- 3° verse well in our memory ; let us take a ing to the proverb, that here is God's stanza. It is from The Prioress's Talc, plenty.' And again: ' He is a perpetual the story of the Christian child murdered fountain of good sense.' It is by a large, in a Jewry : — free, sound representation of things, that poetry, this high criticism of life, has 3S My throte is cut unto my nekke-bone, truth of substance ; and Chaucer's poetry Saide this chdd, and as by way of kinde has truth of substance. I ^^1°"'^ have deyd, yea, longe time agone ; Of this style and manner, if we think F"."^ J"" ^^}'''^: ^^ f '" bookesfinde. first of the romance-poetry and then of ^^ "'' J^^^ ^is glory last and be in minde Chaucer's divine liquidness of diction, his ^o And for he worship of his mother dere divine fluidity of movement, it is difficult ^et may I sing O Alma loud and clere. to speak temperately. They are irresist- ,,. j .1 , j ■ j .u- t- 1 ible, and justify all the rapture with Wordsworth has modernized this Tale, which his successors speak of his ' gold ?"d to feel how delicate and evanescent dew-drops of speech.' Johnson misses ^s is the charm of verse, we have on y to the point entirely when he finds fault with '^^^ Wordsworth s first three lines of this Dryden for ascribing to Chaucer the first ^^anza after Chaucer s:- refinement of our numbers, and says that ,, ,, . ■ . ^ ^u u t . Cower also can show smooth numbers My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow, and easy rimes. The refinement of our 5o Sa.d^ Uijs young child, and by the law of numbers means something far more than t u u u a- a u ^, . A ^- \ -n -.1 1 should have died, yea, many hours ago, this. A nation may have versifiers with smooth numbers and easy rimes, and vet ^, , . , . j t* • f* .-, , , ^ 4. 11 /-I The charm is departed. It is often may have no real poetry at all. Chaucer • 1 ^i, <. .1 r r -j ^ „.-,^i • 4.U s: ,.u £ 1 j-j -c 1- 1, cc said that the power of liquidness and is the father of our splendid English ^^n r,-, ■ r-i • j ^ f . , • , 11 r rr r 1 fluidity m Chancers verse was dependent poetry; he is our well of English un- - ^ defiled,' because by the lovely charm of "The French sonde; soldered, fixed fast. THE STUDY OF POETRY 831 upon a free, a licentious dealing with largeness, freedom, shrewdness, benig- language, such as is now impossiI)le; upon nity; but it has not this high seriousness. a liberty, such as Burns too enjoyed, of Homer's criticism of life has it, Dante's making words like neck, bird, into a dis- has it, Shakspere's has it. It is this syllable by adding to them, and words 5 chiefly which gives to our spirits what like cause, rime, into a dissyllable by they can rest upon ; and with the increas- sounding the e mute. It is true that ing demands of our modern ages upon Chaucer's fluidity is conjoined with this poetry, this virtue of giving us what we liberty, and is admirably served by it; can rest upon will be more and more but we ought not to say that it was de- 10 highly esteemed. A voice from the slums pendent upon it. It was dependent upon of Paris, fifty or sixty years after his talent. Other poets with a like liberty Chaucer, the voice of poor Villon out of do not attain to the fluidity of Chaucer; his life of riot and crime, has at its happy Burns himself does not attain to it. moments (as, for instance, in the last Poets again, who have a talent akin to 15 stanza of La Belle Heaulmiere^) more Chaucer's, such as Shakspere or Keats, of this important poetic virtue of serious- have known how to attain to his fluidity ness than all the productions of Chaucer, without the like liberty. But its apparition in Villon, and in men And yet Chaucer is not one of the great like Villon, is fitful; the greatness of the classics. His poetry transcends and ef- 20 great poets, the power of their criticism faces, easily and without effort, all the of life, is that their virtue is sustained, romance-poetry of Catholic Christendom; To our praise, therefore, of Chaucer it transcends and effaces all the English as a poet there must be this limitation; poetry contemporary with it, it tran- he lacks the high seriousness of the great scends and effaces all the English 25 classics, and therewith an important part poetry subsequent to it down to the age of their virtue. Still, the main fact for of Elizabeth. Of such avail is poetic us to bear in mind about Chaucer is his truth of substance, in its natural and sterling value according to that real es- necessary union with poetic truth of style, timate which we firmly adopt for all And yet, I say, Chaucer is not one of the 30 poets. He has poetic truth of substance, great classics. He has not their accent, though he has not high poetic seriousness, What is wanting to him is suggested by and corresponding to his truth of sub- the mere mention of the name of the stance he has an exquisite virtue of style first great classic of Christendom, the im- and manner. With him is born our real mortal poet who died eighty years before 35 poetry. Chaucer,— Dante. The accent of such But "for my present purpose I need not verse as dwell on our Elizabethan poetry, or on In la sua. volontadee nostra pace . . . the continuation and close of this poetry in Milton. We all of us profess to be is altogether beyond Chaucer's reach ; we 40 praise him, but we feel that this accent is ^ T^e name Heaulmiere is said to be derived from out of the question for him. It may be L''vmA'"Vii"rl ''°''" "i," "'l'' '^>' 5°"^'"f ^- . , , . ^ ., / , In \ illon s ballad, a poor old creature of tbis class said that it was necessarily out of the laments her days of youth and beauty. The last reach of any poet in the England of that stanza of the ballad runs thus: — stage of growth. Possibly ; but we are 45 to adopt a real, not a historic, estimate ^'"^' '« ^°'' '^""p^ regretons of poetry. However we may account for ^stes^ba':: rc;oTpe:ons,'" ^°""' Its absence, something is wanting, then, Tout en ung tas comme pelottes; to the poetry of Chaucer, which poetry A petit feu de chenevottes must have before it can be placed in the 50 ^°^^ ailum6es, tost estainctes. glorious class of the best. And there is « "t ^"^"i t,"T°;;"™.l„,„. no doubt what that something is. It is the aTTOLiSaidrr^s, the high and excellent 'Thus amongst ourselves we regret the good time, seriousness, which Aristotle assigns as one poor silly old things, low-seated on our heels, all in of the grand virtues of poetry. The sub- 5^ ^ 'l*'^'' '"''•' '° '"^">' ''3"^= ^y =» "'"^ ^^^ of '"^™i'- stance of Chaucer's poetry, his view of :2'di~„",:f SoS'-" r^i',,, ^:Z^:^l things and his criticism of life, has one.' 8^2 MATTHEW ARNOLD agreed in the estimate of this poetry; we a man, on all sides, of such energetic all of us recognize it as great poetry, and genial power? And yet, if we are our greatest, and Shakspere and Milton to gain the full benefit from poetry, we as our poetical classics. The real esti- must have the real estimate of it. I cast mate, here, has universal currency. With 5 about for some mode of arriving, in tlie the next age of our poetry divergency jircsent case, at such an estimate witlioul and difficulty begin. An historic estimate offence. And perhaps the best way is to of that poetry has established itself; and begin, as it is easy to begin, with cordial the question is, whether it will l^e found praise. to coincide with the real estimate. lo When we find Chapman, the Eliza- The age of Dryden, together with our bethan translator of Homer, expressing whole eighteenth century which followed himself in his preface thus: "Though it, sincerely believed itself to have pro- truth in her very nakedness sit in so deep duced poetical classics of its own, and a pit, that from Gades to Aurora and even to have made advance, in poetry, 15 Ganges few eyes can sound her, I hope beyond all its predecessors. Dryden re- yet those few here will so discover and gards as not seriously disputable the confirm, that, the date being out of her opinion ' that the sweetness of English darkness in this morning of our poet, he verse was never understood or practised shall now gird his temples with the sun,' by our fathers.' Cowley could see noth- 20 — we pronounce that such a prose is in- ing at all in Chaucer's poetry. Dryden tolerable. When we find Milton writing: heartily admired it, and, as we have seen, ' And long it was not after, when I was praised its matter admirably; but of its confirmed in this opinion, that he, who exquisite manner and movement all he would not be frustrate of his hope to can find to say is that ' there is the rude 25 write well hereafter in laudable things, sweetness of a Scotch tune in it, which ought himself to be a true poem,' — we is natural and pleasing, though not pronounce that such a prose has its own perfect.' Addison, wishing to praise grandeur, but that it is obsolete and in- Chaucer's numbers, compares them with convenient. But when we find Dryden Dryden's own. And all through the 30 telling us: 'What Virgil wrote in the eighteenth century, and down even into vigor of his age, in plenty and at ease, our own times, the stereotyped phrase of I have undertaken to translate in my de- approbation for good verse found in our clining years, struggling with wants, op- early poetry has been, that it even ap- pressed with sickness, curbed in my proached the verse of Dryden, Addison, 35 genius, liable to be misconstrued in all I Pope, and Johnson. write,' — then we exclaim that here at Are Dryden and Pope poetical classics? last we have the true English prose, a Is the historic estimate, which represents prose such as we would all gladly use them as such, and which has been so if we only knew how. Yet Dryden was long established that it cannot easily give 40 Milton's contemporary, way, the real estimate? Wordsworth and But after the Restoration the time had Coleridge, as is well known, denied it ; come when our nation felt the imperious but the authority of Wordsworth and need of a fit prose. So, too, the time had Coleridge does not weigh much with the likewise come when our nation felt the young generation, and there are many 45 miperious need of freeing itself from the signs to show that the eighteenth century absorbing preoccupation which religion and its judgments are coming into favor in the Puritan age had exercised. It was again. Are the favorite poets of the impossible that this freedom should be eighteenth century classics? brought about without some negative ex- It is impossible within my present limits 50 cess, without some neglect and impair- to discuss the question fully. And what ment of the religious life of the soul; and man of letters would not shrink from the spiritual history of the eighteenth seeming to dispose dictatorially of the century shows us that the freedom was claims of two men who are, at any rate, not achieved without them. Still, the such masters in letters as Dryden and 55 freedom was achieved ; the preoccupation. Pope; two men of such admirable taleiil, an undoubtedly baneful and retarding one both of them, and one of them, Dryden, if it had continued, was got rid of. And THE STUDY OF POETRY 833 as with religion amongst us at that either the matter or the inseparable man- period, so it was also with letters. A ner of such an adequate poetic criticism; fit prose was a necessity ; but it was im- whether it has the accent of possible that a fit prose should establish itself amongst us without some touch of 5 Absent thee from felicity awhile . . . frost to the imaginative life of the soul. The needful qualities for a fit prose are r regularity, uniformity, precision, balance. The men of letters, whose destiny it may a j u • 7 be to bring their nation to the attainment 10 And what is else not to be overcome . . . of a fit prose, must of necessity, whether they work in prose or in verse, give a or of predominating, an almost exclusive at- tention to the qualities of regularity, uni- O martyr souded in virginitee ! formity, precision, balance. But an al- 15 most exclusive attention to these qualities j answer : It has not and cannot have mvolves some repression and silencing of them; it is the poetry of the builders of P'^^ljy- , T^ , , ^" ^S^ of prose and reason. Though they We are to regard Dryden as the ^^ay write in verse, though they may in puissant and glorious founder, Pope as 20 ^ ^^^^^-^^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^^^.^ ^f ^^^ ^^^ ^^ the splendid high-priest, of our age ot versification, Dryden and Pope are not prose and reason of our excellent and classics of our poetry, they are classics indispensable eighteenth century, hor Qf q^. prose the purposes of their mission and destiny Qray is our poetical classic of that their poetry, like their prose, is admirable. 25 literature and age; the position of Gray Do you ask me whether Dryden s verse, jg singular, and demands a word of take It almost where you will, is not notice here. He has not the volume or ^°°'^ • the power of poets who, coming in times A -11 t--. TT- J ■ .1 J ^oi'e favorable, have attained to an in- A milk-white Hind, immortal and un- 3^ dependent criticism of Hfe. But he lived 17 A ^ "p°; A ■ .u ( . A with the great poets, he lived, above all, Fed on the lawns and in the forest ranged. ^^j^,^ ^^^- ^^^^^^^ '^^^^^^j^ perpetuali; I answer: Admirable for the purposes studying and enjoying them ; and he of the inaugurator of an age of prose ^^"f^^ their poetic point of view for re- and reason. Do you ask me whether ^^ Sfding life, caught their poetic manner. Pope's verse, take it almost where you ^^f P°'"t of view and the manner are will, is not good? "f self-sprung in him, he caught them ot others; and he had not the free and To Hounslow Heath I point, and Banstead ^^"1'-'^''"^ ",'^t. °^ *^^'"- , ^^\ whereas £)Q^yn • ^° Addison and Pope never had the use of Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks ^hem. Gray had the use of them at times. my own. ^^ '^ the scantiest and frailest of classics in our poetry, but he is a classic. I answer: Admirable for the purposes And now, after Gray, we are met, as of the high-priest of an age of prose and 45 we draw towards the end of the eight- reason. But do you ask me whether such eenth century, we are met by the great verse proceeds from men with an ade- name of Burns. We enter now on times quate poetic criticism of life, from men where the personal estimate of poets be- whose criticism of life has a high serious- gins to be rife, and where the real es- ness, or even, without that high serious- 50 timate of them is not reached without ness, has poetic largeness, freedom, difificulty. But in spite of the disturbing insight, benignity? Do you ask me pressures of personal partiality, of na- whether the application of ideas to life tional partiality, let us try to reach a real in the verse of these men, often a power- estimate of the poetry of Burns. ful application, no doubt, is a powerful- By his English poetry Burns in gen- poefic application ? Do you ask me eral belongs to the eighteenth centurv, whether the poetry of these men has and has little importance for us. 53 834 MATTHEW ARNOLD Mark rutiliaii Violence, distained with crimes, Rousing elate in these degenerate times; View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, As guileful Fraud points out the erring way; 5 While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong ! Evidently this is not the real Burns, or lo his name and fame would have disap- peared long ago. Nor is Clarinda's love- poet, Sylvander, the real Burns either. But he tells us himself: 'These English songs gravel me to death. I have not the 15 command of the language that I have of my native tongue. In fact, I think that my ideas are more barren in English than in Scotch. I have been at Duncan Gray to dress it in English, but all I can do is 20 desperately stupid.' We English turn naturally, in Burns, to the poems in our own language, because we can read them easily; but in those poems we have not the real Burns. ^^ The real Burns is of course in his Scotch poems. Let us boldly say that of much of this poetry, a poetry dealing perpetually with Scotch drink, Scotch religion, and Scotch manners, a Scotch- 3; man's estimate is apt to be personal. A Scotchman is used to this world of Scotch drink, Scotch religion, and Scotch man- ners ; he has a tenderness for it ; he meets its poet half way. In this tender mood 3i he reads pieces like the Holy Fair or Halloween. But this world of Scotch drink, Scotch religion, and Scotch man- ners is against a poet, not for him, when it is not a partial countryman who reads -1° him; for in itself it is not a beautiful world, and no one can deny that it is of advantage to a poet to deal with a beauti- ful world. Burn's world of Scotch drink, Scotch religion, and Scotch manners, is 45 often a harsh, a sordid, a repulsive world ; even the world of his Cotter's Saturday Night is not a beautiful world. No doubt a poet's criticism of life may have such truth and power that it triumphs over its 5o world and delights us. Burns may tri- umph over his world, often he does tri- umph over his world, but let us observe how and where. Burns is the first case we have had where tlie bias of the per- 55 sonal estimate tends to mislead; let us . look at him closely, he can bear it. Many of his admirers will tell us that we have Burns, convivial, genuine, de- lightful, here: Leezc me on drink ! it gics us mair Than either school or college; It kindles wit, it waukcns lair. It pangs us fou o' knowledge. Be 't whiskey gill or penny wheep Or ony stronger potion, It never fails, on drinking deep, To kittle up our notion By night or day. There is a great deal of that sort of thing in Burns, and it is unsatisfactory, not because it is bacchanalian poetry, but be- cause it has not that accent of sincerity which bacchanalian poetry, to do it jus- tice, very often has. There is something in it of bravado, something which makes us feel that we have not the man speaking to us with his real voice; some- thing, therefore, poetically unsound. AVith still more confidence will his ad- mirers tell us that we have the genuine Burns, the great poet, when his strain asserts the independence, equality, dig- nity, of men, as in the famous song For a' that and a' that: A prince can mak' a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man 's aboon his might, Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! For a' that and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that. Here they find his grand, genuine touches; and still more, when this puis- sant genius, who so often set morality at defiance, falls moralizing: The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it. I waive the quantum o' the sin. The hazard o' concealing. But och ! it hardens a' within. And petrifies the feeling. Or in a higher strain : Who made the heart, 't is he alone Decidedly can try us; THE STUDY OF POETRY 835 I He knows each chord, its various tone; manner which goes with that high scri- Each spring, its various bias. ousness is wanting to his work. At Then at the balance let 's be mute, moments he touches it in a profound and We never can adjust it ; passionate melancholy, as in those four What's (fo;;^ we partly may compute, 5 immortal lines taken by Byron as a But know not what 's resisted. motto for The Giaour, but which have in . . , • them a depth of poetic, quality such as Or in a better strain yet, a strain, his resides in no verse of Byron's own : admirers will say, unsurpassable : 10 Had we never loved sae kindly. To make a happy fire-side clime Had we never loved sae blindly, To weans and wife. Never met, or never parted, That 's the true pathos and sublime We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Of human life. There is criticism of life for you, the "^ ^^"^ ^ ^^^^°'^ Pf'^ ^^ that quality Burns admirers of Burns will say to us; there \f'''''^ make ; the rest, in the Farezvcll to istheapplicationof ideas to hfe! There Nancy, xsv^rhx^gt is, undoubtedly. The doctrine of the ^ ^^^ ^l''\^. ';^^\ ^^ the real estimate of last-quoted lines coincides almost exactlv Burns, I think, by conceiving his work with what was the aim and end. Xeno- ^° ''^^ ^^''^^'"f 1^"^^ of matter and truth of phon tells us, of all the teaching of manner, but not the accent or the poetic Socrates. And the application is a virtue of the highest masters. His gen- powerful one; made by a man of vigor- "^"^ .criticism life, when the sheer ous understanding, and (need I say?) a P°^t in him speaks, is ironic; it is not: master of language. 25 But for supreme poetical success more ^hou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme is required than the powerful application ^/'^^f ^°^s of mme fulfil, of ideas to life ; it must be an application ^ere firm I rest, they must be best under the conditions fixed by the laws ^^^^"^^ ^'^^^ ^'^ Thy will! of poetic truth and poetic beauty. Those 3° laws fix as an essential condition, in the It is far rather: Whistle ozvre the lave poet's treatment of such matters as are o' t ! Yet we may say of him as of here in question, high seriousness ; — the Chaucer, that of life and the world, as high seriousness which comes from ab- they come before him, his view is large, solute sincerity. The accent of high 3=i free, shrewd, benignant, — truly poetic, seriousness, born of absolute sincerity, is therefore ; and his manner of rendering what gives to such verse as what he sees is to match. But we must note, at the same time, his great differ- In la sua volontade e nostra pace . . . ence from Chaucer. The freedom of ^0 Chaucer is heightened, in Burns, by a to such criticism of life as Dante's, its fiery, reckless energy; the benignity of power. Is this accent felt in the pas- Chaucer deepens, in Burns, into an over- sages which I have been quoting from whelming sense of the pathos of things ; Burns? Surely not; surely, if our sense — of the pathos of human nature, the is quick, we must perceive that we have -iS pathos, also, of non-human nature. In- not in those passages a voice from the stead of the fluidity of Chaucer's manner, very inmost soul of the genuine Burns ; the manner of Burns has spring, bound- he is not speaking to us from these ing swiftness. Burns is by far the depths, he is more or less preaching. greater force, though he has perhaps less And the compensation for admiring such so charm. The world of Chaucer is fairer, passages less, from missing the perfect richer, more significant than that of poetic accent in them, will be that we Burns: but when the largeness and free- shall admire more the poetry where that dom of Burns get full sweep, as in Tarn accent is found. o' Shantcr, or still more in that puissant No; Burns, like Chaucer, comes short ss and splendid production. The Jolly Beg- of the high seriousness of the great gars, his world may be what it will, his classics, and the virtue of matter and poetic genius triumphs over it. In the 836 MATTHEW ARNOLD world of the Jolly Beggars there is more On the brink of the night and the morning than hideousncss and squalor, there is My coursers are wont to respire, bestiality; yet the piece is a superb poetic But the Earth has just whispered a warning, success. It has a breadth, truth, and That their flight must be swifter than power which make the famous scene in 5 ^''^ • • • Auerbach's Cellar, of Goethe's Faust, of Prometheus Unbound, how salutary, seem artificial and tame beside it, and how very salutary, to place this from which are only matched by Shaksperc Tani Glen: and Aristophanes. Here, where his largeness and freedom 10 My iniimie does constantly dcave me serve him so admirably, and also in those And bids me beware o' young men; poems and songs, where to shrewdness They flatter, she says, to deceive me ; he adds infinite archness and wit, and to But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen, benignity infinite pathos, where his man- ner is flawless, and a perfect poetic whole 15 But we enter on burning ground as is the result, — in things like the address we approach the poetry of times so near to the Mouse whose home he had ruined, to us, poetry like that of Byron, Shelley, in things like Dunean Gray, Tarn Glen, and Wordsworth, of which the estimates Whistle and I 'II come to you, my lad, are so often not only personal, but per- Aiild lang syne (the list might be made 20 gonal with passion. For my purpose, it much longer), — here we have the gen- is enough to have taken the single case uine Burns, of whom the real estimate of Burns, the first poet we come to of must be high indeed. Not a classic, nor whose work the estimate formed is evi- with the excellent o-TrouSatdrTjs [seri- dently apt to be personal, and to have ousness] of the great classics, nor with 25 suggested how we may proceed, using a verse rising to a criticism of life and the poetry of the great classics as a sort a virtue like theirs; but a poet with of touchstone, to correct this estimate, as thorough truth of substance and an an- we had previously corrected by the same swering truth of style, giving us a poetry means the historic estimate where we sound to the core. We all of us have 30 met with it. A collection like the pres- a leaning towards the pathetic, and may ent, with its succession of celebrated be inclined perhaps to prize Burns most names and celebrated poems, offers a for his touches of piercing, sometimes good opportunity to us for resolutely en- almost intolerable, pathos ; for verse like : deavoring to make our estimates of 35 poetry real. I have sought to point out We twa hae paidl't i' the burn a method which will help us in making From mornin' sun till dine; them so, and to exhibit it in use so far But seas between us braid hae roar'd, as to put any one who likes in a way Sin auld lang syne ... of applying it for himself. 40 At any rate the end to which the , , . 11 1 . , method and the estimate are designed to where he is as lovely as he is sound ^ ^^ which, if they But perhaps it is by the perfection of ,^^^ ^^ f ^^^^.^ ^^^J,^ ^^iJ soundness of his lighter and archer mas- _ ^^ ^jf ^^^^ ^j^^^, ^^ ^^^j terpieces that he is poetically most , , , , ■ .u k^.f /u^ <•,-,, u, xf , r T? ^u <• • 45 and deeply to enjoy the best, the trulv wholesome for us. For the votary mis- ^^ , . K ^ „ ^.^ .-^ „„ 'a i^^ r^.'^ 1 J 1 1 ^- i r 01 II classic, in poetry, — is an end, let me led by a personal estimate of Shelley, "-"i^^^^' f J' » ■^ ^ c u u A say it once more at parting, of supreme as so many of us have been, are, and . ' f &> j- be, — of that beautiful spirit building importance. We are often told that an , . 1 J u r J A era is opening in which we are to see his many-colored haze of words and , .^ ,' ,^ ^ ^^ , ^r ^^^j^,.^ ^ 50 multitudes of a common sort of readers, images ^^^ masses of a common sort of liter- ... . ature; that such readers do not want and Pinnacled dim in the intense inane— ^^^^j^ ^^^ ^gU^j^ anything better than such literature, and that to provide it is be- no contact can be wholesomer than the 55 coming a vast and profitable industry. contact with Burns at his archest and Even if good literature entirely lost cur- soundest. Side by side with the rency with the world, it would still be THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 837 abundantly worth while to continue to enjoy it by oneself. But it never will lose currency with the world, in spite of momentary appearances ; it never will lose supremacy. Currency and suprem- acy are insured to it, not indeed by the world's deliberate and conscious choice, but by something far deeper, — by the instinct of self-preservation in humanity. (1880) SHAKSPERE Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask: Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill That to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, 5 Making t-he heaven of heavens his dwelling- place, Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foiled searching of mortality: And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honored, self-secure, 10 Didst tread on earth unguessed at. Better so! All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow. Find their sole voice in that victorious brow. (1849) THE FORSAKEN MERMAN Come, dear children, let us away, Down and away below ! Now my brothers call from the bay. Now the great winds shoreward blow, Now the salt tides seaward flow, s Now the wild white horses play. Champ, and chafe, and toss in the spray, Children dear, let us away! This way, this way! Call her once before you go, 10 Call once yet ! In a voice that she will know : ' Margaret ! Margaret ! ' Children's voices should be dear (Call once more!) to a mother's ear; '5 Children's voices, wild with pain: Surely she will come again ! Call her once and come away; This way, this way ! ' Mother dear, we cannot stay ; 20 The wild white horses foam and fret.' Margaret ! Margaret ! Come, dear children, come away down ; Call no more ! One last look at the white-walled town, 25 And the little gray church on the windy shore ; Then come down ! She will not come though you call all day: Come away, come away! Children dear, was it yesterday 30 We heard the sweet bells over the bay? In the caverns where we lay. Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 35 Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, Where the salt weed sways in the stream. Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground ; 40 Where the sea-snakes coil and twine. Dry their mail and bask in the brine ; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye. Round the world for ever and aye; 45 When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday? Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once!) that she went away? Once she sate with you and me, so On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea; ss She said : ' I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little gray church on the shore to- day. 'T will be Easter-time in the world, ah me ! And I lose my poor soul, merman ! here with thee.' I said : ' Go up, dear heart, through the waves : — 6° Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves ! ' She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday? 838 MATTHEW ARNOLD Children dear, were we long alone? 'The sea grows stormy: the Httle ones moan : — ^ Long prayers,' I said, ' in the world they say; Come ! ' I said ; and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white walled town; Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, ^o To the little gray church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains. And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. 75 She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: ' Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here ! Dear heart,' I said, ' we are long alone : The sea grows stormy; the little ones moan.' But, ah, she gave me never a look, 80 For her eyes were sealed to the holy book. Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the door. Come away, children, call no more ! Come away, come down, call no more ! Down, down, down ! ^5 Down to the depths of the sea — She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: 'O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy! 90 For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well ; For the wheel where I spun. And the blessed light of the sun ! ' And so she sings her fill. Singing most joyfully, 95 Till the spindle drops from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the sand. And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare: "0° And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear. From a sorrow-clouded eye. And a heart sorrow-laden; A long, long sigh '°5 For the cold strange eyes of a little nier- maiden And the gleam of her golden hair. Come away, away, children; Come children, come down! — The hoarse wind blows coldly; "'o Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door ; She will hear the winds howling. Will hear the waves roar. "S We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing: 'Here came a mortal, 120 But faithless was she! And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea.' But, children, at midnight. When soft the winds blow, 125 When clear falls the moonlight. When spring-tides are low; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starred with broom. And high rocks throw mildly '3o On the blanched sands a gloom ; Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks, we will hie. Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. '35 We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white, sleeping town ; At the church on the hill-side: And then come back down. Singing: 'There dwells a loved one, 140 But cruel is she ! She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea.' (1849) THE BURIED LIFE Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet. Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet ! I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. Yes, yes, we know that we can jest. We know, we know that we can smile! 5 But there 's a something in this breast. To which thy light words bring no rest, And thy gay smiles no anodyne. Give me thy hand, and hush awhile. And turn those limpid eyes on mine, 'o And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul. THE BURIED LIFE 839 Alas! is even love too weak To unlock the heart, and let it speak? Are even lovers powerless to reveal To one another what indeed they feel? 'S I knew the mass of men concealed Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed They would by other men be met With blank indifference, or with blame re- proved ; I knew they lived and moved 20 Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest • Of men, and alien to themselves — and yet The same heart beats in every human breast ! But we, my love ! — doth a like spell be- numb Our hearts, our voices? — must we too be dumb? 25 Ah! well for us, if even we, Even for a moment, can get free Our heart, and have our lips unchained ; For that which seals them hath been deep- ordained ! Fate, which foresaw 30 How frivolous a baby man would be — By what distractions he would be possessed, How he would pour himself in every strife. And well-nigh change his own identity — That it might keep from his capricious play His genuine self, and force him to obey 36 Even in his own despite his being's law. Bade through the deep recesses of our breast I The unregarded river of our life Pursue with indiscernible flow its way ; 40 And that we should not see The buried stream, and seem to be Eddying at large in blind uncertainty, Though driving on with it eternally. But often, in the world's most crowded streets, 45 But often, in the din of strife, There rises an unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life; A thirst to spend our fire and restless force In tracking out our true, original course ; 5° A longing to inquire Into the mystery of this heart which beats So wild, so deep in us — to know Whence our lives come and where they go. And many a man in his own breast then, delves, 55 But deep enough, alas ! none ever mines. And we have been on many thousand lines, And we have shown, on each, spirit and power ; But hardly have we, for one little hour. Been on our own line, have we been our- selves — 60 Hardly had skill to utter one of all The nameless feelings that course through our breast, But they course on for ever unexpressed. And long we try in vain to speak and act Our hidden self, and what we say and do '^s Is eloquent, is well — but 'tis not true! And then we will no more be racked With inward striving, and demand. Of all the thousand nothings of the hour Their stupefying power; 7° Ah, yes, and they benumb us at our call ! Yet still, from time to time, vague and for- lorn, From the soul's subterranean depth up- borne As from an infinitely distant land. Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey 75 A melancholy into all our day. Only — but this is rare — When a beloved hand is laid in ours, When, jaded with the rush and glare Of the interminable hours, 80 Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafened ear Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed — A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast. And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. 85 The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain. And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. A man becomes aware of his life's flow. And hears its winding murnmr ; and he sees The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. 90 And there arrives a lull in the hot race Wherein he doth for ever chase That flying and elusive shadow, rest. An air of coolness plays upon his face, And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. And then he thinks he knows 96 The hills where his life rose. And the sea where it goes. (1852) 840 MATTHEW ARNOLD SELF-DEPENDENCE Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to he, At this vessel's prow I stand, which hears me Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. And a look of passionate desire s O'er the sea and to the stars I send : * Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end ! * Ah, once more,' I cried, ' ye stars, ye waters. On my heart your mighty charm renew; 'o Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you. Feel my soul becoming vast like you ! ' From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven. Over the lit sea's unquiet way, In the rustling night-air came the answer : ' Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they. 1 6 ' Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see. These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 20 'And with joy the stars perform their shin- ing, And the sea its long moon-silvered roll ; For self -poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some dififering soul. ' Bounded by themselves, and unregardful 25 In what state God's other works may be, In their own tasks all their powers pouring. These attain the mighty life you see.' O air-born voice! long since, severely clear, A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear : ' Resolve to be thyself; and know that he, 31 Who finds himself, loses his misery!' C1852) MORALITY We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides; The spirit bloweth and is still. In mystery our soul abides. But tasks in hours of insight willed, 5 Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled. With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 't were done. 10 Not till the hours of light return. All we have built do we discern. Then, when the clouds are off the soul. When thou dost bask in Nature's eye, Ask, how she viewed thy self-control, i5 Thy struggling, tasked morality — Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air. Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. And she, whose censure thou dost dread. Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, 20 See, on her face a glow is spread, A strong emotion on her cheek ! ' Ah, child ! ' she cries, ' that strife divine. Whence was it, for it is not mine? ' There is no effort on my brow — 25 I do not strive, I do not weep; I rush with the swift spheres and glow In joy, and when I will, I sleep. Yet that severe, that earnest air, I saw, I felt it once — but where? 30 ' I knew not yet the gauge of time, Nor wore the manacles of space; I felt it in some other clime, I saw it in some other place. "T was when the heavenly house I trod, And lay upon the breast of God.' z(> (1852) SOHRAB AND RUSTUAI AN EPISODE And the first gray of morning filled the east, And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. But all the Tartar camp along the stream Was hushed, and still the men were plunged in sleep; Sohrab alone, he slept not: all night long 5 He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed; But when the gray dawn stole into his tent. He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent, And went abroad into the cold wet fog, ■" SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 841 and tent, were and Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent. Through the black Tartar tents he passed, which stood Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand Of Oxus, where the summer floods o'er- flow When the sun melts the snows in high Pa- mere: 1 5 Through the black tents he passed, o'er that low strand, And to a hillock came, a little back From the stream's brink, the spot where first a boat, Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. The men of former times had crowned the top 20 With a clay fort : but that was fall'n now The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's A dome of laths, and o'er it felts spread. And Sohrab came there, and went in. stood Upon the thick-piled carpets in the tent, ^5 And found the old man sleeping on his bed Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step Was dulled; for he slept light, an old man's sleep ; And he rose quickly on one arm, and said : 30 'Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn. Speak ! is there news, or any night alarm ? ' But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said : 'Thou knowest me, Peran-Wisa: it is I. The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 35 Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, In Samarcand, before the army marched; 40 And I will tell thee what my heart desires. Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan, first I came among the Tartars, and bore arms, I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown. At my boy's years, the courage of a man. 45 This too thou know'st, that, while I still bear on The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world. And beat the Persians back on every field, I see one man, one man, and one alone — 49 Rustum, my father; who, I hoped, should greet, Should one day greet, upon some well- fought field. His not unworthy, not inglorious son. So I long hoped, but him I never find. Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. Let the two armies rest to-day: but I ss Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords To meet me, man to man; if I prevail, Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall — Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. Dim is the rumor of a common fight, 60 Where host meets host, and many names are sunk : But of a single combat Fame speaks clear.' He spoke: and Peran-Wisa took the hand Of the young man in his, and sighed, and said : ' O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! 65 Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, And share the battle's common chance with us Who love thee, but must press forever first, In single fight incurring single risk. To find a father thou hast never seen ? 70 That were far best, my son, to stay with us Unmurmuring; in our tents, while it is war. And when 't is truce, then in Afrasiab's towns. But, if this one desire indeed rules all. To seek out Rustum — seek him not through fight : 75 Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! But far hence seek him, for he is not here, For now it is not as when I was young, 79 When Rustum was in front of every fray: But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, In Seistan, with Zal, his father old. Whether that his own mighty strength at last Feels the abhorred approaches of old age ; Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. There go : — Thou wilt not ? Yet my heart forebodes 86 Danger of death awaits thee on this field. Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost To us : fain therefore send thee hence, in peace 842 MATTHEW ARNOLD To seek thy father, not sock single fights 90 In vain: — but who can keep the lion's cub From ravening? and who govern Rustum's son? Go: I will grant thee what thy heart de- sires.' So said he, and dropped Sohrab's hand, and left 'J-* His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay. And o'er his chilly limbs his woolen coat He passed, and tied his sandals on his feet, And threw a white cloak round him, and he took In his right hand a ruler's stafif, no sword; And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap, 100 Black, glossy, curled, the fleece of Kara- Kul; And raised the curtain of his tent, and called His herald to his side, and went abroad. The sun, by this, had risen, and cleared the fog From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands: io5 And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed Into the open plain; so Haman bade; Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled The host, and still was in his lusty prime. From their black tents, long files of horse, they streamed: i"' As when, some gray November morn, the files, In marching order spread, of long-necked cranes, Stream over Casbin, and the southern slopes Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries. Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, southward bound ' ■ 5 For the warm Persian sea-board : so they streamed. The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard. First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears ; Large men, large steeds; who from Bokhara come "9 And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south. The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands ; Light men, and on light steeds, who only drink '-4 The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came From far, and a more doubtful service I owned ; I The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks I Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards J And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder ■ hordes 130 Who roam o'er Kipchak and the northern waste, Kalmuks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes who stray Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, I Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere. | These all filed out from camp into the plain. ' And on the other side the Persians formed : 136 First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they j seemed, . I The Ilyats of Khorassan : and behind, ' The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, Marshaled battalions bright in burnished steel. 140 But Peran-Wisa with his herald came Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front, And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, 145 He took his spear, and to the front he came. And checked his ranks, and fixed them where they stood. And the old Tartar came upon the sand Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said: ' Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear! 'S° Let there be truce between the hosts to- day. But choose a champion from the Persian lords To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man.' As, in the country, on a morn in June, 154 When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy — So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved. But as a troop of peddlers, from Cabool, Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, 161 That vast sky-neighboring mountain of milk snow ; Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass Long flocks of traveling birds dead on the snow. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 843 Choked by the air, and scarce can they them- selves 1^5 Slake their parched throats with sugared mulberries — In single file they move, and stop their breath, For fear they should dislodge the o'erhang- ing snows — So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up '70 To counsel • Gudurz and Zoarrah came, And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host Second, and was the uncle of the King: These came and counseled ; and then Gudurz said: * Ferood, shame bids us take their chal- lenge up, '75 Yet champion have we none to match this youth. He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. But Rustuni came last night ; aloof he sits And sullen, and has pitched his tents apart : Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 'So The Tartar challenge, and this young man's name. Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight, Stand forth the while, and take their chal- lenge up.' So spake he ; and Ferood stood forth and cried: '^4 ' Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said. Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man.' He spake ; and Peran-Wisa turned, and strode Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, And crossed the camp which lay behind, and reached, 190 Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents. Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay, Just pitched : the high pavilion in the midst Was Rustum's, and his men lay camped around. And Gudurz entered Rustum's tent, and found 195 Rustum: his morning meal was done, but still The table stood before him, charged with food — A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread. And dark green melons; and there Rustum sate Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, 200 And played with it ; but Gudurz came and stood Before him ; and he looked, and saw him stand ; And with a cry sprang up, and dropped the bird, And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said : ' Welcome ! these eyes could see no better sight. 205 What news? but sit down first, and eat and drink.' But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and said: 'Not now: a time will come to eat and drink, But not to-day: to-day has other needs. The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze: 210 For from the Tartars is a challenge brought To pick a champion from the Persian lords To fight their champion — and thou know'st his name — Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. O Rustum, like thy might is this young man's! 215 He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are old, Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee. Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose.' He spoke : but Rustum answered with a smile : — 220 'Go to! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I Am older : if the young are weak, the king Errs strangely: for the king, for Kai- Khosroo, Himself is young, and honors younger men, And lets the aged molder to their graves. Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young — 226 The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, not 1. For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's fame ? For would that I myself had such a son, And not that one slight helpless girl I have, 230 A son so famed, so brave, to send to war. And I to tarry with the snow-haired Zal, My father, whom the robber Afghans vex, And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, 234 844 MATTHEW ARNOLD And he has none to guard his weak old age. There would 1 go, and hang my armor up, And with my great name fence that weak old man, And spend the goodly treasures I have got, And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame, And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings, -'-^^ And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no more.' He spoke, and smiled; and Gudurz made reply: ' What then, O Rustum, will men say to this. When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks, Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, ^'^^ Hidest thy face? Take heed, lest men should say, " Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his fame. And shuns to peril it with younger men." ' And, greatly moved, then Rustum made re- ply : ' O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words? ^50 Thou knowest better words than this to say. What is one more, one less, obscure or famed, Valiant or craven, young or old, to me? Are not they mortal, am not I myself? But who for men of naught would do great deeds? ^55 Come, thou shall see how Rustum hoards his fame. But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms ; Let not men say of Rustum, he was matched In single fight with any mortal man.' He spoke, and frowned; and Gudurz turned, and ran ^^° Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy, Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and called His followers in, and bade them bring his arms. And clad himself in steel : the arms he chose ^^5 Were plain, and on his shield was no de- vice, Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, And from the fluted spine atop, a plume Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume. So armed, he issued forth; and Ruksh, his horse, 270 I'V)Ilowcd him, like a faithful hound, at heel, Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the earth, | The horse, whom Rustum on a foray once Did in Bokhara by the river find A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home. And reared him; a bright bay, with lofty crest, 276 Dight with a saddle-cloth of broidered green Crusted with gold, and on the ground were worked All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know : So followed, Rustum left his tents, and crossed 280 The camp, and to the Persian host ap- peared. And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts Hailed ; but the Tartars knew not who he was. And dear as the wet diver to the eyes Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, 285 By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf, Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, Having made up his tale of precious pearls. Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — 289 So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. And Rustum to the Persian front ad- vanced. And Sohrab armed in Haman's tent, and came. And as afield the reapers cut a swath Down through the middle of a rich man's corn, 295 And on each side are squares of standing corn. And in the midst a stubble, short and bare; So on each side were squares of men, with spears Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand. I And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast - His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. 3°' As some rich woman, on a winter's morn. Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge Who with numb blackened fingers makes her fire — At cock-crow on a starlit winter's morn, 305 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 845 When the frost flowers the whitened win- "dow-panes — And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts Of that poor drudge may be; so Rustum eyed The unknown adventurous youth, who from afar 309 Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth All the most valiant chiefs : long he perused His spirited air, and wondered who he was. For very young he seemed, tenderly reared ; Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight, 314 Which in a queen's secluded garden throws Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound — So slender Sohrab seemed, so softly reared. And a deep pity entered Rustum's soul As he beheld him coming; and he stood, 320 And beckoned to him with his hand, and said : ' O thou young man, the air of heaven is soft. And warm, and pleasant ; but the grave is cold. Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave. Behold he: I am vast, and clad in iron, 3^5 And tried ; and I have stood on many a field Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe: Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death ? Be governed : quit the Tartar host, and come To Iran, and be as my son to me, 331 And fight beneath my banner till I die. There are no youths in Iran brave as thou.' So he spake, mildly : Sohrab heard his voice, 334 The mighty voice of Rustum ; and he saw His giant figure planted on the sand. Sole, like some single tower, which a chief Hath buiided on the waste in former years Against the robbers ; and he saw that head, Streaked with its first gray hairs : hope filled his soul ; 34° And he ran forwards and embraced his knees, And clasped his hand within his own and said : ' Oh, by thy father's head ! by thine own soul ! Art thou not Rustum? Speak! art thou not he?' But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, 345 And turned away, and spake to his own soul : ' Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean. False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. For if I now confess this thing he asks, 349 And hide it not, but say, " Rustum is here," He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, But he will find some pretext not to fight, And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. And on a feast-day, in Afrasiab's hall, 355 In Samarcand, he will arise and cry — " I challenged once, when the two armies camped Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords To cope with me in single fight ; but they Shrank ; only Rustum dared : then he and I Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away." 361 So will he speak, perhaps, while men ap- plaud. Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me.' And then he turned, and sternly spake aloud : 'Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus 365 Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast called By challenge forth: make good thy vaunt, or yield. Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight? Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face and flee. For well I know, that did great Rustum stand 370 Before thy face this day, and were re- vealed, There would be then no talk of fighting more. But being what I am, I tell thee this : Do thou record it in thine inmost soul : Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt, and yield; 375 Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer floods, Oxus in summer wash them all away.' He spoke : and Sohrab answered, on his feet : — ' Art thou so fierce ? Thou wilt not fright me so. 380 I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 846 MATTHEW ARNOLD 38s am Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand Here on this field, there were no fighting then. But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. Begin: thou art more vast, more dread than I, And thou art proved, I know, and I young — But yet success sways with the breath of heaven. And though thou thinkest that thou know- cst sure 388 Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, Poised on the top of a huge wave of Fate, Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall. And whether it will heave us up to land, Or whether it will roll us out to sea. Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death, 395 We know not, and no search will make us know: Only the event will teach us in its hour.' He spoke; and Rustum answered not, but hurled His spear: down from the shoulder, down it came 399 As on some partridge in the corn a hawk That long has towered in the airy clouds Drops like a plummet : Sohrab saw it come, And sprang aside, quick as a flash: the spear Hissed, and went quivering down into the sand. Which it sent flying wide : — then Sohrab threw 40s In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield: sharp rang The iron plates rang sharp, but turned the spear. And Rustum seized his club, which none but he Could wield: an unlopped trunk it was, and huge. Still rough; like those which men in treeless plains 410 To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers, Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up By their dark springs, the wind in winter- time Has made in Himalayan forests wrack, And strewn the channels with torn boughs ; so huge 4' 5 The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck One stroke ; but again Sohrab sprang aside Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rus- tum's hand. And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell 420 To his knees, and with his fingers clutched the sand : And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand : But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared his sword, 42s But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said : 'Thou strik'st too hard: that club of thine will float Upon the summer-floods, and not my bones. But rise, and be not wroth ; not wroth am I : No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. 430 Thou say'st thou art not Rustum : be it so. Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul? Boy as I am, I have seen battles too; Have waded foremost in their bloody waves. And heard their hollow roar of dying men; But never was my heart thus touched be- fore. 436 Are they from heaven, these softenings of the heart? O thou old warrior, let us yield to heaven ! Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, 439 And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, And pledge each other in red wine, like friends. And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds. There are enough foes in the Persian host Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang ; 444 Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou Alayst fight ; fight them, when they confront thy spear. But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me ! ' He ceased : but while he spake, Rustum had risen, And stood erect, trembling with rage: his club 449 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 847 He left to lie, but had regained his spear, Whose fiery point now in his mailed right- hand Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn star. The baleful sign of fevers: dust had soiled His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering arms. His breast heaved ; his lips foamed ; and twice his voice 455 Was choked with rage: at last these words broke way : ' Girl ! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands! Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words ! Fight ; let me hear thy hateful voice no more ! Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 460 With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance; But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance Of battle, and with me, who make no play Of war: I fight it out, and hand to hand. Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! 465 Remember all thy valor ; try thy feints ' And cunning: all the pity I had is gone: I Because thou hast shamed me before both ' the hosts '< With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles.' He spoke: and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, 470 And he too drew his sword : at once they ! rushed i Together, as two eagles on one prey : Come rushing down together from the ■ clouds, ! One from the east, one from the west : I their shields 474 ' Dashed with a clang together, and a din Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcut- I ters Alake often in the forest's heart at morn. Of hewing axes, crashing trees: such blows Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. And you would say that sun and stars took part 480 In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud Grew suddenly in heaven, and darked the sun Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. 4S5 In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone ; For both the on-looking hosts on either hand Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure. And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. But in the gloom they fought, with blood- shot eyes 490 And laboring breath ; first Rustum struck the shield Which Sohrab held stiff out : the steel-spiked spear Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin, And Ruslum plucked it back with angry groan. Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm, 495 Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume. Never till now defiled, sank to the dust; • And Rustum bowed his head; but then the gloom 499 Grew blacker: thunder rumbled in the air, And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse, Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry : No horse's cry was that, most like the roar Of some pained desert lion, who all day 504 Hath trailed the hunter's javelin in his side, And comes at night to die upon the sand : The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. But Sohrab heard, and quailed not, but rushed on, 509 And struck again; and again Rustum bowed His head; but this time all the blade, like glass. Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, And in his hand the hilt remained alone. Then Rustum raised his head ; his dreadful eyes Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, 515 And shouted, ' Rustum! ' Sohrab heard that shout, And shrank amazed : back he recoiled one step, And scanned with blinking eyes the advanc- ing form : And then he stood bewildered ; and he dropped s-^o His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. 848 MATTHEW ARNOLD He reeled, and staggering back, sank to the ground. And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair; 524 Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began : ' Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse. And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. 53° Or else that the great Rustum would come down Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. And then that all the Tartar host would praise Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, 535 To glad thy father in his weak old age. Fool ! thou art slain, and by an unknown man ! Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be. Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.' And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab re- plied : 540 ' Unknown thou art ; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man! No ! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. For were I matched with ten such men as thee, And I virere he who till to-day I was, 545 They should be lying here, I standing there. But that beloved name unnerved my arm — That name, and something, I confess, in thee. Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield Fall ; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed foe, 550 And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear I The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death 1 My father, whom I seek through all the world, He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!' 5S5 As when some hunter in the spring hath found A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, L'pon the craggy isle of a hill-lake, And pierced her with an arrow as she rose. And followed her to find her where she fell Far off; — anon her mate comes winging back 56 I From hunting, and a great way off descries His huddling young left sole; at that, he checks His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps Circles above his eyry, with loud screams Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but she 566 Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, In some far stony gorge out of his ken, A heap of fluttering feathers : never more Shall the lake glass her, flying over it ; S7o Never the black and dripping precipices Echo her stormy scream as she sails by: — As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss — So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood Over his dying son, and knew him not. 575 But with a cold, incredulous voice, he said: 'What prate is this of fathers and revenge? The mighty Rustum never had a son.' And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied: ' Ah, yes, he had ! and that lost son am I. 580 Surely the news will one day reach his ear, Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here; And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap 584 To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son ! What will that grief, what will that ven- geance be ! Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen! Yet him I pity not so much, but her, My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells 59o With that old king, her father, who grows gray With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. Her most I pity, who no more will see Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp. With spoils and honor, when the war is done. 595 But a dark rumor will be bruited up, From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear; And then will that defenceless woman learn That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more; But that in battle with a nameless foe, 600 By the far distant Oxus, he is slain.' SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 849 He spoke; and as he ceased he wept aloud, Thinking of her he left, and his own death. He spoke ; but Rustum listened, plunged in thought. Nor did he yet believe it was his son 605 Who spoke, although he called back names he knew ; For he had had sure tidings that the babe, Which was in Ader-baijan born to him. Had been a puny girl, no boy at all : 609 So that sad mother sent him word, for fear Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms ; , And so he deemed that either Sohrab took, I By a false boast, the style of Rustum's son; Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. So deemed he; yet he listened, plunged in thought; 61S And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide Of the bright rocking ocean sets to shore At the full moon : tears gathered in his eyes; For he remembered his own early youth, jAnd all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn, I The shepherd from his mountain-lodge I descries 621 A far, bright city, smitten by the sun, Through many rolling clouds; — so Rustum saw His youth ; saw Sohrab's mother, in her I bloom ; jAnd that old king, her father, who loved j well 625 IHis wandering guest, and gave him his fair i child With joy; and all the pleasant life they led. They three, in that long-distant summer- time — The castle, the dewy woods, and hunt And hound, and morn on those delightful hills 630 In Ader-baijan. And he saw that youth. Of age and looks to be his own dear son. Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand. Like some rich hyacinth, which by the scythe Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, 635 Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom. On the mown, dying grass ; — so Sohrab lay, Lovely in death, upon the common sand. Aud Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said : — 640 ' O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved ! Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men Have told thee false; — thou art not Rus- tum's son. For Rustum had no son : one child he had — But one — a girl : who with her mother now 646 Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us — Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war.' But Sohrab answered him in wrath ; for now The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce, 650 And he desired to draw forth the steel. And let the blood flow free, and so to die; But first he would convince his stubborn foe — And, rising sternly on one arm, he said: ' i\]an, who art thou who dost deny my words? 655 Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear That seal which Rustum to my mother gave. That she might prick it on the babe she bore.' 660 He spoke: and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks; And his knees tottered, and he smote his hand. Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, That the hard iron corslet clanked aloud : And on his heart he pressed the other hand. And in a hollow voice he spake, and said : ' Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie. 667 If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son.' Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, 670 And showed a sign in faint vermilion points Pricked; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase. An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints, And all day long, and, when night comes. the lamp 675 Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands : — So delicately pricked the sign appeared 850 MATTHEW ARNOLD On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal. It was that Griffin, which of old reared Zal, Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, 680 A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks. Him that kind creature found, and reared, and loved — Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. And Sohrab bared that image on his arm, And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes. 685 And then he touched it with his hand and said : ' How say'st thou? Is that sign the proper sign Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's?' He spoke: but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood Speechless; and then he uttered one sharp cry- 690 'O boy — thy father!'— and his voice choked there. And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes, And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips, 695 And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, Trying to call him back to life: and life Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes. And they stood wide with horror; and he seized In both his hands the dust which lay around, And threw it on his head, and smirched his hair, 7oi His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms : And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast. And his sobs choked him; and he clutched his sword. To draw it, and forever let life out. 705 But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, And with a soothing voice he spake, and said: ' Father, forbear : for I but meet to-day The doom that at my birth was written down In heaven, and thou art heaven's uncon- scious hand. 710 Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, When first I saw thee ; and thy heart spuke loo, I know it : but Fate trod those pruniptings down Under its iron heel ; Fate, Fate engaged The strife, and hurled me on my father's spear. 7' 5 Ijut let us speak no more of this : 1 find My father ; let me feel that I have found. Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take j\ly head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks. And wash them with thy tears, and say: " My son ! " 720 Quick! quick! for numbered are my sands of life. And swift; for like the lightning to this field I came, and like the wind I go away — Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. But it was writ in heaven that this should be.' 7^5 So said he: and his voice released the heart Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud. And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hosts When they saw Rustum's grief : and Ruksh, the horse, 730 With his head bowing to the ground, and mane Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe First to the one, then to the other moved His head, as if inquiring what their grief Might mean ; and from his dark, compas- sionate eyes, 73S The big warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand. But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said: ' Ruksh, now thou grievest ; but O Ruksh, thy feet Should first have rotted on their nimble joints. When first they bore thy master to this field.' 740 But Sohrab looked upon the horse and said : 'Is this then Ruksh? How often, in past days. My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed ! SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 851 My terrible father's terrible horse; and said, That I should one day find thy lord and thee. 743 Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane. O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I ; For thou hast gone where I shall never go, And snuffed the breezes of my father's home. And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, And seen the river of Helmund, and the Lake 75 1 Of Zirrah; and the aged ZaI himself Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine. And said — " O Ruksh ! bear Rustum well ! "—but I 755 Have never known my grandsire's furrowed face. Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream : But lodged among my father's foes, and seen Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 760 Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste. And the black Toorkmun tents ; and only drunk The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep. The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream — 765 The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.' And, with a heavy groan, Rustum be- wailed : ' Oh, that its waves were flowing over me ! Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head!' And, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab re- plied : 771 'Desire not that, my father: thou must live. For some are born to do great deeds, and live, As some are born to be obscured, and die. Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, And reap a second glory in thine age. 71^ Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. But come: thou seest this great host of men Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these : Let me entreat for them : what have they done ? 7S0 They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star. Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. But me thou must bear hence, not send with them, But carry me with thee to Seistan, And place me on a bed, and mourn for me, Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy friends. 786 And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above my bones, And plant a far-seen pillar over all; That so the passing horseman on the waste May see my tomb a great way off, and cry: 791 " Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies there, Whom his great father did in ignorance kill "— And I be not forgotten in my grave.' And, with a mournful voice, Rustum re- plied:— 795 ' Fear not ; as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son. So shall it be; for I will burn my tents And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me. And carry thee away to Seistan. And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, 800 With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. And I will lay thee in that lovely earth. And heap a stately mound above thy bones, And plant a far-seen pillar over all : 804 And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. And I will spare thy host: yea, let them go: Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. What should I do with slaying any more? For would that all whom 1 have ever slain Might be once more alive; my bitterest foes, 810 And they who were called champions in their time. And through whose death I won that fame I have; And I were nothing but a common man, A poor, mean soldier, and without renown; So thou mightest live too, my son, my son ! Or rather would that \, even I myself, 816 Might now be lying on this bloody sand. Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, Not thou of mine; and I might die, not thou; And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan; 820 And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine ; And say — " O son, I weep thee not too sore, 852 MATTHEW ARNOLD For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end." But now in blood and battles was my youth. And full of blood and battles is my age; And I shall' never end this life of blood.' Then, at the point of death, Sohrab re- plied : «-'7 ' A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man ! But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now. ^-^9 Not yet : but thou shalt have it on that day, When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, Returning home over the salt blue sea, From laying thy dear master in his grave.' And Rustuni gazed in Sohrab's face, and said: ^^= ' Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea! Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure.' He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him, and took The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased His wound's imperious anguish ; but the blood 840 Came welling from the open gash, and life Flowed with the stream; all down his cold white side The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soiled. Like the soiled tissue of white violets Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank, By children whom their nurses call with haste 846 Indoors from the sun's eye ; his head drooped low, His limbs grew slack : motionless, white, he lay, White, with eyes closed, only when heavy gasps. Deep heavy gasps, quivering through all his frame, 850 Convulsed him back to life, he opened them. And fixed them feebly on his father's face ; Till now all strength was ebbed; and from his limbs Unwillingly the spirit fled away, Regretting the warm mansion which it left. And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world, 856 So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead : And the great Rustum drew his horse- man's cloak Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. As those black granite pillars, once high- reared, 860 By Jcmshid in Persepolis, to bear His house, now 'mid their broken flights of steps, Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side : So, in the sand, lay Rustum by his son. And night came down over the solemn waste, 86s And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, And darkened all ; and a cold fog, with night. Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, As of a great assembly loosed, and fires Began to twinkle through the fog ; for now Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal: 871 The Persians took it on the open sands Southward, the Tartars, by the river marge: And Rustum and his son were left alone. But the majestic river floated on, 875 Out of the mist and hum of that low land. Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, Rejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian waste. Under the solitary moon : he flowed Right for the polar star, past Orgunje, 880 Brimming, and bright, and large ; then sands began To hem his watery march, and dam his streams. And split his currents, that for many a league The shorn and parceled Oxus strains along Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles; 885 Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had. In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, A foiled circuitous wanderer: till at last The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and wide 889 His luminous home of waters opens, bright And tranquil, from whose floor the new- bathed stars Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. (1853) THE SCHOLAR GIPSY Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill ; Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes; No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, Nor the cropped grasses, shoot another head. 5 But when the fields are still, THE SCHOLAR GIPSY 853 j And the tired men and dogs all gone to I rest. And only the white sheep are some- times seen Cross and recross the strips of moon- blanched green ; Come, shepherd, and again renew the [ quest. ^° Here, where the reaper was at work of late, 1 In this high field's dark corner, where he I leaves i His coat, his basket, and his earthen j cruise, ' And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use; '5 Here will I sit and wait. While to my ear from uplands far away, The bleating of the folded flocks is borne ; With distant cries of reapers in the corn — All the live murmur of a summer's day. 20 Screened is this nook o'er the high, half- reaped field, And here till sun-down, shepherd, will I be. Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep ; And air-swept lindens yield 26 Their scent, and rustle down their per- fumed showers Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, And bower me from the August sun with shade; And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers. 30 And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book — Come, let me read the oft-read tale again. The story of that Oxford scholar poor, Of shining parts and quick inventive brain, Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door, 3S One summer-morn forsook His friends, and went to learn the gipsy lore, And roamed the world with that wild brotherhood. And came, as most men deemed, to little good, But came to Oxford and his friends no more. 40 But once, years after, in the country lanes, Two scholars whom at college erst he knew. Met him, and of his way of life en- quired. Whereat he answered, that the gipsy crew, His mates, had arts to rule as they de- sired, 45 The workings of men's brains; And they can bind them to what thoughts they will : ' And I,' he said, ' the secret of their art. When fully learned, will to the world impart ; But it needs happy moments for this skill.' 50 This said, he left them, and returned no more. But rumors hung about the country side That the lost scholar long was seen to stray. Seen by rare glimpses pensive and tongue- tied. In hat of antique shape, and cloak of gray, S5 The same the gipsies wore. Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring : At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, On the warm ingle-bench, the smock- frocked boors Had found him seated at their enter- ing. 60 But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly, And I myself seem half to know thy looks. And put the shepherds, wanderer, on thy trace ; And boys who in lone wheat fields scare the rooks I ask if thou hast passed their quiet place ; 65 Or in my boat I lie Moored to the cool bank in the summer heats. 854 MATTHEW ARNOLD 'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, And watch the warm green-mufiled Cumncr hills, And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. 7o For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground. Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe. Returning home on summer nights, have met Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab- lock-hithe, Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, 75 As the punt's rope chops round : And leaning backwards in a pensive dream, And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers Plucked in shy fields and distant Wych- wood bowers, And thine eyes resting on the moon- lit stream. 80 And then they land, and thou art seen no more. Maidens who from the distant hamlets come To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam. Or cross a stile into the public way. 85 Oft thou hast given them store Of flowers — the frail-leafed, white anem- one — Dark bluebells drenched with dews of summer eves — And purple orchises with spotted leaves — But none hath words she can report of thee. And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay- time's here 9' In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass Where black-winged swallows haunt the glittering Thames, To bathe in the abandoned lasher pass, Have often passed thee near 96 Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown ; Marked thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare. Thy dark vague eyes, and soft ab- stracted air; But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone. 'oo At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills. Where at her open door the housewife darns. Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. Children, who early range these slopes and late 105 For cresses from the rills. Have known thee eying, all an April day, The springing pastures and the feed- ing kinc ; And marked thee, when the stars come out and shine, Through the long dewy grass move slow away. no In Autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood — Where most the gipsies by the turf -edged way Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see With scarlet patches tagged and shreds of gray. Above the forest-ground called Thes- saly— 115 The blackbird picking food. Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; So often has he known thee past him stray. Rapt, twirling in thy hand a withered spray, And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall. 120 And once, in winter, on the causeway chill Where home through flooded fields foot- travelers go. Have I not passed thee on the wooden bridge Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow. Thy face toward Hinskey and its win- try ridge? ^^= And thou hast climbed the hill, And gained the white brow of the Cum- ner range. Turned once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall. THE SCHOLAR GIPSY 855 The line of festal light in Christ Church hall — Then sought thy straw in some se- questered grange. '3o But what — I dream ! Two hundred years are flown Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, And the grave Glanvil did the tale in- scribe That thou wert wandered from the studi- ous walls To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy tribe: us And thou from earth art gone Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid; Some country nook, where o'er thy un- known grave Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave — Under a dark red-fruited, yew-tree's shade. 140 — No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours. For what wears out the life of mortal men? 'T is that from change to change their being rolls: 'T is that repeated shocks, again, again, Exhaust the energy of strongest souls. And numb the elastic powers. m6 Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit. To the just-pausing Genius we remit Our worn-out life, and are — what we have been. 150 Thou hast not lived, why should'st thou perish, so? Thou had'st o)ie aim, one business, one desire; Else wert thou long since numbered with the dead — Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire. The generations of thy peers are fled. And we ourselves shall go; 156 But thou possessest an immortal lot. And we imagine thee exempt from age. And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page. Because thou hadst — what we, alas, have not ! 160 For early didst thou leave the world, with powers Fresh, undiverted to the world without, Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings. i^S O life unlike to ours! Who fluctuate idly without term or scope. Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, And each half lives a hundred different lives ; Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. "7o Thou waitest for the spark from heaven : and we. Light half-believers of our casual creeds, Who never deeply felt, nor clearly willed. Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds. Whose vague resolves never have been fulfilled; 175 For whom each year we see Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; Who hesitate and falter life away. And lose to-morrow the ground won to- day — Ah, do not we, wanderer, await it too? 180 Yes, we await it, but it still delays, And then we suffer; and amongst us one. Who most has suffered, takes deject- edly His seat upon the intellectual throne ; And all his store of sad experience he Lays bare of wretched days; '86 Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs. And how the dying spark of hope was fed. And how the breast was soothed, and how the head. And all his hourly varied anodynes. This for our wisest : and we others pine. And wish the long unhappy dream would end, 19^ And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear With close-lipped patience for our only friend, 856 MATTHEW ARNOLD Sad patience, too near neighbor to de- spair, '^^ But none has hope like thine. Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, Roaming the country side, a truant boy. Nursing thy project in unclouded joy. And every doubt long blown by time away. O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames ; Before this strange disease of modern life, With its sick hurry, its divided aims. Its heads o'ertaxed, its palsied hearts, was rife— ^°5 Fly hence, our contact fear ! Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, ^°9 Wave us away, and keep thy solitude. Still nursing the unconquerable hope. Still clutching the inviolable shade, With a free onward impulse brushing through, By night, the silvered branches of the glade — Far on the forest skirts, where none pursue, ^'5 On some mild pastoral slope Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales, Freshen thy flowers, as in former years. With dew, or listen with enchanted ears. From the dark dingles, to the night- ingales. ^^° But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly, For strong the infection of our mental strife, Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest ; And we should win thee from thy own fair life. Like us distracted, and like us unblest. Soon, soon thy cheer would die, 226 Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfixed thy powers, And thy clear aims be cross and shift- ing made : And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. -30 Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles ! — As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, Descried at sunrise an emerging prow Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily. The fringes of a southward-facing brow Among the ^tgean isles; 236 And saw the merry Grecian coaster come. Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine. Green bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine; And knew the intruders on his an- cient home, 240 The young light-hearted masters of the waves ; And snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail, And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, To where the Atlantic raves -'46 Outside the Western Straits ; and unbent sails There, where down cloudy cliff's through sheets of foam, Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; And on the beach undid his corded bales. 250 (1853) REQUIESCAT Strew on her roses, roses. And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes ; Ah, would that I did too ! Her mirth the world required; 5 She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired. And now they let her be. Her life was turning, turning. In mazes of heat and sound. '" But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round. Her cabined, ample spirit. It fluttered and failed for breath. To-night it doth inherit '5 The vasty hall of death. (1853) RUGBY CHAPEL 857 RUGBY CHAPEL NOVEMBER 1857 Coldly, sadly descends The autumn evening. The field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts, Of withered leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, 5 Silent; — hardly a shout .From a few boys late at their play! The lights come out in the street, In the school-room windows; — but cold. Solemn, unlighted, austere, lo Through the gathering darkness, arise The chapel-walls, in whose bound Thou, my father! art laid. There thou dost lie, in the gloom Of the autumn evening. But ah, is That word, gloom, to my mind Brings thee back, in the light Of thy radiant vigor, again; In the gloom of November we passed Days not dark at thy side; 20 Seasons impaired not the ray Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. Such thou wast ! and I stand In the autumn evening, and think Of bygone autumns with thee. ^5 Fifteen years have gone round Since thou arosest to tread. In the summer-morning, the road Of death, at a call unforeseen. Sudden. For fifteen years, 30 We who till then in thy shade Rested as under the boughs Of a mighty oak, have endured Sunshine and rain as we might, Bare, unshaded, alone, 35 Lacking the shelter of thee. O strong soul, by what shore Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left vain ! Somewhere, surely, afar, 40 In the sounding labor-house vast Of being, is practised that strength, Zealous, beneficent, firm! Yes, in some far-shining sphere, Conscious or not of the past, 45 Still thou performest the word Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live — Prompt, unwearied, as here ! Still thou upraisest with zeal The humble good from the ground, 50 Sternly repressest the bad! Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse Those who with half -open eyes Tread the border-land dim ' Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st SS Succorest ! This was thy work. This was thy life upon earth. What is the course of the Hfe Of mortal men on the earth? Most men eddy about 60 Here and there — eat and drink. Chatter and love and hate, Gather and squander, are raised Aloft, are hurled in the dust. Striving blindly, achieving 65 Nothing; and then they die — Perish ; — and no one asks Who or what they have been. More than he asks what waves. In the moonlit solitudes mild 70 Of the midmost Ocean, have swelled. Foamed for a moment, and gone. And there are some, whom a thirst Ardent, unquenchable, fires, Not with the crowd to be spent, 7S Not without aim to go round In an eddy of purposeless dust, Effort unmeaning and vain. Ah, yes ! some of us strive Not without action to die 80 Fruitless, but something to snatch From dull oblivion, nor all Glut the devouring grave ! We, we have chosen our path — Path to a clear-purposed goal, 85 Path of advance! — but it leads A long, steep journey, through sunk Gorges, o'er mountains in snow. Cheerful, with friends, we set forth — Then, on the height, comes the storm. 90 Thunder crashes from rock To rock, the cataracts reply, Lightnings dazzle our eyes. Roaring torrents have breached The track, the stream-bed descends 93 In the place where the wayfarer once Planted his footstep — the spray Boils o'er its borders! aloft The unseen snow-beds dislodge Their hanging ruin ! alas, »oo Havoc is made in our train I Friends, who set forth at our side. Falter, are lost in the storm. We, we only are left ! With frowning foreheads, with lips >os Sternly compressed, we strain on. On — and at nightfall at last 858 MATTHEW ARNOLD Come to the end of our way, To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks ; Where the gaunt and taciturn host Stands on the threshold, the wind Shaking his thin white hairs — Holds his lantern to scan Our storm-beat figures, and asks: Whom in our party we bring, Whom we have left in the snow? Sadly we answer: We bring Only ourselves! we lost Sight of the rest in the storm. Hardly ourselves we fought through Stripped, without friends, as we are. Friends, companions, and train, The avalanche swept from our side. But thou would'st not alone Be saved, my father ! alone Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild. We were weary, and we Fearful, and we in our march Fain to drop down and to die. Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary, thy hand. If, in the paths of the world, Stones might have wounded thy feet, Toil or dejection have tried Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing — to us thou wast still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! Therefore to thee it was given Many to save with thyself; And, at the end of thy day, O, faithful shepherd! to come. Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. And through thee I believe In the noble and great who are gone; Pure souls honored and blest By former ages, who else — Such, so soulless, so poor. Is the race of men whom I see — Seemed but a dream of the heart, Seemed but a cry of desire. Yes ! I believe that there lived Others like thee in the past. Not like the men of the crowd Who ail round me to day Bluster or cringe, and make life Hideous, and arid, and vile; But souls tempered with fire, Fervent, heroic, and good, Helpers and friends of mankind. Servants of God! — or sons Shall I not call you? because Not as servants ye knew Your Father's innermost mind. His, who unwillingly sees One of his little ones lost — Yours is the praise, if mankind Hath not as yet in its march Fainted, and fallen, and died! See! In the rocks of the world Marches the host of mankind, A feeble, wavering line. Where are they tending? — A God Marshaled them, gave them their goal. Ah, but the way is so long ! Years they have been in the wild! Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks, Rising all round, overawe; Factions divide them, their host Threatens to break, to dissolve. — Ah, keep, keep them combined ! Else, of the myriads who fill That army, not one shall arrive; Sole they shall stray; on the rocks Batter for ever in vain, Die one by one in the waste. Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye, like angels, appear, Radiant with ardor divine ! Beacons of hope, ye appear! Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word. Weariness not on your brow. Ye alight in our van ! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away. Ye move through the ranks, recall The stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, re-inspire the brave! Order, courage, return. Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Follow your steps as ye go. Ye fill up the gaps in our files. Strengthen the wavering line, Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of God. i8s (1867) DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI (1828-1882) Although as a very young boy Rossetti showed a talent for versifying, he attained dis- tinction first as a painter. After spending five years at King's College School and in art academies in London, he became a pupil of Ford Madox Brown, and later joined Ilolman Hunt, Millais, and others, in that revival of mystical interpretation and detailed elaboration in painting commonly called the Pre-Raphaelite movement. No considerable part of Ros- setti's poems appeared in print before the publication of J'ocms, in 1870. The following year Robert Buchanan, in an article entitled The Fleshly School in Poetry, savagely at- tacked the alleged immorality of Rossetti's poems. Although Rossetti stoutly resisted the assault, it aggravated the mental depression which had begun with the death of his wife, and which persisted until his death. The last ten years of his life were tragically clouded by mental weakness and by the habit of taking chloral. Even during this period, however, creative flashes of his mind resulted in both poems and paintings of great beauty. Poems (1S70), Dante and His Cirele (1874), and Ballads and So)iiicts (1881) contain substantially all of Rossetti's poetry. The volume of 1881 brought out The King's Tragedy, and added sonnets to complete the House of Life, the first sonnets of which had appeared in 1870. Rossetti's only imaginative work in prose is Hand and Soul (1850). His poetry, often subtly mystical in thought, has been called, significantly, ' painter's poetry,' from its delicate picturesqueness and visual beauty. MY SISTER'S SLEEP She fell asleep on Christinas Eve : At length the long-ungranted shade Of weary eyelids overweighed The pain naught else might yet relieve. Our mother, who had leaned all day S Over the bed from chime to chime, Then raised herself for the first time, And as she sat her down, did pray. Her little work-table was spread With work to finish. For the glare 'o Made by her candle, she had care To work some distance from the bed. Without, there was a cold moon up. Of winter radiance sheer and thin; The hollow halo it was in iS Was like an icy crystal cup. Through the small room, with subtle sound Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove And reddened. In its dim alc^ove The mirror shed a clearness round. 20 I had been sitting up some nights, And my tired mind felt weak and blank ; Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank The stillness and the broken lights. 859 Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years 25 Heard in each hour, crept off; and then The ruffled silence spread again, Like water that a pebble stirs. Our mother rose from where she sat : Her needles, as she laid them down, 3° Met lightly, and her silken gown Settled : no other noise than that. ' Glory unto the Newly Born ! ' So, as said angels, she did say; Because we were in Christmas Day 35 Though it would still be long till morn. Just then in the room over us There was a pushing back of chairs, As some who had sat unawares So late, now heard the hour, and rose. 4° With anxious softly-stepping haste Our mother went where Margaret lay. Fearing the sounds o'er head — should they Have broken her long watched-for rest! She stooped an instant, calm, and turned, 45 But suddenly turned back again ; And all her features seemed in pain With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned. 86o DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI For my part, I Iml hid my face, And held my breath, and spoke no word : There was none spoken : lint I heard 5i Tlic silence for a little space. Our mother bowed herself and wept: And both my arms fell, and I said. • God knows I knew that she was dead.' ss And there, all white, my sister slept. Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn A little after twelve o'clock, We said, ere the first quarter struck, 'Christ's blessing on the newly born!' 60 (1850) THE BLESSED DAMOZEL The blessed damozel leaned out From the golden bar of heaven; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even; She had three lilies in her hand, 5 And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem. No wrought flowers did adorn. But a white rose of Mary's gift. For service meetly worn; '° Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn. Her seemed she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers ; The wonder was not yet quite gone ts From that still look of hers; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years. (To one, it is ten years of years. . . . Yet now, and in this place, 2° Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair Fell all about my face. . . . Nothing: the autumn-fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.) It was the rampart of God's house 25 That she was standing on; By God built over the sheer depth The which is Space begun ; So high, that looking downward thence She scarce could see the sun. 3' It lies in heaven, across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth 35 Spins like a fretful midge. Around her, lovers, newly met 'Mid deathless love's acclaims. Spoke evermore among themselves Their heart-remembered names ; 4° And the souls mounting up to God Went by her like thin flames. .\nd still she bowed herself and stooped Out of the circling charm ; Until her bosom must have made 45 The bar she leaned on warm. And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm. From the fixed place of Heaven she saw Time like a pulse shake fierce 5o Through all the worlds Her gaze still strove, Within the gulf to pierce Its path: and now she spoke as when The stars sang in their spheres. The sun was gone now ; the curled moon ss Was like a little feather Fluttering far down the gulf; and now She spoke through the still weather. Her voice was like the voice the stars Had when they sang together. 60 (Ah, sweet! Even now, in that bird's song. Strove not her accents there. Fain to be hearkened? When those bells Possessed the mid-day air, Strove not her steps to reach my side 65 Down all the echoing stair?) ' I wish that he were come to me. For he will come,' she said. ' Have I not prayed in Heaven ? — on earth. Lord, Lord, has he not prayed? 70 Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid? ' When round his head the aureole clings. And he is clothed in white, I '11 take his hand and go with him 75 To the deep wells of light ; As unto a stream we will step down. And bathe there in God's sight. ' We two will stand beside that shrine. Occult, withheld, untrod, 80 Whose lamps are stirred continually With prayer sent up to God ; And see our old prayers, granted, melt Each like a little cloud. FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 86i 'We two will lie i' the shadow of 8s That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove Is sometimes felt to be, While every leaf that his plumes touch Saith his name audibly. 9° ' And I myself will teach to him, I myself, lying so, The songs I sing here; which his voice Shall pause in, hushed and slow, And find some knowledge at each pause, 95 Or some new thing to know.' (Alas ! We two, we two, thou say'st ! Yea, one wast thou with me That once of old. But shall God lift To endless unity loo The soul whose likeness with thy soul Was but its love for thee?) ' We two,' she said, ' will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is, With her five handmaidens, whose names Are five sweet symphonies, io6 Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, Margaret and Rosalys. ' Circlewise sit they, with bound locks And foreheads garlanded; no Into the fine cloth white like flame Weaving the golden thread. To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead. 'He shall fear, haply, and be dumb; "S Then will I lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, Not once abashed or weak; And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak. 120 ' Herself shall bring us, hand in hand. To him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads Bowed with their aureoles : And angels meeting us shall sing i^s To their citherns and citoles. ' There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me : — Only to live as once on earth With Love, only to be, 130 As then awhile, forever now Together, I and he.' She gazed and listened and then said, Less sad of speech than mild, — ' All this is when he comes.' She ceased. The light thrilled towards her, filled 136 With angels in strong level flight. Her eyes prayed, and she smiled. (I saw her smile.) But soon their path Was vague in distant spheres: 140 And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.) (1850) FRANCESCA DA RIMINI (From DANTE) When I made answer, I began : ' Alas ! How many sweet thoughts and how much desire Led these two onward to the dolorous pass ! ' Then turned to them, as who would fain inquire, And said : ' Francesca, these thine agonies s Wring tears for pity and grief that they inspire : — But tell me, — in the season of sweet sighs, When and what way did Love instruct you so That he in your vague longings made you wise? ' Then she to me : ' There is no greater woe' 10 Than the remembrance brings of happy days In Misery; and this thy guide doth know. But if the first beginnings to retrace Of our sad love can yield thee solace here. So will I be as one that weeps and says. 15 One day we read, for pastime and sweet cheer, Of Lancelot, how he found Love tyrannous; We were alone and without any fear. Our eyes were drawn together, readmg thus. Full oft, and still our cheeks would pale and glow ; 20 But one sole point it was that conquered us. For when we read of that great lover, how He kissed the smile which he had longed to win. — Then he whom naught can sever from me now Forever, kissed my mouth, all quivering. 25 862 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI A Galahalt was the book, and he that writ: Upon that day we read no more therein.' At the tale told, while one soul uttered it, The other wept: a pang so pitiable That I was seized, like death, in swoon- ing-fit, 30 And even as a dead body falls, I fell. (1861) LOVE'S NOCTURN Master of the murmuring courts Where the shapes of sleep convene ! — Lo! my spirit here exhorts All the powers of thy demesne For their aid to woo my queen. s What reports Yield thy jealous courts unseen? Vaporous, unaccountable. Dreamworld lies forlorn of light. Hollow like a breathing shell. 1° Ah ! that from all dreams I might Choose one dream and guide its flight! I know well What her sleep should tell to-night. There the dreams are multitudes: is Some that will not wait for sleep. Deep within the August woods ; Some that hum while rest may steep Weary labor laid a-heap ; Interludes, 20 Some, of grievous moods that weep. Poet's fancies all are there; There the elf -girls flood with wings Valleys full of plaintive air ; There breathe perfumes ; there in rings Whirl the foam-bewildered springs ; -26 Siren there Winds her dizzy hair and sings. Thence the one dream mutually Dreamed in bridal unison, 30 Less than walking ecstasy; Half-formed visions that make moan Li the house of birth alone; And what we At death's wicket see, unknown. 35 But for mine own sleep, it lies In one gracious form's control, Fair with honorable eyes, Lamps of a translucent soul: O ibeir glance is loftiest dole, 40 Sweet and wise. Wherein Love descries his goal. Reft of her, my dreams are all Clannuy trance that fears the sky; Changing footpaths shift and fall ; 45 From polluted coverts nigh, Miserable phantoms sigh; Quakes the pall. And the funeral goes by. Master, is it soothly said so That, as echoes of man's speech Far in secret clefts are made. So do all men's bodies reach Shadows o'er thy sunken beach, — Shape or shade ss In those halls portrayed of each? Ah ! might I, by thy good grace Groping in the windy stair (Darkness and the breath of space Like loud waters everywhere), 60 Meeting mine own image there Face to face. Send it from that place to her! Nay, not I ; but oh ! do thou. Master, from thy shadowkind 65 Call my body's phantom now : Bid it bear its face declined Till its flight her slumbers find, And her brow Feel its presence bow like wind. 70 Where in groves the gracile Spring Trembles, with mute orison Confidently strengthening, Water's voice and wind's as one Shed an echo in the sun. 75 Soft as Spring, Master, bid it sing and moan Song shall tell how glad and strong Is the night she soothes alway; Moan shall grieve with that parched tongue Of the brazen hours of day: 81 Sounds as of the springtide they. Moan and song. While the chill months long for May. Not the prayers which with all leave The world's fluent woes prefer, — Not the praise the world doth give, Dulcet fulsome whisperer ; — Let it yield my love to her. And achieve Strength that shall not grieve or err. 85 THE CLOUD CONFINES ^63 Wheresoe'er my dreams befall. Both at night-watch (let it say), And where round the sun-dial The reluctant hours of day, 95 Heartless, hopeless of their way, Rest and call ; — There her glance doth fall and stay. Suddenly her face is there: So do mounting vapors wreathe 'o° Subtle-scented transports where The black fir-wood sets its teeth Part the boughs, and looks beneath — Lilies share Secret waters there, and breathe. 10s Master, bid my shadow bend Whispering thus till birth of light. Lest new shapes that sleep may send Scatter all its work to flight ; — Master, master of the night, no Bid it spend Speech, song, prayer, and end aright. Yet, ah, me ! if at her head There another phantom lean Murmuring o'er the fragrant bed, "5 Ah I and if my spirit's queen Smile those alien prayers between, — Ah ! poor shade ! Shall it strive, or fade unseen? How should love's own messenger 120 Strive with love and be love's foe? Master, nay! If thus, in her, Sleep a wedded heart should show, — Silent let mine image go, Its old share 12s Of thy spell-bound air to know. Like a vapor wan and mute, Like a flame, so let it pass; One low sigh across her lute, One dull breath against her glass; '30 And to my sad soul, alas ! One salute Cold as when death's foot shall pass. Then, too, let all hopes of mine, All vain hopes by night and day, '35 Slowly at thy summoning sign Rise up pallid and obey. Dreams, if this is thus, were they: — Be they thine. And to dreamworld pine away. >4o Yet from old time, life, not death, Master, in thy rule is rife: Lo ! through thee, with mingling breath, Adam woke beside his wife. O Love, bring me so, for strife, MS Force and faith, Bring me so not death but life! Yea, to Love himself is poured This frail song of hope and fear. Thou art Love, of one accord 'So With kind Sleep to bring her near. Still-eyed, deep-eyed, ah, how dear ! Master, Lord, In her name implored, O hear ! (1870) THE CLOUD CONFINES The day is dark and the night To him that would search their heart; No lips of cloud that will part Nor morning song in the light : Only, gazing alone, 5 To him wild shadows are shown, Deep under deep unknown. And height above unknown height. Still we say as we go, — ' Strange to think by the way, 10 Whatever there is to know. That shall we know one day.' The Past is over and fled ; Named new, we name it the old; Thereof some tale hath been told, '5 But no word comes from the dead ■ Whether at all they be. Or whether as bond or free, Or whether they too were we, Or by what spell they have sped. 20 Still we say as we go, — ' Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day.' What of the heart of hate ^3 That beats in thy breast, O Time? — Red strife from the furthest prime, And anguish of fierce debate; War that shatters her slain. And peace that grinds them as grain, 30 And eyes fixed ever in vain On the pitiless eyes of Fate. Still we say as we go, — ' Strange to think by the way. Whatever there is to know, 35 That shall we know one day.' \\'hat of the heart of love That bleeds in thy breast, O Man ? 864 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI Thy kisses snatched 'neath the ban Of fangs that mock them above; Thy bells prolonged unto knells, Thy hope that a breath dispels, Thy bitter forlorn farewells And the empty echoes thereof? Still we say as we go,— ' Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day.' The sky leans dumb on the sea, Aweary with all its wings j And oh! the song the sea sings Is dark everlastingly. Our past is clean forgot, Our present is and is not. Our future 's a sealed seedplot. And what betwixt them are we? — We who say as we go, — ' Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day.' (1872) THREE SHADOWS I looked and saw your eyes In the shadow of your hair. As a traveler sees the stream In the shadow of the wood; And I said, ' My faint heart sighs, Ah me! to linger there. To drink deep and to dream In that sweet solitude.' I looked and saw your heart In the shadow of your eyes. As a seeker sees the gold In the shadow of the stream; And I said, ' Ah me ! what art Should win the immortal prize, Whose want must make life cold And heaven a hollow dream ? ' I looked and saw your love In the shadow of your heart, As a diver sees the pearl In the shadow of the sea; And I murmured, not above My breath, but all apart,— ' Ah ! you can love, true girl. And is your love for me?' (1881) THE KING'S TRAGEDY James I of Scots — 20TH February 1473 I Catherine am a Douglas born, A name to all Scots dear; And Kate Barlass they 've called me now Through many a waning year. This old arm 's withered now. 'T was once Most deft 'mong maidens all <» To rein the steed, to wing the shaft. To smite the palm-play ball. In hall adown the close-linked dance It has shone most white and fair; 'o It has been the rest for a true lord's head. And many a sweet babe's nursing-bed. And the bar to a King's chambere. Aye, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass, And hark with bated breath 15 How good King James, King Robert's son. Was foully done to death. Through all the days of his gallant youth The princely James was pent, By his friends at first and then by his foes, In long imprisonment. -z' For the elder prince, the kingdom's heir. By treason's murderous brood Was slain ; and the father quaked for the child With the royal mortal blood 25 r the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care, Was his childhood's life assured; And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke, Proud England's king, 'neath the southron yoke His youth for long years immured. 3° Yet in all things meet for a kingly man Himself did he approve; And the nightingale through his prison-wall Taught him both lore and love. For once, when the bird's song drew him close 35 To the opened window-pane. In her bower beneath a lady stood, A light of life to his sorrowful mood. Like a lily amid the rain. And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note. He framed a sweeter song, 4' j\lorc sweet than ever a poet's heart Gave yet to the English tongue. THE KING'S TRAGEDY 865 She was a lady of royal blood; And when, past sorrow and teen 45 He stood where still through his crownless years His Scottish realm had been, At Scone were the happy lovers crowned, A heart-wed king and queen. But the bird may fall from the bough of youth, so And song be turned to moan, And love's storm-cloud be the shadow of hate, When the tempest-waves of a troubled state Are beating against a throne. Yet well they loved ; and the god of love, SS Whom well the king had sung. Might find on the earth no truer hearts His lowliest swains among. From the days when first she rode abroad With Scottish maids in her train, 60 I Catherine Douglas won the trust Of my mistress sweet Queen Jane. And oft she sighed, ' To be born a King ! ' And oft along the way W'hen she saw the homely lovers pass 65 She has said, 'Alack the day!' Years waned, — the loving and toiling years: Till England's wrong renewed Drove James, by outrage cast on his crown. To the open field of feud. 70 'T was when the king and his host were met At the leaguer of Roxbro' hold. The queen o' the sudden sought his camp With a tale of dread to be told. And she showed him a secret letter writ 75 That spoke of treasonous strife, And how a band of his noblest lords Were sworn to take his life. ' And it may be here or it may be there, In the camp or the court,' she said: 80 ' But for my sake come to your people's arms And guard your royal head.' Quoth he, " 'T is the fifteenth day of the siege. And the castle 's nigh to yield.' ' O face your foes on your throne,' she cried, ' And show the power you wield ; 86 | And under your Scottish people's love Vou shall sit as under your shield.' At the fair queen's side I stood that day When he bade them raise the siege, 9° And back to his court he sped to know How the lords would meet their liege. But when he summoned his parliament. The louring brows hung round, Like clouds that circle the mountain-head 95 Ere the first low thunders sound. For he had tamed the nobles' lust And curbed their power and pride. And reached out an arm to right the poor Through Scotland far and wide; 100 And many a lordly wrong-doer By the headsman's axe had died. 'T was then upspoke Sir Robert Graeme, The bold o'ermastering man : — ' O King, in the name of your Three Es- tates 105 I set you under their ban ! ' For, as your lords made oath to you Of service and fealty. Even in like wise you pledged your oath Their faithful sire to be: — no ■ Yet all we here that are nobly sprung Have mourned dear kith and kin Since first for the Scottish Barons' curse Did your bloody rule begin.' With that he laid his hands on his king: — ■ Is this not so, my lords?' 116 But of all who had sworn to league with him Not one spake back to his words. Quoth the King : — ' Thou speak'st but for one Estate, Nor doth it avow thy gage. 120 Let my liege lords hale this traitor hence ! ' The Graeme fired dark with rage : — 'Who works for lesser men than himself, He earns but a witness wage ! ' But soon from the dungeon where he lay "25 He won by privy plots. And forth he fled with a price on his head To the country of the Wild Scots. And word there came from Sir Robert GrcTme To the King of Edinbro' : — 13c 866 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTl ' No liege of mine thou art ; but I see From this clay forth alone in llicc God's creature, my mortal foe. 'Through thee are my wife and children lost, My heritage and lands; '35 And when my God shall show nie a way, Thyself my mortal foe will 1 slay With these my proper hands.' Against the coming of Christmastido That year the king bade call 140 r the Black Friars' Charterhouse of Perth A solemn festival. And we of his household rode with him In a close-ranked company; But not till the sun had sunk from his throne 14s Did we reach the Scottish Sea. That eve was clenched for a boding storm, 'Neath a toilsome moon, half seen; The cloud stooped low and the surf rose high ; And where there was a line of the sky, '5" Wild wings loomed dark between. And on a rock of the black beach-side By the veiled moon dimly lit, There was something seemed to heave with life As the king drew nigh to it. 155 And was it only the tossing furze Or brake of the waste sea-wold? Or was it an eagle bent to the blast? When near we came, we knew it at last For a woman tattered and old. ^('^ But it seemed as though by a fire within Her writhen limbs were wrung; And as soon as the king was close to her. She stood up gaunt and strong. 'T was then the moon sailed clear of the rack 16s On high in her hollow dome ; And still as aloft with hoary crest Each clamorous wave rang home. Like fire in snow the moonlight blazed Amid the champing foam. 170 And the woman held his eyes with her eyes : — *0 King, thou art come at last; But thy wraith has haunted the Scottish Sea To my sight for four years past. ' F^jur years it is since first 1 met, 175 Twi.xt the Duchray and the Dim, A shape whose feet clung close in a shroud, And that shape for thine I knew. 'A year again, and on Inchkeilh Isle I saw thee pass in the breeze, 180 With the cerecloth risen above thy feet And wound about thy knees. ' And yet a year, in the Links of Forth, As a wanderer without rest. Thou cani'st with both thine arms i' the shroud '85 That clung high up thy breast. ' And in this hour I find thee here. And well mine eyes may note That the winding-sheet hath passed thy breast And risen around thy throat. 190 ' And when I meet thee again, O King, That of death hast such sore drouth, — Except thou turn again on this shore,— The winding-sheet shall have moved once more And covered thine eyes and mouth. '95 'O King, whom poor men bless for their king, Of thy fate be not so fain ; But these my words for God's message take, And turn thy steed, O King, for her sake Who rides beside thy rein ! ' 200 While the woman spoke, the king's horse reared As if it would breast the sea. And the queen turned pale as she heard on the gale The voice die dolorously. When the woman ceased, the steed was still, But the king gazed on her yet, -06 And in silence save for the wail of the sea His eyes and her eyes met. At last he said: — 'God's ways are his own; Man is but shadow and dust. ~^° Last night I prayed by his altar-stone; To-night I wend to the Feast of His Son; And in him I set my trust. THE KING'S TRAGEDY 867 And the Earl of Athole, the king's false friend, 260 Sat with him at the board ; And Robert Stuart the chamberlain Who had sold his sovereign lord. Yet the traitor Christopher Chaumber there Would fain have told him all, 265 And vainly four times that night he strove To reach the king through the hall. But the wine is bright at the goblet's brim Though the poison lurk beneath ; And the apples still are red on the tree -270 Within whose shade may the adder be That shall turn thy life to death. There was a knight of the king's fast friends Whom he called the King of Love; And to such bright cheer and courtesy ^75 That name might best behoove. And the king and queen both loved him well For his gentle knightliness ; And with him the king, as that eve wore on, Was playing at the chess. 280 And the king said, (for he thought to jest And soothe the queen thereby) — ' In a book 't is writ that this same year A king shall in Scotland die. ' And I have pondered the matter o'er, 285 And this have I found, Sir Hugh, — There are but two kings on Scottish ground, And those kings are I and you. 'And I have a wife and a newborn heir. And you are yourself alone; 290 So stand you stark at my side with me To guard our double throne. ' For here sit 1 and my wife and child, As well your heart shall approve. In full surrender and soothfastness, 295 Beneath your Kingdom of Love.' And the knight laughed, and the queen too smiled ; But I knew her heavy thought, And I strove to find in the good king's jest What cheer might thence be wrought. 300 And I said, ' My Liege, for the queen's dear love Now sing the song that of old You made, when a captive prince you lay, ' I have held my people in sacred charge, And have not feared the sting 21S Of proud men's hate, — to his will resigned Who has but one same death for a hind And one same death for a king. 'And if God in his wisdom have brought close The day when I must die, -220 That day by water or fire or air My feet shall fall in the destined snare Wherever my road may lie. * What man can say but the Fiend hath set Thy sorcery on my path, 225 My heart with the fear of death to fill. And turn me against God's very will To sink in his burning wrath ? ' The woman stood as the train rode past, And moved nor limb nor eye ; 230 And when we were shipped, we saw her there Still standing against the sky. As the ship made way, the moon once more Sank slow in her rising pall ; And I thought of the shrouded wraith of the king, 23s And I said, 'The heavens know all.' And now, ye lasses, must ye hear How my name is Kate Barlass: — But a little thing, when all the tale Is told of the weary mass 240 Of crime and woe which in Scotland's realm God's will let come to pass. 'T was in the Charterhouse of Perth That the king and all his court Were met, the Christmas Feast being done, For solace and disport. 246 'T was a wind-wild eve in February, And against the casement-pane The branches smote like summoning hands And muttered the driving rain. 250 And when the wind swooped over the lift And made the whole heaven frown. It seemed a grip was laid on the walls To tug the housetop down. And the queen was there, more stately fair Than a lily in garden set ; 256 And the king was loth to stir from her side; For as on the day when she was his bride. Even so he loved her yet. 868 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI And the nightingale sang sweet on the spray, In Windsor's castle-hold.' 305 Then he smiled the smile I knew so well When he thought to please the queen ; The smile which under all bitter frowns Of hate that rose between, For ever dwelt at the poet's heart 3>o Like the bird of love unseen. And he kissed her hand and took his harp, And the music sweetly rang; And when the song burst forth, it seemed 'Twas the nightingale that sang. 315 ' Worship, ye lovers, on this May: Of bliss your kalends are begun: Sing with us, Aivay, Winter, away! Come, Summer, the sweet season and sun! Awake for shame, — your heaven is won, — And amorously your heads lift all: 3-^ Thank Love, that you to his grace doth call! ' But when he bent to the queen and sang The speech whose praise was hers. It seemed his voice was the voice of the spring 3-2S And the voice of the bygone years. ' The fairest and the freshest Uower That ever I saw before that hour, The which o' the sudden made to start The blood of my body to my heart. 330 Ah sweet, are ye a worldly creature Or heavenly thing in form of nature?' And the song was long, and richly stored With wonder and beauteous things; And the harp was tuned to every change Of minstrel ministerings ; 336 But when he spoke of the queen at the last, Its strings were his own heart-strings. ' Unworthy but only of her grace, Upon Love's rock that's easy and sure, 340 In guerdon of all my love's space She took me her humble creature. Thus fell my blissful aventure In youth of love that from day to day Flowereth aye new, and further I say. 345 ' To reckon all the circumstance As It happed ivhen lessen gan my sore, Of my rancor and ivoful chance. It were too long.— I have done therefor. And of this liozver I say no more 35° But unto my help her heart hath tended And even from death her man defended.' 'Aye, even from death,' to myself I said; For 1 thought of the day when she Had borne him the news, at Roxbro' siege, Of the fell confederacy. 356 But Death even then took aim as he sang With an arrow deadly bright ; And the grinning skull lurked grimly aloof, And the wings were spread far over the roof 360 More dark than the winter night. Yet truly along the amorous song Of Love's high pomp and state. There were words of Fortune's trackless doom And the dreadful face of Fate. 36s And oft have I heard again in dreams The voice of dire appeal In which the king then sang of the pit That is under Fortune's wheel. 'And under the wheel beheld I there 37° An ugly pit as deep as hell, That to behold I quaked for fear: And this I heard, that who therein fell Came no more up, tidings to tell: Whereat, astound of the fearful sight, 375 / wist not what to do for fright.' And oft has my thought called up again These words of the changeful song: — ' Wist thou thy pain and thy travail To come, well tnight'st thou xveep and zvaiH' And our wail, O God! is long. 381 But the song's end was all of his love; And well his heart was graced With her smiling lips and her tear-bright eyes As his arm went round her waist. 385 And on the swell of her long fair throat Close clung the necklet-chain As he bent her pearl-tired head aside, And in the warmth of his love and pride He kissed her lips full fain. 39o And her true face was a rosy red, The very red of the rose That, couched on the happy garden-bed, In the summer sunlight glows. THE KING'S TRAGEDY 869 And all the wondrous things of love 395 That sang so sweet throngh the song Were in the look that met in their eyes, And the look was deep and long. 'Twas then a knock came at the outer gate, And the usher sought the king. 400 ' The woman you met by the Scottish Sea, j\Iy Liege, would tell you a thing; And she says that her present need for speech Will bear no gainsaying.' And the king said : ' The hour is late ; 40s To-morrow will serve, I ween.' Then he charged the usher strictly, and said: ' No word of this to the queen.' But the usher came again to the king. 'Shall I call her back?' quoth he: 4>o ' For as she went on her way, she cried, " Woe ! woe ! then the thing must be ! " ' And the king paused, but he did not speak. Then he called for the voidee-cup : And as we heard the twelfth hour strike, 415 There by true lips and false lips alike Was the draught of trust drained up. So with reverence meet to king and queen, To bed went all from the board: And the last to leave of the courtly train Was Robert Stuart the chamberlain 4-'i Who had sold his sovereign lord. And all the locks of the chamber-door Had the traitor riven and brast; And that Fate might win sure way from afar, 4-'5 He had drawn out every bolt and bar That made the entrance fast. And now at midnight he stole his way To the moat of the outer wall. And laid strong hurdles closely across 430 Where the traitors' tread should fall. But we that were the queen's bower-maids Alone were left behind ; And with heed we drew the curtains close Against the winter wind. 435 And now that all was still through the hall, More clearly we heard the rain That clamored ever against the glass . And the boughs that beat on the pane. But the fire was bright in the ingle-nook, 440 And through empty space around The shadows cast on the arrased wall 'AJid the pictured kings stood sudden and tall Like specters sprung from the ground. And the bed was dight in a deep alcove ; 443 And as he stood by the fire The king was still in talk with the queen While he doflfed his goodly attire. And the song had brought the image back Of many a bygone year; 450 And many a loving word they said With hand in hand and head laid to head; And none of us went anear. But Love was weeping outside the house, A child in the piteous rain; 455 And as he watched the arrow of Death, He wailed for his own shafts close in the sheath That never should fly again. And now beneath the window arose A wild voice suddenly : 460 And the king reared straight, but the queen fell back As for bitter dule to dree; And all of us knew the woman's voice Who spoke by the Scottish Sea. * O King,' she cried, ' in an evil hour 465 They drove me from thy gate; And yet my voice must rise to thine ears ; But alas ! it comes too late ! ' Last night at mid-watch, by Aberdour, When the moon was dead in the skies, 470 O King, in a death-light of thine own I saw thy shape arise. ' And in full season, as erst I said, The doom had gained its growth; And the shroud had risen above thy neck 475 And covered thine eyes and mouth. ' And no moon woke, but the pale dawn broke. And still thy soul stood there; And I thought its silence cried to my soul As the first rays crowned its hair. 480 ' Since then have I journeyed fast and fain In very despite of Fate, Lest hope might still be found in God's will : But they drove me from thy gate. 870 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI ' For every man on God's gronnd, O King, His death grows up from his hirth 486 In a shadow-plant perpetually; And thine towers high, a black yew-tree, O'er the Charterhouse of Perth ! ' That room was built far out from the house ; And none but we in the room 49i Might hear the voice that rose beneath. Nor the tread of the coming doom. For now there came a torchlight-glare, And a clang of arms there came; 49S And not a soul in that space but thought Of the foe Sir Robert Graeme. Yea, from the country of the Wild Scots. O'er mountain, valley, and glen. He had brought with him in murderous league soo Three hundred armed men. The king knew all in an instant's flash, And like a king did he stand ; But there was no armor in all the room, Nor weapon lay to his hand. 505 And all we women flew to the door And thought to have made it fast; But the bolts were gone and the bars were gone And the locks were riven and brast. And he caught the pale, pale queen in his arms ^lo As the iron footsteps fell, — Then loosed her, standing alone, and said, ' Our bliss was our farewell ! ' And 'twixt his lips he murmured a prayer, And he crossed his brow and breast; 5>5 And proudly in royal hardihood Even so with folded arms he stood, — The prize of the bloody quest. Then on me leaped the queen like a deer : — ' O Catherine, help ! ' she cried. s-^o And low at his feet we clasped his knees Together side by side. ' Oh ! even a king, for his people's sake. From treasonous death must hide ! ' ' For her sake most ! ' I cried, and I marked The pang that my words could wring. 5-'6 And the iron tongs from the chimney-nook I snatched and held to the king : — ' Wrench up the plank ! and the vault be- neath Shall yield safe harboring.' With brows low-bent, from my eager hand The heavy heft did he take; And the plank at his feet he wrenched and tore ; And as he frowned through the open floor, Again I said, ' For her sake 1 ' S3S Then he cried to the queen, ' God's will be done ! ' For her hands were clasped in prayer. And down he sprang to the inner crypt; And straight we closed the plank he had ripped. And toiled to smooth it fair. 54° (Alas! in that vault a gap once was Wherethro' the king might have fled : But three days since close-walled had it been By his will ; for the ball would roll therein When without at the palm he played.) 545 Then the queen cried, ' Catherine, keep the door. And I to this will suffice!' At her word I rose all dazed to my feet. And my heart was fire and ice. And louder ever the voices grew, 550 And the tramp of men in mail ; Until to my brain it seemed to be As though I tossed on a ship at sea In the teeth of a crashing gale. Then back I flew to the rest; and hard 555 We strove with sinews knit To force the table against the door But we might not compass it. Then my wild gaze sped far down the hall To the place of the hearthstone-sill; 560 And the queen bent ever above the floor, For the plank was rising still. And now the rush was heard on the stair. And 'God, what help?' was our cry. And was I frenzied or was I bold? 565 I looked at each empty stanchion-hold. And no bar but my arm had I ! Like iron felt my arm, as through The staple I made it pass : — Alack! it was flesh and bone — no more! 57" 'T was Catherine Douglas sprang to the door, But I fell back Kate Barlass. With that they all thronged into the hall, Half dim to my failing ken; THE KING'S TRAGEDY 871 And the space that was but a void before 575 Was a crowd of wrathful men. Behind the door I had fall'n and lay, Yet my sense was widely aware, And for all the pain of my shattered arm I never fainted there. 580 Even as I fell, my eyes were cast Where the king leaped down to the pit ; And lo! the plank was smooth in its place, And the queen stood far from it. And under the litters and through the bed And within the presses all 5^6 The traitors sought for the king, and pierced The arras around the wall. And through the chamber they ramped and I stormed j Like lions loose in the lair, 590 And scarce could trust to their very eyes, — I For behold ! no king was there. 1 Then one of them seized the queen, and ! cried, — ■ ' Now tell us, where is thy lord? ' And he held the sharp point over her [ heart: 59s She drooped not her eyes nor did she start, j But she answered never a word. j Then the sword half pierced the true true I breast : ; But it was the Graeme's own son i Cried, * This is a woman, — we seek a man ! ' 1 And away from her girdle-zone 601 I He struck the point of the murderous steel ; j And that foul deed was not done. ■ And forth flowed all the throng like a sea, And 't was empty space once more ; 605 And my eyes sought out the wounded queen i As I lay behind the door. And I said : ' Dear Lady, leave me here. For I cannot help you now ; But fly while you may, and none shall reck Of my place here lying low.' 611 And she said, ' My Catherine, God help thee ! ' Then she looked to the distant floor, And clasping her hands, ' O God help him/ She sobbed, 'for we can no more!' 615 But God he knows what help may mean. If it mean to live or to die; And what sore sorrow and mighty moan On earth it may cost ere yet a throne Be filled in his house on high. 620 And now the ladies fled with the queen ; And through the open door The night-wind wailed round the empty room And the rushes shook on the floor. And the bed drooped low in the dark recess Whence the arras was rent away ; 626 And the firelight still shone over the space Where our hidden secret lay. And the rain had ceased, and the moonbeams lit The window high in the wall, — 630 Bright beams that on the plank that I knew Through the painted pane did fall And gleamed with the splendor of Scotland's crown And shield armorial. But then a great wind swept up the skies, 635 And the climbing moon fell back; And the royal blazon fled from the floor. And naught remained on its track; And high in the darkened window-pane The shield and the crown were black. 640 And what I say next I partly saw And partly I heard in sooth. And partly since from the murderers' lips The torture wrung the truth. For now again came the armed tread, 645 And fast through the hall it fell; But the throng was less : and ere I saw, By the voice without I could tell That Robert Stuart had come with them Who knew that chamber well. 650 And over the space the Graeme strode dark With his mantle round him flung; And in his eye was a flaming light But not a word on his tongue. .\nd Stuart held a torch to the floor, 655 And he found the thing he sought ; And they slashed the plank away with their swords ; And O God! I fainted not! And the traitor held his torch in the gap. All smoking and smoldering; 660 872 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI And through the vapor and fire, beneath In the dark crypt's narrow ring, With a shout that pealed to the room's high roof They saw their naked king. Half naked he stood, but stood as one 665 Who yet could do and dare: With the crown, the king was stript away,— The knight was reft of his battle-array,— But still the man was there. From the rout then stepped a villain forth, Sir John Hall was his name; ^71 With a knife unsheathed he leapt to the vault Beneath the torchlight-flame. Of his person and stature was the king A man right manly strong, ^75 And mightily by the shoulder-blades His foe to his feet he flung. Then the traitor's brother, Sir Thomas Hall, Sprang down to work his worst ; And the king caught the second man by the neck ^«° And flung him above the first. And he smote and trampled them under him; And a long month thence they bare All black their throats with the grip of his hands When the hangman's hand came there. 683 And sore he strove to have had their knives, But the sharp blades gashed his hands. Oh! James so armed, thou hadst battled there Till help had come of thy bands; And oh! once more thou hadst held our throne ^^o And ruled thy Scottish lands 1 But while the king o'er his foes still raged With a heart that naught could tame, Another man sprang down to the crypt ; And with his sword in his hand hard- gripped, 695 There stood Sir Robert Graeme. (Now shame on the recreant traitor's heart Who durst not face his king. Till the body unarmed was wearied out With two-fold combating! 7°° Ah! well might the people sing and say. As oft ye have heard aright: — O Robert Grccmc, O Robert Grccine, Who slew our king, God give thee shame! ' For he slew him not as a knight.) 7"5 And the naked king turned round at bay, But his strength had passed the goal, And he could but gasp: — 'Mine hour is come ; But oh ! to succor thine own soul's doom, Let a priest now shrive my soul ! ' 710 And the traitor looked on the king's spent strength And said: — 'Have I kept my word? — Yea, King, the mortal pledge that I gave? No black friar's shrift thy soul shall have. But the shrift of this red sword!' "'S With that he smote his king through the breast ; And all they three in the pen Fell on him and stabbed and stabbed him there Like merciless murderous men. Yet seemed it now that Sir Robert Graeme, Ere the king's last breath was o'er, 7^' Turned sick at heart with the deadly sight And would have done no more. But a cry came from the troop above : — 'H him thou do not slay, 7-25 The price of his life that thou dost spare Thy forfeit life shall pay!' O God ! what more did I hear or see, Or how should I tell the rest, But there at length our king lay slain 7Zo With sixteen wounds in his breast. O God ! and now did a bell boom forth, And the murderers turned and fled ; — Too late, too late, O God, did it sound? — And I heard the true men mustering round, And the cries and the coming tread. 73^ But ere they came, to the black death-gap Somewise did I creep and steal ; And lo ! or ever I swooned away. Through the dusk I saw where the white face lay 740 In the pit of Fortune's wheel. And now, ye Scottish maids who have heard Dread things of the days grown old, — Even at the last, of true Queen Jane May somewhat yet be told. 745 THE HOUSE OF LIFE 873 And how she dealt for her dear lord's sake Dire vengeance manifold. 'T was in the Charterhouse of Perth, In the fair-lit Death-chapelle, That the slain King's corpse on bier was laid 750 With chaunt and requiem-knell. And all with royal wealth of balm Was the body purified ; And none could trace on the brow and lips The death that he had died. 755 In his robes of state he lay asleep With orb and scepter in hand ; And by the crown he wore on his throne Was his kingly forehead spanned. And, girls, 't was a sweet sad thing to see How the curling golden hair, 761 As in the day of the poet's youth, From the king's crown clustered there. And if all had come to pass in the brain That throbbed beneath those curls, 765 Then Scots had said in the days to come That this their soul was a different home And a different Scotland, girls ! And the queen sat by him night and day. And oft she knelt in prayer, 770 All wan and pale in the widow's veil That shrouded her shining hair. And I had got good help of my hurt: And only to me some sign She made ; and save the priests that were there 775 No face would she see but mine. And the month of March wore on apace ; And now fresh couriers fared Still from the country of the Wild Scots With news of the traitors snared. 780 And still as I told her day by day, Her pallor changed to sight, And the frost grew to a furnace-flame, That burnt her visage white. And evermore as I brought her word, 78s She bent to her dead King James, And in the cold ear with fire-drawn breath. She spoke the traitors' names. But when the name of Sir Robert Graeme Was the one she had to give, 79" I ran to hold her up from the floor; For the froth was on her lips, and sore I feared that she could not live. And the month of March wore nigh to its end, And still was the death-pall spread; 795 For she would not bury her slaughtered lord Till his slayers all were dead. And now of their dooms dread tidings came. And of torments fierce and dire; And naught she spake, — she had ceased to speak, 800 But her eyes were a soul on fire. But when I told her the bitter end Of the stern and just award. She leaned o'er the bier, and thrice three times She kissed the lips of her lord. 805 And then she said, — ' My King, they are dead ! ' And she knelt on the chapel-floor, And whispered low with a strange proud smile, ' James, James, they suffered more ! ' Last she stood up to her queenly height. But she shook like an autumn leaf, 811 As though the fire wherein she burned Then left the body, and all were turned To winter of life-long grief. And ' O James ! ' she said, — ' My James ! ' she said, — 815 ' Alas for the woeful thing, That a poet true and a friend of man. In desperate days of bale and ban. Should needs be born a King 1 ' (1881) SONNETS FROM THE HOUSE OF LIFE A Sonnet is a moment's monument^ — Memorial from the Soul's eternity, To one dead deathless hour. Look that it be, I Whether for lustral rite or dire portent, Of its own arduous fulness reverent: 5 Carve it in ivory or in ebony, As Day or Night may rule; and let Time see Its floivcrinci crest impearlcd and orient. A Sonnet is a coin: its face reveals 874 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI The soul, — its converse, to zvhat Pozvcr 't is due:— 1° Wliether for tribute to the august afij^eals Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue, It serve; or, 'mid the dark wharf's cavernous breath, In Charon's palm it pay the toll to Death. IV. LOVE-SIGHT When do I see thee most, beloved one? When in the light the spirits of mine eyes Before thy face, their altar, solemnize The worship of that Love through thee made known? Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,) Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies, 6 Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies, And my soul only sees thy soul its own? O love, my love! if I no more should see Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, 10 Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, — How then should sound upon Life's darken- ing slope, The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, The wind of Death's imperishable wing? XIX. SILENT NOON Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,— The finger-points look through like rosy blooms : Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms 'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass. 4 All round our nest, far as the eye can pass. Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn - hedge. 'T is visible silence, still as the hour-glass. Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly, Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky: — 10 So this winged hour is dropt to us from above. Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower. This close-companioned inarticulate hour When two-fold silence was the song of love. XXI. LOVE-SWEETNESS Sweet dimness of her loosened hair's down- fall About thy face; her sweet hands round thy head Tn gracious fostering union garlanded ; Her tremulous smiles; her glances' sweet recall Of love; her murmuring sighs memorial; S Her mouth's culled sweetness by thy kisses shed On checks and neck and eyelids, and so led P.ack to her mouth which answers there for all:- What sweeter than these things, except the thing In lacking which all these would lose their sweet: — lo The confident heart's still fervor; the swift beat And soft subsidence of the spirit's wing. Then when it feels in cloud-girt wayfaring, The breath of kindred plumes against its feet? XXVI. MID-RAPTURE Thou lovely and beloved, thou my love ; Whose kiss seems still the first ; whose sum- moning eyes. Even now, as for our love-world's new sun- rise. Shed very dawn ; whose voice,, attuned above All modulation of the deep-bowered dove, Is like a hand laid softly on the soul; 6 Whose hand is like a sweet voice to control Those worn tired brows it hath the keeping of: — What word can answer to thy word, — what gaze To thine, which now absorbs within its sphere lo My worshipping face, till I am mirrored there Light-circled in a heaven of deep-drawn rays? What clasp, what kiss mine inmost heart can prove, O lovely and beloved, O my love? LV. STILLBORN LOVE The hour which might have been yet might not be. Which man's and woman's heart conceived and bore Yet whereof life was barren, — on what shore Bides it the breaking of Time's weary sea? Bondchild of all consummate joys set free, 5 It somewhere sighs and serves, and mute be- fore The house of Love, hears through the echoing door THE HOUSE OF LIFE 875 His hours elect in choral consonancy. But lo! what wedded souls now hand in hand Together tread at last the immortal strand 1° With eyes where burning memory lights love home? Lo ! how the little outcast hour has turned And leaped to them and in their faces yearned : — ' I am your child : O parents, ye have come! * LXIII. INCLUSIVENESS The changing guests, each in a different mood. Sit at the roadside table and arise: And every life among them in likewise Is a soul's board set daily with new food. What man has bent o'er his son's sleep, to brood 5 How that face shall watch his when cold it lies? — Or thought, as his own mother kissed his eyes, Of what her kiss was when his father wooed ? May not this ancient room thou sitt'st in dwell In separate living souls for joy or pain? 10 Nay, all its corners may be painted plain? Where heaven shows pictures of some life spent well ; And may be stamped, a memory all in vain. Upon the sight of lidless eyes in hell. LXV. KNOWN IN VAIN As two whose love, first foolish, widening scope. Knows suddenly, to music high and soft, The holy of holies; who because they scoffed Are now amazed with shame, nor dare to cope With the whole truth aloud, lest heaven should ope; 5 Yet, at their meetings, laugh not as they laughed In speech; nor speak, at length; but sitting oft Together, within hopeless sight of hope For hours are silent : — So it happeneth When Work and Will awake too late, to gaze 10 After their life sailed by, and hold their breath. Ah ! who shall dare to search through what sad maze Thenceforth their incommunicable ways Follow the desultory feet of Death? LXXI. THE CHOICE. I Eat thou and drink; to-morrow thou shalt die. Surely the earth, that 's wise being very old, Needs not our help. Then loose me, love, and hold Thy sultry hair up from my face; that I May pour for thee this golden wine, brim- high, 5 Till round the glass thy fingers glow like gold. We'll drown all hours; thy song, while hours are tolled, Shall leap, as fountains veil the changing sky. Now kiss, and think that there are really those, My own high-bosomed beauty, who increase Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose our way ! n Through many years they toil ; then on a day They die not, — for their life was death, — but cease; And round their narrow lips the mold falls close. LXXII. THE CHOICE. II Watch thou and fear; to-morrow thou shalt die. Or art thou sure thou shalt have time for death ? Is not the day which God's word promiseth To come man knows not when? In yon- der sky, Now while we speak, the sun speeds forth: can I 5 Or thou assure him of his goal? God's breath Even at this moment haply quickeneth The air to a flame; till spirits, always nigh Though screened and hid, shall walk the daylight here. And dost thou prate of all that man shall do ? 10 Canst thou, who hast but plagues, presume to be Glad in his gladness that comes after thee? Will his strength slay thy worm in hell? Go to: Cover thy countenance, and watch, and fear. LXXIII. THE CHOICE. Ill Think thou and act; to-morrow thou shalt die. 876 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI Outstretched in the sun's warmth upon the shore, Thou say'st : 'Man's measured path is all gone o'er; Up all his years, steeply, with strain and sigh, Man clomb until he touched the truth; and I, Even I, am he whom it was destined for.' How should this be? Art thou then so much more Than they who sowed, that thou shouldst reap thereby? Nay, come up hither. From this wave- washed mound Unto the furthest flood-brim look with me; Jo Then reach on with thy thought till it be drowned. Miles and miles distant though the last line be, And though thy soul sail leagues and leagues beyond, — Still, leagues beyond those leagues, there is more sea. LXXXVI. LOST DAYS The lost days of my life until to-day. What were they, could I see them on the street Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat Sown once for food but trodden into clay? Or golden coins squandered and still to pay? 5 Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet? Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat The undying throats of hell, athirst alway? I do not see them here ; but after death God knows I know the faces I shall see, 1° Each one a murdered self, with low last breath. 'I am thyself, — what hast thou done to me? ' 'And I — and I — thyself.' (lo! each one saith) ' And thou thyself to all eternity ! ' XCVII. A SUPERSCRIPTION Look in my face; my name is Might-have- been ; I am also called No-more, Too-late, Fare- well ; I'nto thine car I hold the dead-sea shell Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen 5 Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart One moment through thy soul the soft sur- prise to Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs, — Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart, Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. CI. THE ONE HOPE When vain desire at last and vain regret Go hand in hand to death, and all is vain. What shall assuage the unforgotten pain And teach the un forgetful to forget? Shall Peace be still a sunk stream long un- met, — 5 Or may the soul at once in a green plain Stoop through the spray of some sweet life- fountain And cull the dew-drenched flowering amu- let? Ah ! when the wan soul in that golden air Between the scriptured petals softly blown 'o Peers breathless for the gift of grace un- known, — Ah! let none other alien spell soe'er But only the one Hope's one name be there, — Not less nor more, but even that word alone. (1869, 1870, 1881) WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) After a youth of wide reading and varied schooling, Morris reached Exeter College, Oxford, in 1853, with broad information and strongly developed intellectual tendencies. Aside from a notable achievement in general reading, the most important result of his Oxford residence was a close friendship with Edward Burue-Joncs, with whom he continued to live in the closest intimacy. A propensity toward Romanism, and then toward Anglicanism, resolved itself ultimately into an enthusiam for art, for social reform, and for the utterances of Carlyle, Ruskin, and Kingsley. Travels in northern France, in 1854 and 18.55, together with his per- manent love for French Gothic art, led to his decision to become an architect. After he had studied architecture sincerely for a year or so, Rossetti persuaded him to take a studio and devote himself to painting. Morris found his true vocation, however, when, in 1861, with Rossetti, Burne-Jones, and others, he established a firm in Loudon for designing and manufac- turing artistic furniture and household decorations. The scope of the enterprise was eventu- ally enlarged to include the manufacture of textiles, dyeing, book-illumination, and printing. In 1890, Morris foimded the famous Kelmscott Press, at Hammersmith. In advancing the minor arts and in sustaining the principle that every object and utensil should be beautiful, Morris did more than any other man of his time. In 1885, he became an active socialist, lec- turing freely to workingmen, and contributing to The Commonweal, the organ of the Social- istic League. Except during certain periods of interruption, Morris wrote voluminously throughout his life. The Defence of Guinevere (1858), his earliest considerable publication, is among his best. From the Arthurian themes of this work, he turned with facility to the Greek, Old French, and Norse stories seen in Life and Death of Jason (1867), The Earthly Paradise (1868-70), and Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the 'NiUungs (1876). Aside from these original poetical writings, Morris's chief works are his romances, — in prose, or in prose and verse, — of which the most important are A Tale of the House of the Wol/itigs (1889), The Roots of the Mountains (1890), The Story of the Glitternig Plain (1891) and The Well at the World's End (1896). Of his translations the most notable are the Gretiis Saga (1869) and the Vdlsunga Saga (1870). Morris stands preeminent in the literature of the nine- teenth century as a charming story-teller. In his stories we find neither humor nor a dramatic grasp of situations, but rather, dreamy narrative idealizations of an alluring past. THE EARTHLY PARADISE Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, I cannot case the burden of your fears, Or make quick-commg death a little thing. Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, S Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day. But rather, when aweary of your mirth. From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh. And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, lo Grudge every minute as it passes by. Made the more mindful that the sweet days die- Remember me a little then. I pray. The idle singer of an empty day. The heavy trouble, the bewildering care is That weighs us dowm who live and earn our bread. These idle verses have no power to bear; So let me sing of names remembered. Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead, Or long time take their memory quite away 20 From us poor singers of an empty day. Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? Let it suffice me that my murmuring rime Beats with light wing against the ivory gate, 25 Telling a tale not too importunate To those who in the sleepy region stay. Lulled by the singer of an empty day. 877 878 WILLIAM MORRIS 1 Folk say, a wizard to a northern king At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show, 30 That through one window men beheld the spring, And through another saw the summer glow. And through a third the fruited vines arow, While still, unheard, but in its wonted way, Piped the drear wind of that December day. 35 So with this Earthly Paradise it is. If ye will read aright and pardon me. Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss :]\Iidmost the beating of the steely sea, Where tossed about all hearts of men must be; 40 Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay. Not the poor singer of an empty day. ATALANTA'S RACE Atalanta, daughter of King Schoeneus, not will- ing to lose her virgin's estate, made it a law to all suitors that they should run a race with her in the public place, and if they failed to overcome her should die unrevenged; and thus many brave men perished. At last came Mila- nion, the son of Amphidamas, who, outrunning her with the help of Venus, gained the virgin and wedded her. I Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter went, Following the beasts up, on a fresh spring day; But since his horn-tipped bow, but seldom bent, Now at the noontide naught had happed to slay. Within a vale he called his hounds away, 5 Hearkening the echoes of his lone voice cling About the cliffs and through the beech- trees ring. But when they ended, still awhile he stood. And but the sweet familiar thrush could hear. And all the day-long noises of the wood, 'o And o'er the dry leaves of the vanished year His hounds' feet pattering as they drew anear. And heavy breathing from their heads low hung. To see the mighty cornel bow unstrung. Then smiling did he turn to leave the place, 1 5 But with his first step some new fleeting thought A shadow cast across his sunburnt face : I think (he golden net that April brought From some warm world his wavering soul had caught ; For, sunk in vague sweet longing, did he go 20 Betwixt the trees with doubtful steps and slow. Yet howsoever slow he went, at last The trees grew sparser, and the wood was done; Whereon one farewell, backward look he cast, Then, turning round to see what place was won, 25 With shaded eyes looked underneath the sun. And o'er green meads and new-turned fur- rows brown Beheld the gleaming of King Schoeneus' town. So thitherward he turned, and on each side The folk were busy on the teeming land, 3° And man and maid from the brown fur- rows cried. Or midst the newly blossomed vines did stand. And as the rustic weapon pressed the hand Thought of the nodding of the well-tilled ear. Or how the knife the heavy bunch should shear. 35 Merry it was : about him sung the birds. The spring flowers bloomed along the firm dry road. The sleek-skinned mothers of the sharp- horned herds Now for the barefoot milking-maidens lowed ; While from the freshness of his blue abode, 40 Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget, The broad sun blazed, nor scattered plagues as yet. THE EARTHLY PARADISE 879 Through such fair things unto the gates he came, And found them open, as though peace were there ; Wherethrough, unquestioned of his race or name, 45 He entered, and along the streets 'gan fare, Which at the first of folk were wellnigh bare; But pressing on, and going more hastily. Men hurrying too he 'gan at last to see. Following the last of these, he still pressed on, 50 Until an open space he came unto, Where wreaths of fame had oft been lost and won. For feats of strength folk there were wont to do. And 'now our hunter looked for something new, Because the whole wide space was bare, and stilled 55 The high seats were, with eager people filled. There with the others to a seat he gat. Whence he beheld a broidered canopy, 'Neath which in fair array King Schoeneus sat Upon his throne with councilors thereby ; 60 And underneath his well-wrought seat and high, He saw a golden image of the sun, A silver image of the fleet-foot one. A brazen altar stood beneath their feet Whereon a thin flame flickered in the wind ; Nigh this a herald clad in raiment meet 66 Made ready even now his horn to wind, By whom a huge man held a sword, in- twined With yellow flowers; these stood a little space From off the akar, nigh the starting-place. And there two runners did the sign abide, 71 Foot set to foot, — a young man slim and fair, Crisp-haired, well-knit, with firm limbs often tried In places where no man his strength may spare ; Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair 75 A golden circlet of renown he wore, And in his hand an olive garland bore. But on this day with whom shall he con- tend ? A maid stood by him like Diana clad When in the woods she lists her bow to bend, 80 Too fair for one to look on and be glad. Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had, H he must still behold her from afar; Too fair to let the world live free from war. She seemed all earthly matters to forget ; 85 Of all tormenting lines her face was clear, Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near. But her foe trembled as a man in fear. Nor from her loveliness one moment turned His anxious face with fierce desire that burned. 9i Now through the hush there broke the trum- pet's clang Just as the setting sun made eventide. Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang. And swiftly were they running side by side; But silent did the thronging folk abide 96 Until the turning-post was reached at last, And round about it still abreast they passed. But when the people saw how close they ran. When half-way to the starting-point they were, 100 A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near Unto the very end of all his fear; And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel, And bliss unhoped-for o'er his heart 'gan steal. 105 But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard His flushed and eager face he turned around. And even then he felt her past him bound Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there m Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. There stood she breathing like a little child Amid some warlike clamo<- laid asleep, 88o WILLIAM MORRIS For no victorious joy iuT red lips siiiili'd, I'S Her ciieek its wonted freshness did Ijut keep ; No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep, Though some divine thought softened all her face As once more rang the trumpet through the place. But her late foe stopped short amidst his course, '^o One moment gazed upon her piteously. Then with a groan his lingering feet did force To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see; And, changed like one who knows his time must be But short and bitter, without any word He knelt before the bearer of the sword; ^26 Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade. Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place Was silence now, and midst of it the maid Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace. And he to hers upturned his sad white face; 131 Nor did his eyes behold another sight Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. So was the pageant ended, and all folk Talking of this and that familiar thing In little groups from that sad concourse broke ; For now the shrill bats were upon the wing, And soon dark night would slay the even- ing, _ 5 And in dark gardens sang the nightingale Her little-heeded, oft-repeated tale. And with the last of all the hunter went. Who, wondering at the strange sight he had seen, Prayed an old man to tell him what it meant, 10 Both why the vanquished man so slain had been. And if the maiden were an earthly queen, Or rather what much more she seemed to be. No sharer in the world's mortality. ' Stranger,' said he, ' I pray she soon may die 15 Whose lovely youth has slain so many an one ! King Schccneus' daughter is she verily. Who when her eyes first looked upon the sun Was fain to end her life but new begun, For he had vowed to leave but men alone Sprung from his loins when he from earth was gone. 21 ' Therefore he bade one leave her in the wood, And let wild things deal with her as they might ; . But this being done, some cruel god thought good To save her beauty in the world's despite: 2s Folk say that her, so delicate and white As now she is, a rough root-grubbing bear Amidst her shapeless cubs at first did rear. ' In course of time the woodfolk slew her nurse. And to their rude abode the youngling brought, 30 And reared her up to be a kingdom's curse. Who, grown a woman, of no kingdom thought. But armed and swift, mid beasts destruction wrought. Nor spared two shaggy centaur kings to slay, To whom her body seemed an easy prey. 35 ' So to this city, led by fate, she came, Whom, known by signs, whereof I cannot tell, King Schceneus for his child at last did claim ; Nor otherwhere since that day doth she dwell. Sending too many a noble soul to hell. — 40 What! thine eyes glisten? what then! think est thou Her shining head unto the yoke to bow? ' Listen, my son, and love some other maid, For she the saffron gown will never wear, And on no liovver-strewn couch shall she be laid, 45 Nor shall her voice make glad a lover's ear; Yet if of Death thou hast not any fear. Yea, rather, if thou lovest him utterly, Thou still may'st woo her ere thou comest to die. THE EARTHLY PARADISE * Like him that on this day thou sawest lie dead ; so For, fearing as I deem the sea-born one, The maid has vowed e'en such a man to wed As in the course her swift feet can out- run. But whoso fails herein, his days are done: He came the nighest that was slain to-day, ss Although with him I deem she did but play. ' Behold, such mercy Atalanta gives To those that long to win her loveliness ; Be wise ! be sure that many a maid there lives Gentler than she, of beauty little less, 60 Whose swimming eyes thy loving words shall bless, When in some garden, knee set close to • knee. Thou sing'st the song that love may teach to thee.' So to the hunter spake that ancient man, And left him for his own home presently; But he turned round, and through the moon- light wan 66 Reached the thick wood, and there 'twixt tree and tree Distraught he passed the long night fever- ishly, 'Twixt sleep and waking, and at dawn arose To wage hot war against his speechless foes. 70 There to the hart's Rank seemed his shaft to grow, As panting down the broad green glades he flew. There by his horn the Dryads well might know His thrust against the bear's heart had been true, And there Adonis' bane his javelin slew ; 75 But still in vain through rough and smooth he went, For none the more his restlessness was spent. So wandering, he to Argive cities came. And in the lists with valiant men he stood, And by great deeds he won him praise and fame, 80 And heaps of wealth for little-valued blood; But none of all these things, or life, seemed good Unto his heart, where still unsatisfied 56 A ravenous longing warred with fear and pride. Therefore it happed when but a month had gone 8s Since he had left King Schceneus' city old, In hunting-gear again, again alone The forest-bordered meads did he behold, Where still mid thoughts of August's quiv- ering gold Folk hoed the wheat, and clipped the vine in trust 90 Of faint October's purple-foaming must. And once again he passed the peaceful gate, While to his beating heart his lips did lie, That, owning not victorious love and fate, Said, half aloud, 'And here too must I try 95 To win of alien men the mastery, And gather for my head fresh meed of fame, And cast new glory on my father's name.' In spite of that, how beat his heart when first Folk said to him, ' And art thou come to see 100 That which still makes our city's name ac- curst Among all mothers for its cruelty? Then know indeed that fate is good to thee. Because to-morrow a new luckless one Against the white-foot maid is pledged to run.' 105 So on the morrow with no curious eyes, As once he did, that piteous sight he saw, Nor did that wonder in his heart arise As toward the goal the conquering maid 'gan draw, log Nor did he gaze upon her eyes with awe, — Too full the pain of longing filled his heart For fear or wonder there to have a part. But O, how long the night was ere it went! How long it was before the dawn begun Showed to the wakening birds the sun's in- tent 115 That not in darkness should the world be done! And then, and then, how long before the sun Bade silently the toilers of the earth Get forth to fruitless cares or empty mirth! And long it seemed that in the market- place 120 882 WILLIAM MORRIS He stood and saw (lie cliafTcring folk go by, Ere from the ivory throne King SchcEneus' face Looked down upon the murmur royally; But then came trembling that the time was nigh When he midst pitying looks his love must claim, '-•'' And jeering voices must salute his name. But as the throng he pierced to gain the throne. His alien face distraught and anxious told What hopeless errand he was bound upon, And, each to each, folk whispered to be- hold '30 His godlike limbs; nay, and one woman old. As he went by, must pluck him by the sleeve And pray him yet that wretched love to leave. For sidling up she said, ' Canst thou live twice. Fair son? Canst thou have joyful youth again, '3S That thus thou goest to the sacrifice. Thyself the victim? Nay, then, all in vain Thy mother bore her longing and her pain. And one more maiden on the earth must dwell Hopeless of joy, nor fearing death and hell. '40 ' O fool, thou knowest not the compact then That with the three-formed goddess she has made To keep her from the loving lips of men, And in no saffron gown to be arrayed, And therewithal with glory to be paid, i45 And love of her the moonlit river sees White 'gainst the shadow of the formless trees. 'Come back, and I myself will pray for thee Unto the sea-born framer of delights, To give thee her who on the earth may be The fairest stirrer-up to death and fights, i5i To quench with hopeful days and joyous nights The flame that doth thy youthful heart con- sume : Come back, nor give thy beauty to the tomb.' How should he listen to her earnest speech, — ■-'^5 Words such as he not once or twice had said Unto himself, whose meaning scarce could reach The firm abode of that sad hardihead? He turned about, and through the market - stead i.s'j Swiftly he passed, until before the throne In the cleared space he stood at last alone. Then said the king, ' Stranger, what dost thou here? Have any of my folk done ill to thee? Or art thou of the forest men in fear? Or art thou of the sad fraternity 165 Who still will strive my daughter's mates to be, Staking their lives to win to earthly bliss The lonely maid, the friend of Artemis?' 'O King,' he said, 'thou saycst the word indeed ; Nor will I quit the strife till I have won Aly sweet delight, or death to end my need. And know that I am called Milanion, J72 Of King Amphidamas the well-loved son; So fear not that to thy old name, O King, Much loss or shame my victory will ^ring.' ' Nay, Prince,' said Schoeneus, ' welcome to this land 176 Thou wert indeed, if thou wert here to try Thy strength 'gainst some one mighty of his hand ; Nor would we grudge thee well-won mas- tery. But now, why wilt thou come to me to die, 180 And at my door lay down thy luckless head, Swelling the band of the unhappy dead, ' Whose curses even now my heart doth fear? Lo, I am old, and know what life can be. And what a bitter thing is death anear. 185 O son ! be wise, and hearken unto me ; And if no other can be dear to thee, At least as now, yet is the world full wide. And bliss in seeming hopeless hearts may hide : 'But if thou losest life, then all is lost.' 190 ' Nay, King,' Milanion said, ' thy words are vain. Doubt not that I have counted well the cost. Rut say, on what day wilt thou that I gain THE EARTHLY PARADISE 883 Fulfilled delight, or death to end my pain? Right glad were I if it could be to-day, '93 And all my doubts at rest forever lay.' 'Nay,' said King Schoeneus, 'thus it shall not be, But rather shalt thou let a month go by, And weary with thy prayers for victory What god thou know'st the kindest and most nigh. 200 So doing, still perchance thou shalt not die ; And with my good-will wouldst thou have the maid. For of the equal gods I grow afraid. ' And until then, O Prince, be thou my guest. And all these troublous things awhile for- get. 20 s 'Nay,' said he, 'couldst thou give my soul good rest, And on mine head a sleepy garland set, Then had I 'scaped the meshes of the net. Nor shouldst thou hear from me another word ; But now, make sharp thy fearful heading sword. 210 * Yet will I do what son of man may do, And promise all the gods may most de- sire. That to myself I may at least be true; And on that day my heart and limbs so tire. With utmost strain and measureless desire. That, at the worst, I may but fall asleep 216 When in the sunlight round that sword shall sweep.' He went with that, nor anywhere would bide. But unto Argos restlessly did wend; And there, as one who lays all hope aside. Because the leech has said his life must end, 221 Silent farewell he bade to foe and friend. And took his way unto the restless sea, For there he deemed his rest and help might be. Upon the shore of Argolis there stands A temple to the goddess that he sought, That, turned unto the lion-bearing lands, Fenced from the east, of cold winds hath no thought. Though to no homestead there the sheaves are brought, s No groaning press torments the close-clipped murk, Lonely the fane stands, far from all men's work. Pass through a close, set thick with myrtle- trees. Through the brass doors that guard the holy place, And, entering, hear the washing of the seas 10 That twice a day rise high above the base, And, with the southwest urging them, em- brace The marble feet of her that standeth there, That shrink not, naked though they be and fair. Small is the fane through which the sea-wind sings 15 About Queen Venus' well-wrought image white; But hung around are many precious things, The gifts of those who, longing for delight, Have hung them there within the goddess' sight. And in return have taken at her hands 20 The living treasures of the Grecian lands. And thither now has come Milanion, And showed unto the priests' wide-open eyes Gifts fairer than all those that there have shown, — Silk cloths, inwrought with Indian fantasies, And bowls inscribed with sayings of the wise 26 Above the deeds of foolish living things, And mirrors fit to be the gifts of kings. And now before the sea-born one he stands. By the sweet veiling smoke made dim and soft; 30 And while the incense trickles from his hands. And while the odorous smoke-wreaths hang aloft, Thus doth he pray to her : ' O thou who oft Hast holpen man and maid in their dis- tress, Despise me not for this my wretchedness! ' goddess, among us w^ho dwell below, 36 Kings and great men, great for a little while. Have pity on the lowly heads that bow, 884 WILLIAM MORRIS Nor hate the hearts that love them without guile ; Wilt thou be worse than these, and is thy smile 40 A vain device of him who set thee here, An empty dream of some artificer? * great one, some men love, and are ashamed ; Some men are weary of the bonds of love; Yea, and by some men lightly art thou blamed, 45 That from thy toils their lives they cannot move, And mind the ranks of men their manhood prove. Alas! O goddess, if thou slayest me What new immortal can I serve but thee? ' Think then, will it bring honor to thy head If folk say, " Everything aside he cast, 5i And to all fame and honor was he dead. And to his one hope now is dead at last, Since all unholpen he is gone and past: Ah ! the gods love not man, for certainly 55 He to his helper did not cease to cry." ' Nay, but thou wilt help : they who died be- fore Not single-hearted, as I deem, came here; Therefore unthanked they laid their gifts before Thy stainless feet, still shivering with their fear, 60 Lest in their eyes their true thought might appear. Who sought to be the lords of that fair town, Dreaded of men and winners of renown. • O Queen, thou knowest I pray not for this: O, set us down together in some place 65 Where not a voice can break our heaven of bliss. Where naught but rocks and I can see her face, Softening beneath the marvel of thy grace, Where not a foot our vanished steps can track, — The golden age, the golden age come back! ' O fairest, hear me now, who do thy will, 7i Plead for thy rebel that she be not slain. But live and love and be thy servant still : Ah ! give her joy and take away my pain. And thus two long-enduring servants gain. An easy thing this is to do for me, 76 What need of my vain words to weary thee ? ' But none the less this place will I not leave Until I needs must go my death to meet. Or at thy hands some happy sign receive 80 That in great joy we twain may one day greet Thy presence here and kiss thy silver feet. Such as we deem thee, fair beyond all words, Victorious o'er our servants and our lords.' Then from the altar back a space he drew. But from the queen turned not his face away, 86 But 'gainst a pillar leaned, until the blue That arched the sky. at ending of the day. Was turned to ruddy gold and changing gi-ay, And clear, but low, the nigh-ebbed windless sea 90 In the still evening murmured ceaselessly. And there he stood when all the sun was down ; Nor had he moved when the dim golden light. Like the far luster of a godlike town. Had left the world to seeming hopeless night ; 9S Nor would he move the more when wan moonlight Streamed through the pillars for a little while. And lighted up the white queen's changeless smile. Naught noted he the shallow flowing sea, As step by step it set the wrack a-swim ; 100 The yellow torchlight nothing noted he Wherein with fluttering gown and half-bared limb The temple damsels sung their midnight hymn ; And naught the doubled stillness of the fane When they were gone and all was hushed again. 105 But when the waves had touched the marble base. And steps the fish swim over twice a day. The dawn beheld him sunken in his place Upon the floor; and sleeping there he lay. Not heeding aught the little jets of spray 11° THE EARTHLY PARADISE The roughened sea brought nigh, across him cast, For as one dead all thought from him had passed. Yet long before the sun had showed his head. Long ere the varied hangings on the wall Had gained once more their blue and green and red, ns He rose as one some well-known sign doth call When war upon the city's gates doth fall, And scarce like one fresh risen out of sleep, He 'gan again his broken watch to keep. Then he turned round ; not for the sea- gull's cry I20 That wheeled above the temple in his flight. Not for the fresh south-wind that lovingly Breathed on the new-born day and dying night, But some strange hope 'twixt fear and great delight Drew round his face, now flushed, now pale and wan, 125 And still constrained his eyes the sea to scan. Now a faint light lit up the southern sky, — Not sun or moon, for all the world was gray. But this a bright cloud seemed, that drew anigh, Lighting the dull waves that beneath it lay 130 As toward the temple still it took its way, And still grew greater, till Milanion Saw naught for dazzling light that round him shone. But as he staggered with his arms out- spread, 134 Delicious unnamed odors breathed around ; For languid happiness he bowed his head, And with wet eyes sank down upon the ground, Nor wished for aught, nor any dream he found To give him reason for that happiness, Or make him ask more knowledge of his bliss. 140 At last his eyes were cleared, and he could see Through happy tears the goddess /a^e to face With that faint image of divinity, Whose well-wrought smile and dainty changeless grace 144 Until that morn so gladdened all the place; Then he unwitting cried aloud her name, And covered up his eyes for fear and shame. But through the stillness he her voice could hear Piercing his heart with joy scarce bearable, That said, ' Milanion, wherefore dost thou fear? 150 I am not hard to those who love me well ; List to what I a second time will tell, And thou mayest hear perchance, and live to save The cruel maiden from a loveless grave. ' See, by my feet three golden apples lie, — Such fruit among the heavy roses falls, is6 Such fruit my watchful damsels carefully Store up within the best loved of my walls, Ancient Damascus, where the lover calls Above my unseen head, and faint and light The rose-leaves flutter round me in the night. 161 ' And note that these are not alone most fair With heavenly gold, but longing strange they bring Unto the hearts of men, who will not care. Beholding these, for any once-loved thing Till round the shining sides their fingers cling. 1C6 And thou shalt see thy well-girt swiftfoot maid By sight of these amid her glory stayed. ' For bearing these within a scrip with thee, When first she heads thee from the starting- place 170 Cast down the first one for her eyes to see. And when she turns aside make on apace. And if again she heads thee in the race Spare not the other two to cast aside H she not long enough behind will bide. 175 ' Farewell, and when has come the happy time That she Diana's raiment must unbind. And all the world seems blessed with Sa- turn's clime, And thou with eager arms about her twined Beholdest first her gray eyes growing kind, Surely, O trembler, thou shalt scarcely then Forget the helper of unhappy men.' 182 886 WILLIAM MORRIS Milanion raised his head at this last word, For now so soft and kind she seemed to be No longer of her godhead was he feared; '^s Too late he looked, for nothing could he see But the white image glimmering doubtfully In the departing twilight cold and gray, And those three apples on the steps that lay. These then he caught up, quivering with delight, >9o Yet fearful lest it all might be a dream, And though aweary with the watchful night. And sleepless nights of longing, still did deem He could not sleep; but yet the first sun- beam That smote the fane across the heaving deep 195 Shone on him laid in calm untroubled sleep. But little ere the noontide did he rise, And why he felt so happy scarce could tell Until the gleaming apples met his eyes. Then, leaving the fair place where this be- fell, 200 Oft he looked back as one who loved it well. Then homeward to the haunts of men 'gan wend To bring all things unto a happy end. Now has the lingering month at last gone by. Again are all folk around the running-place. Nor other seems the dismal pageantry Than heretofore, but that another face Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race, 5 For now, beheld of all, Milanion Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon. But yet — what change is this that holds the maid ? Does she indeed see in his glittering eye More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade, 1° Some happy hope of help and victory? The others seemed to say, ' We come to die; Look down upon us for a little while. That, dead, we may bethink us of thy smile.' But he — what look of mastery was this 's He cast on her? Why were his lips so red? Why was his face so flushed with happi- ness? So looks not one who deems himself but dead. E'en if lo death he bows a willing head; So rather looks a god well pleased to find Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, 22 And even as she casts adown her eyes Redden to note his eager glance of praise. And wish that she were clad in other guise? Why must the memory to her heart arise 26 Of things unnoticed when they first were heard. Some lover's song, some answering maid- en's word? What makes these longings, vague, without a name. And this vain pity never felt before, 30 This sudden languor, this contempt of fame, This tender sorrow for the time past o'er, These doubts that grow each minute more and more? Why does she tremble as the time grows near. And weak defeat and woful victory fear? 3S But while she seemed to hear her beating heart. Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out. And forth they sprang; and she must play her part. Then fiew her white feet, knowing not a doubt. Though, slackening once, she turned her head about, 4° But then she cried aloud and faster fled Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead. But with no sound he raised aloft his hand. And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew 44 And past the maid rolled on along the sand ; Then trembling she her feet together drew. And in her heart a strong desire there grew To have the toy: some god she thought had given That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. THE EARTHLY PARADISE 887 Then from the course with eager steps she ran, so And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. But when she turned again, the great-limbed man Now well ahead she failed not to behold. And, mindful of her glory waxing cold, Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit, Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit. s6 Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize. And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes 60 Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries She sprang to head the strong Milanion, Who now the turning-post had wellnigh won. But as he set his mighty hand on it. White fingers underneath his own were laid. And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit; 66 Then he the second fruit cast by the maid, But she ran on awhile, then as afraid Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay 69 Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. I Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, Now far ahead the Argive could she see, I And in her garment's hem one hand she wound 1 To keep the double prize, and strenuously ! Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had I she 75 ; To win the day, though now but scanty space Was left betwixt him and the winning- place. Short was the way unto such winged feet; Quickly she gained upon him, till at last He turned about her eager eyes to meet, 80 And from his hand the third fair apple cast. She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, That in her hand it lay ere it was still. Nor did she rest, but turned about to win 85 Once more an unblest wof ul victory — And yet — and yet — why does her breath begin To fail her, and her feet drag heavily? Why fails she now to see if far or nigh The goal is? Why do her gray eyes grow dim? 90 Why do these tremors run through every limb? She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find, Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, A strong man's arms about her body twined. Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, 95 So wrapped she is in new unbroken bliss; Made happy that the foe the prize hath won, She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. Shatter the trumpet, hew adown the posts! Upon the brazen altar break the sword, And scatter incense to appease the ghosts Of those who died here by their own award. Bring forth the image of the mighty lord, 5 And her who unseen o'er the runners hung. And did a deed forever to be sung. Here are the gathered folk; make no de- lay, Open King Schceneus' well-filled treasury. Bring out the gifts long hid from light of day, — 10 The golden bowls o'erwrought with imagery, Gold chains, and unguents brought from over sea, The saffron gown the old Phoenician brought. Within the temple of the goddess wrought. O ye, O damsels, who shall never see 15 Her, that Love's servant bringeth now to you. Returning from another victory. In some cool bower do all that now is due ! Since she in token of her service new 19 Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow, — Her maiden zone, her arrows, and her bow. THE LADY OF THE LAND A certain man having landed on an island in the Greek Sea, found there a beautiful damsel, whom he would fain have delivered from a strange and dreadful doom, but failing herein, he died soon afterwards. It happened once, some men of Italy Midst the Greek Islands went a sea-roving. And much good fortune had they on the sea: 888 WILLIAM MORRIS Of many a man they had the ransoming, And many a chain they gat, and goodly thing; 5 And midst their voyage to an isle they came, Whereof my story kecpeth not the name. Now though but little was there left to gain, Because the richer folk had gone away, Yet since by this of water they were fain 1° They came to anchor in a land-locked bay, Whence in a while some went ashore to play, Going but lightly armed in twos or threes. For midst that folk they feared no enemies. And of these fellows that thus went ashore, One was there who left all his friends be- hind; '6 Who going inland ever more and more, And being left quite alone, at last did find A lonely valley sheltered from the wind, Wherein, amidst an ancient cypress wood, 2° A long-deserted ruined castle stood. The wood, once ordered in fair grove and glade. With gardens overlooked by terraces. And marble-paved pools for pleasure made, Was tangled now, and choked with fallen trees; ^5 And he who went there, with but little ease Must stumble by the stream's side, once made meet For tender women's dainty wandering feet. The raven's croak, the low wind choked and drear. The baffled stream, the gray wolf's doleful cry, 30 Were all the sounds that mariner could hear. As through the wood he wandered painfully; But as unto the house he drew anigh, The pillars of a ruined shrine he saw, The once fair temple of a fallen law. 35 No image was there left behind to tell Before whose face the knees of men had bowed ; An altar of black stone, of old wrought well, Alone beneath a ruined roof now showed The goal whereto the folk were wont to crowd, 40 Seeking for things forgotten long ago, Praying for heads long ages laid a-low. Close to the temple was the castle-gate, Doorless and crumbling; there our fellow turned. Trembling indeed at what might chance to wait 4S The prey entrapped, yet with a heart that burned To know the most of what might there be learned. And hoping somewhat too, amid his fear, To light on such things as all men hold dear. Noble the house was, nor seemed built for war, so But rather like the work of other days, When men, in better peace than now they are. Had leisure on the world around to gaze. And noted well the past times' changing ways ; And fair with sculptured stories it was wrought, 55 By lapse of time unto dim ruin brought. Now as he looked about on all these things, And strove to read the moldering histories, Above the door an image with wide wings, Whose unclad limbs a serpent seemed to seize, 6o He dimly saw, although the western breeze, And years of biting frost and washing rain, Had made the carver's labor well-nigh vain. But this, though perished sore, and worn away. He noted well, because it seemed to be, 6s After the fashion of another day. Some great man's badge of war, or armory: And round it a carved wreath he seemed to see: But taking note of these things, at the last The mariner beneath the gateway passed. 70 And there a lovely cloistered court he found, A fountain in the midst o'erthrown and dry. And in the cloister briers twining round The slender shafts; the wondrous imagery Outworn by more than many years gone by; Because the country people, in their fear 76 Of wizardry, had wrought destruction here; And piteously these fair things had been maimed : There stood great Jove, lacking his head of might : Here was the archer, swift Apollo, lamed ; 80 THE EARTHLY PARADISE 889 The shapely limbs of Venus hid from sight By weeds and shards; Diana's ankles light Bound with the cable of some coasting ship; And rusty nails through Helen's maddening lip. Therefrom unto the chambers did he pass, 8s And found them fair still, midst of their de- cay, Though in them now no sign of man there was, And everything but stone had passed away That made them lovely in that vanished day; Nay, the mere walls themselves would soon be gone 9° And naught be left but heaps of moldcring stone. But he, when all the place he had gone o'er. And with much trouble clomb the broken stair. And from the topmost turret seen the shore And his good ship drawn up at anchor there, 95 Came down again, and found a crypt most fair Built wonderfully beneath the greatest hall, And there he saw a door within the wall. Well-hinged, close shut ; nor was there in that place Another on its hinges, therefore he 'oo Stood there and pondered for a little space And thought, ' Perchance some marvel shall see. For surely here some dweller there must be Because this door seems whole, and new and sound. While naught but ruin I can see around.' So with that word, moved by a strong de- sire, He tried the hasp, that yielded to his hand, And in a strange place, lit as by a fire Unseen but near, he presently did stand ; And by an odorous breeze his face was fanned, no As though in some Arabian plain he stood, Anigh the border of a spice-tree wood. He moved not for awhile, but looking round, He wondered much to see the place so fair, Because, unlike the castle above ground, "5 No pillager or wrecker had been there; It seemed that time had passed on other- where. Nor laid a finger on this hidden place, Rich with the wealth of some forgotten race. With hangings, fresh as when they left the loom, 120 The walls were hung a space above the head. Slim ivory chairs were set about the room, And in one corner was a dainty bed. That seemed for some fair queen appareled ; And marble was the worst stone of the floor, 1^5 That with rich Indian webs was covered o'er. The wanderer trembled when he saw all this. Because he deemed by magic it was wrought ; Yet in his heart a longing for some bliss, Whereof the hard and changing world knows naught, 130 Arose and urged him on, and dimmed the thought That there perchance some devil lurked to slay The heedless wanderer from the light of day. Over against him was another door Set in the wall; so, casting fear aside, US With hurried steps he crossed the varied floor. And there again the silver latch he tried And with no pain the door he opened wide. And entering the new chamber cautiously The glory of great heaps of gold could see. Upon the floor uncounted medals lay, J41 Like things of little value; here and there Stood golden caldrons, that might well out- weigh The biggest midst an emperor's copper-ware. And golden cups were set on tables fair, 145 Themselves of gold; and in all hollow things Were stored great gems, worthy the crowns of kings. The walls and roof with gold were overlaid. And precious raiment from the wall hung down ; The fall of kings that treasure might have stayed, 150 Or gained some longing conqueror great re- nown, 890 WILLIAM MORRIS Or built again sonic god destroyed old town ; What wonder, if this plunderer of the sea Stood gazing at it long and dizzily? But at the last his troubled eyes and dazed He lifted from the glory of that gold, '56 And then the image, that well-nigh erased Over the castle-gate he did behold. Above a door well wrought in colored gold Again he saw; a naked girl with wings i6o Enfolded in a serpent's scaly rings. And even as his eyes were fixed on it A woman's voice came from the other side, And through his heart strange hopes began to flit That in some wondrous land he might abide Not dying, master of a deathless bride, i66 So o'er the gold he scarcely now could see He went, and passed this last door eagerly. Then in a room he stood wherein there was A marble bath, whose brimming water yet Was scarcely still; a vessel of green glass Half full of odorous ointment was there set ^72 Upon the topmost step that still was wet, And jeweled shoes and women's dainty gear, Lay cast upon the varied pavement near. i75 In one quick glance these things his eyes did see, But speedily they turned round to behold Another sight, for throned on ivory There sat a girl, whose dripping tresses rolled On to the floor in waves of gleaming gold, Cast back from such a form as, erewhile shown iS"^ To one poor shepherd, lighted up Troy town. Naked she was, the kisses of her feet Upon the floor a dying path had made From the full bath unto her ivory seat; i^S In her right hand, upon her bosom laid. She held a golden comb, a mirror weighed Her left hand down, aback her fair head lay Dreaming awake of some long vanished day. Her eyes were shut, but she seemed not to sleep, '90 Her lips were murmuring things unheard and low, Or sometimes twitched as though she needs must weep Though from her eyes the tears refused to flow. And oft with heavenly red her cheek did glow, As if remembrance of some half-sweet shame '95 Across the web of many memories came. There stood the man, scarce daring to draw breath For fear the lovely sight should fade away ; Forgetting heaven, forgetting life and death, Trembling for fear lest something he should say 20O Unwitting, lest some sob should yet betray Mis presence there, for to his eager eyes Already did the tears begin to rise. But as he gazed, she moved, and with a sigh Bent forward, dropping down her golden head ; 205 'Alas, alas! another day gone by. Another day and no soul come,' she said ; ' Another year, and still I am not dead ! ' And with that word once more her head she raised. And on the trembling man with great eyes gazed. 210 Then he imploring hands to her did reach. And toward her very slowly 'gan to move And with wet eyes her pity did beseech. And seeing her about to speak, he strove From trembling lips to utter words of love; But with a look she stayed his doubtful feet, 216 And made sweet music as their eyes did meet. For now she spoke in gentle voice and clear, Using the Greek tongue that he knew full well ; ' What man art thou, that thus hast wan- dered here, 220 And found this lonely chamber where I dwell? Beware, beware I for I have many a spell; If greed of power and gold have led thee on, Not lightly shall this untold wealth be won 'But if thou com'st here, knowing of my tale, '-S THE EARTHLY PARADISE 891 In hope to bear away my body fair, Stout must thine heart be, nor shall that avail If thou a wicked soul in thee dost bear; So once again I bid thee to beware, Because no base man things like this may see, 230 And live thereafter long and happily.' ' Lady,' he said, ' in Florence is my home. And in my city noble is my name; Neither on peddling voyage am I come. But, like my fathers, bent to gather fame ; And though thy face has set my heart a-fiame -36 Yet of thy story nothing do I know, But here have wandered heedlessly enow. 'But since the sight of thee mine eyes did bless, What can I be but thine? what wouldst thou have? 240 From those thy words, I deem from some distress By deeds of mine thy dear life I might save; O then, delay not! if one ever gave His life to any, mine I give to thee ; Come, tell me what the price of love must be? 24s 'Swift death, to be with thee a day and night And with the earliest dawning to be slain? Or better, a long year of great delight. And many years of misery and pain? Or worse, and this poor hour for all my gain? 250 A sorry merchant am I on this day. E'en as thou wiliest so must I obey.' She said, ' What brave words ! naught di- vine am I, But an unhappy and unheard-of maid Compelled by evil fate and destiny 255 To live, who long ago should have been laid Under the earth within the cypress shade. Hearken awhile, and quickly shalt thou know What deed I pray thee to accomplish now. ' God grant indeed thy words are not for naught ! 260 Then shalt thou save me, since for many a day To such a dreadful life I have been brought : Nor will I spare with all my heart to pay What man soever takes my grief away; Ah! I will love thee, if thou lovest me 265 But well enough my savior now to be. ' My father lived a many years agone Lord of this land, master of all cunning. Who ruddy gold could draw from out gray stone. And gather wealth from many an uncouth thing; 270 He made the wilderness rejoice and sing, And such a leech he was that none could say Without his word what soul should pass away. ' Unto Diana such a gift he gave, Goddess above, below, and on the earth, 273 That I should be her virgin and her slave From the first hour of my most wretched birth ; Therefore my life had known but little mirth When I had come unto my twentieth year And the last time of hallowing drew anear. ' So in her temple had I lived and died 281 And all would long ago have passed away, But ere that time came, did strange things betide, Whereby I am alive unto this day ; Alas, the bitter words that I must say! 285 Ah ! can I bring my wretched tongue to tell How I was brought unto this fearful hell? ' A queen I was, what gods I knew I loved, And nothing evil was there in my thought. And yet by love my wretched heart was moved 290 Until to utter ruin I was brought ! Alas ! thou sayest our gods were vain and naught ; Wait, wait, till thou hast heard this tale of mine. Then shalt thou think them devilish or di- ' Hearken ! in spite of father and of vow 295 I loved a man ; but for that sin I think Men had forgiven me — yea, yea, even thou ; But from the gods the full cup must I drink. And into misery unheard of sink, Tormented, when their own names are for- got, 300 And men must doubt if they e'er lived or not. 892 WILLIAM MORRIS ' Glorious my lover was tinto my sight, Most beautiful — of love we grew so fain That we at last agreed, that on a night We should be happy, but that he were slain Or shut in hold; and neither joy nor pani ^ Should else forbid that hoped-for time to be; So came the night that made a wretch of me. ' Ah ! well do I remember all that night, When through the window shone the orb of June, 310 And by the bed flickered the taper's light, Whereby I trembled, gazing at the moon: Ah me! the meeting that we had, when soon Into his strong, well-trusted arms I fell, And many a sorrow we began to tell. 3iS 'Ah me! what parting on that night we had ! I think the story of my great despair A little w4iile might merry folk make sad; For, as he swept away my yellow hair To make my shoulder and my bosom bare, I raised mine eyes, and shuddering could behold 321 A shadow cast upon the bed of gold: 'Then suddenly was quenched my hot de- sire And he untwined his arms ; the moon so pale A while ago, seemed changed to blood and fire, . 32s And yet my limbs beneath me did not fail. And neither had I strength to cry or wail, But stood there helpless, bare, and shiver- ing, With staring eyes still fixed upon the thing. ' Because the shade that on the bed of gold 330 The changed and dreadful moon was throw- ing down Was of Diana, whom I did behold, With knotted hair, and shining girt-up gown, And on the high white brow, a deadly frown Bent upon us, who stood scarce drawing breath, 335 Striving to meet the horrible sure death. ' No word at all the dreadful goddess said. But soon across my feet my lover lay. And well indeed I knew that he was dead; And would that I had died on that same day ! 340 I'"or in a while the image turned away. And without words my doom I understood, And felt a horror change my human blood. ' And there I fell, and on the floor I lay By the dead man, till daylight came on me, 345 And not a word thenceforward could I say For three years; till of grief and misery. The lingering pest, the cruel enemy, My father and his folk were dead and gone. And in this castle I was left alone: 350 ' And then the doom foreseen upon me fell. For Queen Diana did my Ijody change Into a fork-tongued dragon, tiesh and fell, And through the island nightly do I range. Or in the green sea mate with monsters strange, 355 When in the middle of the moonlit night The sleepy mariner I do affright. ' But all day long upon this gold I lie Within this place, where never mason's hand Smote trowel on the marble noisily ; 360 Drowsy I lie, no folk at my command. Who once was called the Lady of the Land ; Who might have bought a kingdom with a kiss. Yea, half the world with such a sight as this.' And therewithal, with rosy fingers light, 365 Backward her heavy-hangmg hair she threw. To give her naked beauty more to sight ; But when, forgetting all the things he knew. Maddened with love unto the prize he drew. She cried, ' Nay, wait ! for wherefore wilt thou die, 37° Why should we not be happy, thou and I ? 'Wilt thou not save me? once in every year This rightful form of mine that thou dost see By favor of the goddess have I here From sunrise unto sunset given me, 375 That some brave man may end my misery. And thou — art thou not brave? can thy heart fail. Whose eyes e'en now are weeping at my tale? THE EARTHLY PARADISE 893 'Then listen! when this day is overpast, A fearful monster shall I be again, 380 And thou may'st be my savior at the last ; Unless, once more, thy words are naught and vain. If thou of love and sovereignty art fain, Come thou next morn, and when thou seest here A hideous dragon, have thereof no fear, 38s ' But take the loathsome head up in thine hands. And kiss it, and be master presently Of twice the wealth that is in all the lands From Cathay to the head of Italy; And master also, if it pleaseth thee, 39° Of all thou praisest as so fresh and bright. Of what thou callest crown of all delight. ' Ah ! with what joy then shall I see again The sunlight on the green grass and the trees. And hear the clatter of the summer rain, 395 And see the joyous folk beyond the seas. Ah, me ! to hold my child upon my knees, After the weeping of unkindly tears, And all the wrongs of these four hundred years. *Go now, go quick! leave this gray heap of stone ; 400 And from thy glad heart think upon thy way, How I shall love thee — yea, love thee alone, That bringest me from dark death unto day; For this shall be thy wages and thy pay; Unheard-of wealth, unheard-of love is near, If thou hast heart a little dread to bear.' 406 Therewith she turned to go; but he cried out, ' Ah ! wilt thou leave me then without one kiss. To slay the very seeds of fear and doubt. That glad to-morrow may bring certain bliss? 410 Hast thou forgotten how love lives by this, The memory of some hopeful close embrace, Low whispered words within some lonely place? ' But she, when his bright glittering eyes she saw, And burning cheeks, cried out, ' Alas, alas ! Must I be quite undone, and wilt thou draw 416 A worse fate on me than the first one was? O haste thee from this fatal place to pass! Yet, ere thou goest, take this, lest thou shouldst deem Thou hast been fooled by some strange mid- day dream.' 420 So saying, blushing like a new-kissed maid, From off her neck a little gem she drew. That, 'twixt those snowy rose-tinged hillocks laid. The secrets of her glorious beauty knew; And ere he well perceived what she would do, 425 She touched his hand, the gem within it lay. And, turning, from his sight she fled away. Then at the doorway where her rosy heel Had glanced and vanished, he awhile did stare. And still upon his hand he seemed to feel The varying kisses of her fingers fair; 431 Then turned he toward the dreary crypt and bare. And dizzily throughout the castle passed, Till by the ruined fane he stood at last. Then weighing still the gem within his hand, 435 He stumbled backward through the cypress wood. Thinking the while of some strange lovely land, Where all his life should be most fair and good Till on the valley's wall of hills he stood. And slowly thence passed down unto the bay 440 Red with the death of that bewildering day. The next day came, and he, who all the night Had ceaselessly been turning in his bed, Arose and clad himself in armor bright. And many a danger he remembered ; 445 Storming of towns, lone sieges full of dread. That with renown his heart had borne him through And this thing seemed a little thing to do. So on he went, and on the way he thought Of all the glorious things of yesterday, 450 Naught of the price whereat they must be bought, But ever to himself did softly say. ' No roaming now, my wars are passed away; ^94 WILLIAM MORRIS No long dull days devoid of happiness, When such a love my yearning heart shall bless.' 455 Thus to the castle did he come at last, But when unto the gateway he drew near, And underneath its ruined archway passed Into a court, a strange noise did he hear. And through his heart there shot a pang of fear; 460 Trembling, he gat his sword into his hand, And midmost of the cloisters took his stand. But for a while that unknown noise in- creased, A rattling, that with strident roars did blend, And whining moans ; but suddenly it ceased, 465 A fearful thing stood at the cloister's end. And eyed him for a while, then 'gan to wend Adown the cloisters, and began again That rattling, and the moan like fiends in pain. And as it came on towards him, with its teeth _ 470 The body of a slain goat did it tear, The blood whereof in its hot jaws did seethe, And on its tongue he saw the smoking hair ; Then his heart sank, and standing trembling there, Throughout his mind wild thoughts and fearful ran, 475 ' Some fiend she was,' he said, ' the bane of man.' Yet he abode her still, although his blood Curdled within him: the thing dropped the goat. And creeping on, came close to where he stood, And raised its head to him, and wrinkled throat, 480 Then he cried out and wildly at her smote. Shutting his eyes, and turned and from the place Ran swiftly, with a white and ghastly face. But little things rough stones and tree- trunks seemed, And if he fell, he rose and ran on still ; 485 No more he felt his hurts than if he dreamed. He made no stay for valley or steep hill. Heedless he dashed through many a foam- ing rill, Until he came unto the ship at last And with no word into the deep hold passed. 490 Meanwhile the dragon, seeing him clean gone. Followed him not, but crying horribly. Caught up within her jaws a block of stone And ground it into powder, then turned she. With cries that folk could hear far out at sea, 495 And reached the treasure set apart of old. To brood above the hidden heaps of gold. Yet was she seen again on many a day By some half-waking mariner, or herd. Playing amid the ripples of the bay, 5°° Or on the hills making all things afeard. Or in the wood, that did that castle gird. But never any man again durst go To seek her woman's form, and end her woe. As for the man, who knows what things he bore? 505 What mournful faces peopled the sad night. What wailings vexed him with reproaches sore. What images of that nigh-gained delight ! What dreamed caresses from soft hands and white. Turning to horrors ere they reached the best; 510 What struggles vain, what shame, what huge unrest? No man he knew, three days he lay and raved. And cried for death, until a lethargy Fell on him, and his fellows thought him saved ; But on the third night he awoke to die; 515 And at Byzantium doth his body lie Between two blossoming pomegranate trees. Within the churchyard of the Genoese. (1868) ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE (1837-1909) The poet's parents were Admiral Charles Henry Swiubiirne and Lady Henrietta Jane, daughter of the third Earl of Ashbiirnhani. After a sfhooliug of live years at Eton, Swinburne went to Balliol College, Oxford, where he contributed prose and verse to Undergraduate Papers, distinguished himself in Latin, (Jreek, French, and Italian, and began friendships with William Morris, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and Edward Burne- Jones. After leaving Oxford, in 18G0, he traveled on the continent, visiting Landor in Florence. The greater part of his life Swinburne spent quietly in England. After living for a time in London, with the Rossetti brothers, he retired to spend most of his later j'ears at Putney Hill. Swinburne first distinguished himself in literature as a dramatist, by the publication of Rosamond (18G0), The Queen Mother (18G0), Atalanta in Calydon (18G.5), and Vhastelard (18G5). By the publication of Poems and Ballads (18GG), he aroused a moral commotion that has never been equaled in the history of English literature. To his assailants, — some of whom admired his rhythmical mastery as genuinely as they deprecated his un- bridled utterances of passion,— Swinburne replied scornfully in Notes on Poems and Re- views (18GG). The huge volume of Swinburne's poetical production, in which the lap.ses from lyrical and dramatic power are only occasional, is best represented by such publica- tions as Songs before Sunrise (ISTl), Bothiccll: a Tragedy (1874), Erechtheus (187G), Studies in Song (1880). Marg Stuart: a Tragedy (1881), Tristram of Lyonesse, and Other Poems (18S2I, The Tale of Balen (189G), and A Channel Passage, and Other Poems (1904). Swinburne's achievement in poetry, moreover, did not prevent his attaining a firm place in prose, chiefly through bis critical studies of Elizabethan dramatists, such as George Chapman (1875), A Study of Shakspere (1880), A Study of Ben Jonson (1889), and The Age of Shakspere (1908). Swineburne's earlier poems expressed, no doubt, a definite defiance of established social, political, and religious conventions that probably prevented, ultimately, his succession to the laureateship upon the death of Tennyson. His later poems are less defiant, and contain a more incisive appreciation of nature and more narrative charm. The severest of Swin- burne's critics have never questioned his absolute mastery of the rhythmical possibilities of the English language, a mastery that i-esulted in his most serious poetical defect, — the substitution, in some cases, of a superb sonorousness for genuine ideas. CHORUSES FROM ATALANTA IN CALYDON CHORUS When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; And the brown bright nightingale amorous 5 Is half assuaged for Itylus, For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. Come with bows bent and of quivers, Maiden most perfect, lady of light with emptying 8gs With a noise of winds and many rivers, With a clamor of waters, and with might ; Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, Over the splendor and speed of thy feet ; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, 15 Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? O that inan's heart were as fire and could spring to her. Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! 20 For the stars and the winds are unto her .A.S raiment, as songs of the harp-player; 896 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, And the southwest-wind, and the west- wind sing. For winter's rains and ruins are over, 25 And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover. The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten. And frosts are slain and flowers begotten. And in green underwood and cover 3' Blossom by blossom the spring begins. The full streams feed on flower of rushes. Ripe grasses trammel a traveling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes 35 From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 40 And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid. Follows with dancing and fills with delight The Masnad and the Bassarid ; And soft as lips that laugh and hide 45 The laughing leaves of the trees divide. And screen from seeing and leave in sight The god pursuing, the maiden hid. The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes ; 5° The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 56 Before the beginning of years There came to the making of man Time, with a gift of tears; Grief, with a glass that ran ; Pleasure, with pain for leaven; 5 Summer, with flowers that fell; Remembrance fallen from heaven, And madness risen from hell ; Strength without hands to smite; Love that endures for a breath; 10 Night, the shadow of light, And life, the shadow of death. And the high gods took in hand Fire, and the falling of tears, And a measure of sliding sand 'S From under the feet of the years^ And froth and drift of the sea ; And dust of the laboring earth ; And bodies of things to be In the houses of death and of birth ; 20 And wrought with weeping and laughter. And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after And death beneath and above. For a day and a night and a morrow, 25 That his strength might endure for a span With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy spirit of man. From the winds of the north and the south They gathered as unto strife; 30 They breathed upon his mouth. They filled his body with life; Eyesight and speech they wrought For the veils of the soul therein, A time for labor and thought, 35 A time to serve and to sin ; They gave him light in his ways, And love, and a space for delight. And beauty and length of days. And night, and sleep in the night. 4° His speech is a burning fire; With his lips he travaileth ; In his heart is a blind desire. In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; He weaves, and is clothed with derision; 45 Sows, and he shall not reap; His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep. CHORUS We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair; thou art goodly, O Love ; Thy wings make light in the air as the wings of a dove. Thy feet are as winds that divide the stream of the sea; Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the gar- ment of thee. Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a flame of fire; 5 Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of desire; And twain go forth beside thee, a man with a maid ; Her eyes are the eyes of a bride whom de- light makes afraid; As the breath in the buds that stir is her bridal breath : ATALANTA IN CALYDON 897 But Fate is the name of her; and his name is Death. 'o For an evil blossom was born Of sea-foam and the frothing of blood, Blood-red and bitter of fruit, And the seed of it laughter and tears. And the leaves of it madness and scorn; 15 A bitter flower from the bud. Sprung of the sea without root, Sprung without graft from the years. The weft of the world was untorn "? That is woven of the day on the night. The hair of the hours was not white Nor the raiment of time overworn, When a wonder, a world's delight, A perilous goddess was born ; And the waves of the sea as she came 25 Clove, and the foam at her feet, Fawning, rejoiced to bring forth A fleshly blossom, a flame Filling the heavens with heat To the cold white ends of the north. And in air the clamorous birds, 31 And men upon earth that hear Sweet articulate words Sweetly divided apart. And in shallow and channel and mere 35 The rapid and footless herds. Rejoiced, being foolish of heart. For all they said upon earth. She is fair, she is white like a dove, 39 And the life of the world in her breath Breathes, and is born at her birth ; For they knew thee for mother of love, And knew thee not mother of death. What hadst thou to do being born. Mother, when winds were at ease, 45 As a flower of the springtime of corn, A flower of the foam of the seas? For bitter thou wast from thy birth, Aphrodite, a mother of strife; For before thee some rest was on earth, 50 A little respite from tears, A little pleasure of life; For life was not then as thou art. But as one that waxeth in years Sweet-spoken, a fruitful wife; 55 Earth had no thorn, and desire No sting, neither death any dart; What hadst thou to do amongst these. Thou, clothed with a burning fire, Thou, girt with sorrow of heart, 60 Thou, sprung of the seed of the seas 57 As an ear from a seed of corn, As a brand plucked forth of a pyre, As a ray shed forth of the morn, For division of soul and disease, 6s For a dart and a sting and a thorn? What ailed thee then to be born? Was there not evil enough, Mother, and anguish on earth Born with a man at his birth, 7° Wastes underfoot, and above Storm out of heaven, and dearth Shaken down from the shining thereof, Wrecks from afar overseas And peril of shallow and firth, 75 And tears that spring and increase In the barren places of mirth, That thou, having wings as a dove. Being girt with desire for a girth, That thou must come after these, . 80 That thou must lay on him love? Thou shouldst not so have been born : But death should have risen with thee, Mother, and visible fear. Grief, and the wringing of hands, 85 And noise of many that mourn ; The smitten bosom, the knee Bowed, and in each man's ear A cry as of perishing lands, A moan as of people in prison, 90 A tumult of infinite griefs; And thunder of storm on the sands. And wailing of wives on the shore; And under thee newly arisen Loud shoals, and shipwrecking reefs, 95 Fierce air and violent light ; Sail rent and sundering oar. Darkness, and noises of night; Clashing of streams in the sea, Wave against wave as a sword, 100 Clamor of currents, and foam ; Rains making ruin on earth. Winds that wax ravenous and roam As wolves in a wolfish horde ; Fruits growing faint in the tree, 105 And blind things dead in their birth ; Famine, and blighting of corn. When thy time was come to be born. All these we know of; but thee Who shall discern or declare? nc In the uttermost ends of the sea The light of thine eyelids and hair. The light of thy bosom as fire Between the wheel of the sun And the flying flames of the air? "S Wilt thou turn thee not yet nor have pity, ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE But abide with despair and desire And tile crying of armies undone, Lamentation of one with another And breaking of city by city; '-o The dividing of friend against friend. The severing of l)rother and brother; WiU tliou utterly l)ring to an end? Have mercy, mother! For against all men from of old ''S Thou hast set thine hand as a curse. And cast out gods from their places These things are spoken of thee. Strong kings and goodly with gold '29 Thou hast found out arrows to pierce, And made their kingdoms and races As dust and surf of the sea. All these, overburdened with woes And with length of their days waxen weak. Thou slewest ; and sentest moreover '35 Upon Tyro an evil thing. Rent hair and a fetter and blows Making bloody the flower of the cheek. Though she lay by a god as a lover. Though fair, and the seed of a king. For of old, being full of thy fire, mi She endured not longer to wear On her bosom a saffron vest. On her shoulder an ashwood quiver; Being mixed and made one through desire, With Enipeus, and all her hair 146 Made moist with his mouth, and her breast Filled full of the foam of the river. (1865) THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE Here, where the world is quiet; Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams; I watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams. I am tired of tears and laughter. And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours. Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep. Here life has death for neighbor. And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labor, Weak ships and spirits steer; 20 They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither. And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice, 25 No heather-flower or vine. But bloomless buds of poppies. Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes. Where no leaf blooms or blushes 3° Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine. Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn. They bow themselves and slumber 35 All night till light is born; And like a soul belated. In hell and heaven unmated. By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn. 4° Though one were strong as seven. He too with death shall dwell. Nor wake with wings in heaven. Nor weep for pains in hell ; Though one were fair as roses, 45 His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well. Pale, beyond porch and portal. Crowned with calm leaves, she stands 50 Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her. To men that mix and meet her 55 From many times and lands. She waits for each and other. She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn ; 60 And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, ^s The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, HERTHA 899 And all disastrous things ; Beside or above me Dead dreams of days forsaken, Naught is there to go; Blind buds that snows have shaken, 70 Love or unlove me. Wild leaves that vi^inds have taken, Unknow me or know, Red strays of ruined springs. I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the blow. 20 We are not sure of sorrow ; And joy was never sure; I the mark that is missed To-day will die to-morrow ; 75 And the arrows that miss, Time stoops to no man's lure ; I the mouth that is kissed And love, grown faint and fretful, And the breath in the kiss. With lips but half regretful The search, and the sought, and the seeker, Sighs, and with eyes forgetful the soul and the body that is. 2s Weeps that no loves endure. 80 I am that thing which blesses From too much love of living. My spirit elate ; From hope and fear set free, That which caresses We thank with brief thanksgiving With hands uncreate Whatever gods may be My limbs unbegolten that measure the That no life lives for ever; 85 length of the measure of fate. 30 That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river But what thing dost thou now. Winds somewhere safe to sea. Looking Godward, to cry ' I am I, thou art thou, Then star nor sun shall waken. I am low, thou art high?' Nor any change of light : 90 I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; Nor sound of waters shaken. find thou but thyself, thou art L 35 Nor any sound or sight : Nor wintry leaves nor vernal. I the grain and the furrow, Nor days nor things diurnal; The plough-cloven clod Only the sleep eternal 9S And the plough-share drawn thorough. In an eternal night. The germ and the sod, (1866) The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust which is God. 40 HERTHA I am that which began; Out of me the years roll; Out of me God and man; I am equal and whole; God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul. 5 Before ever land was. Before ever the sea, Or soft hair of the grass. Or fair limbs of the tree, Or the flesh-colored fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in me. 1° First life on my sources First drifted and swam; Out of me are the forces That save it or damn ; Out of me, man and woman, and wild- beast and bird ; before God was, T am. 15 Hast thou known how I fashioned thee, Child, underground? Fire that impassioned thee, Iron that bound, Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou known of or found ? 45 Canst thou say in thine heart Thou hast seen with thine eyes With what cunning of art Thou wast wrought in what wise. By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, and shown on my breast to the skies? 5° Who hath given, who hath sold it thee. Knowledge of me? Hath the wilderness told it thee? Hast thou learnt of the sea? Hast thou communed in spirit with night? have the winds taken counsel with thee? 55 900 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE Have I set such a star To show light on thy brow That thou sawest from afar What I show to thee now? Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the mountains and thou? What is here, dost thou know it ? 6i What was, hast thou known? Prophet nor poet Nor tripod nor throne Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, Init only thy mother alone. 6s Mother, not maker, Born, and not made ; Though her children forsake her, Allured or afraid. Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she stirs not for all that have prayed. 7° A creed is a rod, And a crown is of night ; But this thing is God, To be man with thy might. To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out thy life as the light. 75 I am in thee to save thee, As my soul in thee saith; Give thou as I gave thee, Thy life-blood and breath. Green leaves of thy labor, white flowers of thy thought, and red fruit of thy death. 8o Be the ways of thy giving As mine were to thee ; The free life of thy living. Be the gift of it free; Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt thou give thee to me. children of banishment, ^^ Souls overcast, Were the lights ye see vanish meant Always to last. Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows and stars overpast. 9o 1 that saw where ye trod The dim paths of the night Set the shadow called God In your skies to give light; But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in sight. 95 The tree many-rooted That swells to the sky With frondage red-fruited The life-tree am I ; In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves: ye shall live and not die. lo'J But the gods of your fashion That take and that give. In their pity and passion That scourge and forgive, They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off, they shall die and not live. 105 My own blood is what stanches The wounds in my bark; Stars caught in my branches Make day of the dark. And are worshipped as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their fires as a spark. I'o Where dead ages hide under The live roots of the tree, In my darkness the thunder Makes utterance of me; In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of the sea. IIS That noise is of Time, As his feathers are spread And his feet set to climb Through the boughs overhead. And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with his tread. i-^o The storm-winds of ages Blow through me and cease. The war-wind that rages, The spring-wind of peace, 124 Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of my blossoms increase. All sounds of all changes. All shadows and lights On the world's mountain-ranges, And stream-riven heights. Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and language of storm-clouds on earth- shaking nights; 130 All forms of all faces. All works of all hands In unsearchable places A FORSAKEN GARDEN 901 Of time-stricken lands, All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me as sands. '3S Though sore be my burden And more than ye know, And my growth have no guerdon But only to grow, '39 Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or death-worms below. These too have their part in me, As I too in these; Such fire is at heart in me, Such sap is this tree's, Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands and of seas. MS In the spring-colored hours When my mind was as May's, There brake forth of me flowers By centuries of days. Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out from my spirit as rays. 150 And the sound of them springing And smell of their shoots Were as warmth and sweet singing, And strength to my roots ; And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my fruits. '55 I bid you but be; I have need not of prayer; I have need of you free As your mouths of mine air; That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits of me fair. '6° More fair than strange fruit is Of faiths ye espouse; In me only the root is That blooms in your boughs; 164 Behold now your god that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your vows. In the darkening and whitening Abysses, adored. With dayspring and lightning For lamp and for sword, 169 God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the Lord. O my sons, O too dutiful Towards gods not of me. Was not I enough beautiful? Was it hard to be free? 174 For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you; look forth now and see. Lo, winged with world's wonders. With miracles shod. With the fires of his thunders For raiment and rod, God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with the terror of God. «8o For his twilight is come on him. His anguish is here; And his spirits gaze dumb on him. Grown gray from his fear; And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his infinite year. 185 Thought made him and breaks him, Truth slays and forgives; But to you, as time takes him, This new thing it gives. Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds upon freedom and lives. 190 For truth only is living. Truth only is whole. And the love of his giving Man's polestar and pole; Man, pulse of my center, and fruit of my body, and seed of my soul. 195 One birth of my bosom; One beam of mine eye; One topmost blossom That scales the sky ; Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, man that is I. 200 (1871) A FORSAKEN GARDEN In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland. At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee. Walled round with rocks as an inland island. The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses 5 The steep square slope of the blossomless bed Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses Now lie dead. The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken. 902 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE To the low last edge of the long lone land. '" If a step should sound or a word be spoken, Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand? So long have the gray bare walks lain guest- less, Through branches and briers if a man make way, He shall find no life but the sea-wind's restless ^S Night and day. The dense hard passage is blind and stilled That crawls by a track none turn to climb To the strait waste place that the years have rifled Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time. ^° The thorns he spares when the rose is taken ; The rocks are left when he wastes the plain ; The wind that wanders, the weeds wind- shaken, These remain. Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not; 25 As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry; From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not. Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. Over the meadows that blossom and wither, Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song. Only the sun and the rain come hither 31 All year long. The sun burns sear, and the rain dishevels One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. Only the wind here hovers and revels, 35 In a round where life seems barren as death. Here there was laughing of old, there was weepmg. Haply, of lovers none ever will know. Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleep- ing Years ago. 40 Heart handfast in heart as they stood, ' Look thither,' Did he whisper ? ' Look forth from the flowers to the sea; For the foam-flowers endure when the rose- blossoms wither. And men that love lightly may die — but we? ' And the same wind sang, and the same waves whitened, 45 Atid or ever the garden's last petals were shed. In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened, Love was dead. Or they loved their life through, and then went whither? And were one to the end — but what end who knows? so Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither. As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them? What love was ever as deep as a grave? They are loveless now as the grass above them 55 Or the wave. All are at one now, roses and lovers, Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. Not a breath of the time that has been hovers In the air now soft with a summer to be. 60 Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep. When as they that are free now of weep- ing and laughter We shall sleep. Here death may deal not again for ever; 65 Here change may come not till all change end. From the graves they have made they shall rise up never. Who have left naught living to ravage and rend. Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing. While the sun and the rain live, these shall be; 70 Till a last wind's breath, upon all these blowing. Roll the sea. Till the slow sea rise, and the sheer cliff crumble, THALASSIUS 903 Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink. And round the resonant radiance of his car Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble 7S The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, Here now in his triumph where all things Where depth is one with height, 30 Light heard as music, music seen as light, And with that second moondawn of the spring's That fosters the first rose. falter, Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread, As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, Death lies dead. (1876) A sun-child whiter than the sunlit snows Was born out of the world of sunless things 35 That round the round earth flows and ebbs and flows. But he that found the sea-flower by the THALASSIUS sea, And took to foster like a graft of earth. Upon the flowery forefront of the year. One wandering by the gray-green April sea Found on a reach of shingle and shallower sand. Inlaid with starrier glimmering jewelry Left for the sun's love and the light wind's cheer s Along the foam-flowered strand, Breeze-brightened, something nearer sea than land, Though the last shoreward blossom-fringe was near, A babe asleep, with flower-soft face that gleamed To sun and seaward as it laughed and dreamed, 10 Too sure of either love for cither's fear, Albeit so birdlike slight and light, it seemed. Nor man, nor mortal child of man, but fair As even its twin-born tenderer spray- flowers were, 14 That the wind scatters like an Oread's hair. For when July strewed fire on earth and sea The last time ere that year. Out of the flame of morn Cymothoe, Beheld one brighter than the sun-bright sphere Move toward her from its fieriest heart, whence trod 20 The live sun's very god, Across the foam-bright water-ways that are As heavenlier heavens, with star for answer- ing star; And on her eyes and hair and maiden mouth Felt a kiss falling fierier than the South, -s And heard above afar A noise of songs and wind-enamored wings, And lutes and lyres of milder and mightier strings, Was born of man's most highest and heavenliest birth. Free-born as winds and stars and waves are free ; 40 A warrior gray with glories more than years. Though more of years than change the quick to dead Had rained their light and darkness on his head ; A singer that in time's and memory's ears Should leave such words to sing as all his peers 45 Might praise with hallowing heat of rap- turous tears. Till all the days of human flight were fled. And at his knees his fosterling was fed. Not with man's wine and bread, 49 Nor mortal mother-milk of hopes and fears. But food of deep memorial days long sped; For bread with wisdom, and with song for wine. Clear as the full calm's emerald hyaline. And from his grave glad lips the boy would gather Fine honey of song-notes, goldener than gold, 55 More sweet than bees make of the breath- ing heather. That he, as glad and bold, Might drink as they, and keep his spirit from cold. And the boy loved his laurel-laden hair As his own father's risen on the eastern air, 60 And that less white brow-binding bayleaf bloom, More than all flowers his father's eyes re- lume. And those high songs he heard. More than all notes of any landward bird, More than all sounds less free 65 Than (lie wind's quiring to the choral sea. 904 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE High things the high song taught him: how the breath, Too frail for life, may be more strong than death ; And this poor flash of sense -in life, that gleams As a ghost's glory in dreams, 7o More stable than the world's own heart's root seems, By that strong faith of lordliest love, which gives To death's own sightless-seeming eyes a light Clearer, to death's bare bones a verier might. Than shines or strikes from any man that lives; 7S How he that loves life overmuch shall die The dog's death, utterly; And he that much less loves it than he hates All wrong-doing that is done, Anywhere always underneath the sun, 80 Shall live a mightier life than time's or fate's. One fairer thing he showed him, and in might More strong than day and night. Whose strengths build up time's towering period ; Yea, one thing stronger and more high than God, 8s Which, if man had not, then should God not be : And that was Liberty. And gladly should man die to gain, he said. Freedom; and gladlier, having lost, lie dead. For man's earth was not, nor the sweet sea- waves 90 His, nor his own land, nor its very graves. Except they bred not, bore not, hid not slaves ; But all of all that is. Were one man free in body and soul, were his. And the song softened, even as heaven by night 95 Softens, from sunnier down to starrier light, And with its moon-bright breath Blessed life for death's sake, and for life's sake death ; Till as the moon's own beam and breath confuse. In one clear hueless haze of glimmering hues, i°° The sea's line, and the land's line, and the sky's, And light for love of darkness almost dies, As darkness only lives for light's dear love. Whose hands the web of night is woven of: So in that heaven of wondrous words were life los And death brought out of strife; Yea, by that strong spell of serene in- crease, Brought out of strife to peace. And the song lightened, as the wind at morn Flashes, and even with lightning of the 'wind '1° Night's thick-spun web is thinned, And all its weft unwoven and overworn Shrinks, as might love from scorn, And as when wind and light, on water and land. Leap as twin gods from heavenward, hand in hand, "S And with the sound and splendor of their leap Strike darkness dead, and daunt the spirit of sleep. And burn it up with fire ; So with the light that lightened from the lyre. Was all the bright heat in the child's heart stirred, 120 And blown with blasts of music into flame, Till even his sense became Fire, as the sense that fires the singing bird, Whose song calls night by name. 124 And in the soul within the sense began The manlike passion of a godlike man. And in the sense within the soul again Thoughts that make men of gods, and gods of men. For love the high song taught him, — love that turns God's heart toward man as man's to God- ward ; love '3u That life and death and life are fashioned of, From the first breath that burns Half-kindled on the flower-like yeanling's lip So light and faint that life seems like to slip, To that yet weaklier drawn '35 When sunset dies of night's devouring dawn ; But the man dying not wholly as all men dies THALASSIUS 905 If aught be left of his in live men's eyes Out of the dawnless dark of death to rise ; If aught of deed or word 140 Be seen for all time, or of all time heard. Love, that though body and soul were over- thrown, Should live for love's sake of itself alone. Though spirit and f^esh were one thing doomed and dead. Not wholly annihilated. 145 Seeing even the hoariest ash-flake that the pyre Drops, and forgets the thing was once afire, And gave its heart to feed the pile's full flame Till its own heart its own heat overcame, Outlives its own life, though by scarce a span, 150 As such men dying outlive themselves in man. Outlive themselves for ever; if the heat Outburn the heart that kindled it, the sweet Outlast the flower whose soul it was, and flit. Forth of a body of it iss Into some new shape of a strange perfume More potent than its light live spirit of bloom, — How shall not something of that soul re- live, That only soul that had such gifts to give As lighten something even of all men's doom, 160 Even from the laboring womb. Even to the seal set on the unopening tomb ? And these the loving light of song and love Shall wrap and lap round, and impend above, 164 Imperishable ; and all springs born illume Their sleep with brighter thoughts than wake the dove To music, when the hillside winds resume The marriage-song of heather-flower and broom And all the joy thereof. And hate the song, too, taught him, — hate of all 170 That brings or holds in thrall Of spirit or flesh, free born ere God be- gan, The holy body and sacred soul of man. And wheresoever a curse was, or a chain, A throne for torment or a crown for bane Rose, molded out of poor men's molten pain, 176 There, said he, should man's heaviest hate be set Inexorably, to faint not or forget Till the last warmth bled forth of the last vein In flesh that none should call a king's again. Seeing wolves and dogs and birds that plague-strike air 181 Leave the last bone of all the carrion bare. And hope the high song taught him, — hope whose eyes Can sound the seas unsoundable, the skies Inaccessible of eyesight ; that can see 185 What earth beholds not, hear what wind and sea Hear not, and speak what all these crying in one Can speak not to the sun. For in her sovereign eyelight all things are Clear as the closest seen and kindlier star That marries morn and even and winter and spring 191 With one love's golden ring. For she can see the days of man, the birth Of good, and death of evil things on earth Inevitable and infinite, and sure '95 As present pain is, or herself is pure. Yea, she can hear and see, beyond all things That lighten from before Time's thunderous wings Through the awful circle of wheel-winged periods, The tempest of the twilight of all gods; 200 And, higher than all the circling course they ran. The sundawn of the spirit that was man. And fear the song, too, taught him, — fear to be Worthless the dear love of the wind and sea That bred him fearless, like a sea-mew reared 205 In rocks of man's foot feared. Where naught of wingless life may sing or shine. Fear to wax worthless of that heaven he had, When all the life in all his limbs was glad, And all the drops in all his veins were wine, 210 And all the pulses music ; when his heart. Singing, bade heaven and wind and sea bear part In one live song's reiterance, and they bore ; Fear to go crownless of the flower he wore When the winds loved him. and the waters knew 215 The blithest life that clove their blithe life through 9o6 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE With living limbs exultant, or held strife More amorous than all dalliance aye anew With the bright breath and strength of their large life, With all strong wrath of all sheer winds that blew, '-° All glories of all storms of the air that fell Prone, ineluctable, With roar from heaven of revel, and with hue As of a heaven turned hell. For when the red blast of their breath had made, ^"^ All heaven aflush with light more dire than shade, He felt it in his blood and eyes and hair Burn as if all the fires of the earth and air Had laid strong hold upon his flesh, and stung The soul behind it as with serpent's tongue. Forked like the loveliest lightnings; nor could bear ^^i But hardly, half distraught with strong de- light. The joy that like a garment wrapped hnn round, And lapped him over and under With raiment of great light, 235 And rapture of great sound At every loud leap earthward of the thunder From heaven's most furthest bound: So seemed all heaven in hearing and in sight. Alive and mad with glory and angry joy, That something of its marvelous mirth and might 241 Moved even to madness, fledged as even for flight, The blood and spirit of one but mortal boy. fTUDE REALISTE A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink, Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A baby's feet. Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat They stretch and spread and wink 6 Their ten soft buds that part and meet. No flower-bells that expand and shrink Gleam half so heavenly sweet As shine on life's untrodden brink A baby's feet. A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled Whence yet no leaf expands, Ope if you touch, though close upcurlcd, A baby's hands. 15 Then, fast as warriors grip their brands When battle's bolt is hurled. They close, clenched hard like tightening bands. No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled Match, even in loveliest lands, 20 The sweetest flowers in all the world — A baby's hands. A baby's eyes, ere speech begin. Ere lips learn words or sighs, Bless all things bright enough to win -25 A baby's eyes. Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies, And sleep flows out and in, Sees perfect in them Paradise. Their glance might cast out pain and sin, 3° Their speech make dumb the wise, By mute glad godhead felt within A baby's eyes. (1883) THE ROUNDEL A roundel is wrought as a ring or a star- bright sphere. With craft of delight and with cunning of sound unsought. That the heart of the hearer may smile if to pleasure his ear A roundel is wrought. Its jewel of music is carven of all or of aught — 5 Love, laughter, or mourning — remembrance of rapture or fear — That fancy may fashion to hang in the ear of thought. As a bird's quick song runs round, and the hearts in us hear Pause answer to pause, and again the same strain caught. THE ARMADA 907 So moves the device whence, round as a pearl or tear, 'o A roundel is wrought. (1883) ON A COUNTRY ROAD Along these low pleached lanes, on such a day, So soft a day as this, through shade and sun. With glad grave eyes that scanned the glad wild way, And heart still hovering o'er a song be- gun, And smile that warmed the world with beni- son, 5 Our father, lord long since of lordly rime, Long since hath haply ridden, when the lime Bloomed broad above him, flowering where he came. Because thy passage once made warm this clime, Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name. 10 Each year that England clothes herself with May, She takes thy likeness on her. Time hath spun Fresh raiment all in vain and strange ar- ray For earth and man's new spirit, fain to shun Things past for dreams of better to be won, IS Through many a century since thy funeral I chime I Rang, and men deemed it death's most dire- ful crime To have spared not thee for very love or shame ; And yet, while mists round last year's mem- ories climb. Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name. 20 Each turn of the old wild road whereon we stray, Meseems, might bring us face to face with one Whom seeing we could not but give thanks, and pray For England's love our father and her son To speak with us as once in days long done 25 With all men, sage and churl and monk and mime, Who knew not as we know the soul sub- lime That sang for song's love more than lust of fame. Yet, though this be not, yet, in happy time. Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name. 30 Friend, even as bees about the flowering thyme. Years crowd on years, till hoar decay be- grime Names once beloved ; but, seeing the sun the same, As birds of autumn fain to praise the prime, Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name. 3S (1884) THE ARMADA i=;88: 1888 England, mother born of seamen, daughter fostered of the sea, Mother more beloved than all who bear not all their children free. Reared and nursed and crowned and cher- ished by the sea-wind and the sun, Sweetest land and strongest, face most fair and mightiest heart in one, Stands not higher than when the centuries known of earth were less by three, 5 When the strength that struck the whole world pale fell back from hers un- done. At her feet were the heads of her foes bowed down, and the strengths of the storm of them stayed. And the hearts that were touched not with mercy with terror were touched and amazed and affrayed : Yea, hearts that had never been molten with pity were molten with fear as with flame. And the priests of the Godhead whose tem- ple is hell, and his heart is of iron and fire, lo And the swordsmen that served and the seamen that sped them, whom peril could tame not or tire. 9o8 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE Were as foam on the winds of the waters of England which tempest can tire not or tame. in They were girded about with thunder, and lightning came forth of the rage of their strength, And the measure that measures the wings of the storm was the breadth of their force and the length : And the name of their might was Invinci- ble, covered and' clothed with the ter- ror of God ; '5 With his wrath were they winged, with his love were they fired, with the speed of his winds were they shod; With his soul were they filled, in his trust were they comforted ; grace was upon them as night. And faith as the blackness of darkness : the fume of their balefires was fair in his sight, The reek of them sweet as a savor of myrrh in his nostrils: the world that he made, Theirs was it by gift of his servants : the wind, if they spake in his name, was afraid, 20 And the sun was a shadow before it, the stars were astonished with fear of it : fire Went up to them, fed with men living, and lit of men's hands for a shrine or a pyre ; And the east and the west wind scattered their ashes abroad, that his name should be blest Of the tribes of the chosen whose blessings are curses from uttermost east unto west. II Hell for Spain, and heaven for England, — God to God, and man to man, — 25 Met confronted, light with darkness, life with death : since time began. Never earth nor sea beheld so great a stake before them set, Save when Athens hurled back Asia from the lists wherein they met ; Never since the sands of ages through the glass of history ran Saw the sun in heaven a lordlier day than this that lights us yet. 3° For the light that abides upon England, the glory that rests on her godlike name, The pride that is love and the love that is faith, a perfume dissolved in flame, Took fire from the dawn of the fierce July when fleets were scattered as foam And squadrons as flakes of spray; when galleon and galliass that shadowed the sea Were swept from her waves like shadows that pass with the clouds they fell from, and she 35 Laughed loud to the wind as it gave to her keeping the glories of Spain and Rome. Three hundred summers have fallen as leaves by the storms in their season thinned. Since northward the war-ships of Spain came sheer up the way of the south- west wind : Where the citadel clifl's of England are flanked with bastions of serpentine. Far ofif to the windward loomed their hulls, an hundred and twenty-nine, 40 All filled full of the war, full-fraught with battle and charged with bale; Then store-ships weighted with cannon ; and all were an hundred and fifty sail. The measureless menace of darkness an- hungered with hope to prevail upon light. The shadow of death made substance, the present and visible spirit of night. Came, shaped as a waxing or waning moon that rose with the fall of day, 45 To the channel where couches the Lion in guard of the gate of the lustrous bay. Fair England, sweet as the sea that shields her, and pure as the sea from stain, Smiled, hearing hardly for scorn that stirred her the menace of saintly Spain. HI 'They that ride over ocean wide with hempen bridle and horse of tree.' How shall they in the darkening day of wrath and anguish and fear go free? 5° How shall these that have curbed the seas not feel his bridle who made the sea? THE ARMADA 909 God shall bow them and break them now : for what is man in the Lord God's sight ? Fear shall shake them,' and shame shall break, and all the noon of their pride be night : These that sinned shall the ravening wind of doom bring under, and judgment smite. England broke from her neck the yoke, and rent the fetter, and mocked the rod : 53 Shrines of old that she decked with gold she turned to dust, to the dust she trod : What is she, that the wind and sea should fight beside her, and war with God? Lo, the cloud of his ships that crowd her channel's inlet with storm sublime. Darker far than the tempests are that sweep the skies of her northmost clime; Huge and dense as the walls that fence the secret darkness of unknown time. 60 Mast on mast as a tower goes past, and sail by sail as a cloud's wing spread ; Fleet by fleet, as the throngs whose feet keep time with death in his dance of dread ; Galleons dark as the helmsman's bark of old that ferried to hell the dead. Squadrons proud as their lords, and loud with tramp of soldiers and chant of priests ; Slaves there told by the thousandfold, made fast in bondage as herded beasts ; 6s Lords and slaves that the sweet free waves shall feed on, satiate with funeral feasts. Nay, not so shall it be, they know ; their priests have said it; can priesthood lie? God shall keep them, their God shall sleep not : peril and evil shall pass them by : Nay, for these are his children ; seas and winds shall bid not his children die. So they boast them, the monstrous host whose menace mocks at the dawn : and here 7° They that wait at the wild sea's gate, and watch the darkness of doom draw near. How shall they in their evil day sustain the strength of their hearts for fear? Full July in the fervent sky sets forth her twentieth of changing morns : Winds fall mild that of late waxed wild ; no presage whispers or wails or warns : Far to west on the bland sea's breast a sail- ing crescent uprears her horns. 75 Seven wide miles the serene sea smiles be- tween them stretching from rim to rim : Soft they shine, but a darker sign should bid not hope or belief wax dim: God's are these men, and not the sea's : their trust is set not on her but him. God's? but who is the God whereto the prayers and incense of these men rise? What is he, that the wind and sea should fear him, quelled by his sunbright eyes? What, that men should return again, and hail him Lord of the servile skies? 81 Hell's own flame at his heavenly name leaps higher and laughs, and its gulfs re- joice ; Plague and death from his baneful breath take life and lighten, and praise his choice : Chosen are they to devour for prey the tribes that hear not and fear his voice. Ay, but we that the wind and sea gird round with shelter of storms and waves 85 Know not him that ye worship, grim as dreams that quicken from dead men's graves : God is one with the sea, the sun, the land that nursed us, the love that saves. Love whose heart is in ours, and part of all things noble and all things fair; Sweet and free as the circling sea, sublime and kind as the fostering air; Pure of shame as is England's name, whose crowns to come are as crowns that were. 90 IV But the Lord of darkness, the God whose love is a flaming fire. The master whose mercy fulfils wide hell till its torturers tire, He shall surely have heed of his servants who serve him for love, not hire. They shall fetter the wing of the wind whose pinions are plumed with foam : 9IO ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE For now shall thy horn l)c cxaUcd, and now shall thy bolt strike home; 95 Yea, now shall thy kingdom come, Lord God of the priests of Rome. They shall cast thy curb on the waters, and bridle the waves of the sea : They shall say to her. Peace, be still : and stillness and peace shall be: And the winds and the storms shall hear them, and tremble, and worship thee. Thy breath shall darken the morning, and wither the mounting sun; loo And the daysprings, frozen and fettered, shall know thee, and cease to run ; The heart of the world shall feel thee, and die, and thy will be done. The spirit of man that would sound thee, and search out causes of things. Shall shrink and subside and praise thee: and wisdom, with plume-plucked wings. Shall cower at thy feet and confess thee, that none may fathom thy springs. 105 The fountains of song that await but the wind of an April to be To burst the bonds of the winter, and speak with the sound of a sea, The blast of thy mouth shall quench them: and song shall be only of thee. The days that are dead shall quicken, the seasons that were shall return ; And the streets and the pastures of England, the woods that burgeon and yearn, no Shall be whitened with ashes of women and children and men that burn. For the mother shall burn with the babe sprung forth of her womb in fire, And the bride with bridegroom, and brother with sister, and son with sire ; And the noise of the flames shall be sweet in thine ears as the sound of a lyre. Yea, so shall thy kingdom be stablished, and so shall the signs of it be: ns And the world shall know, and the wind shall speak, and the sun shall see. That these are the works of thy servants, whose works bear witness to thee. But the dusk of the day falls fruitless, whose light should have lit them on : Sails flash through the gloom to shoreward, eclipsed as the sun that shone : And the west wind wakes with dawn, and the hope that was here is gone. i^o Around they wheel and around, two knots to the Spaniard's one, 'i'hc wind-swift warriors of England, who shoot as with shafts of the sun. With fourfold shots for the Spaniard's, that spare not till day be done. And the wind with the sundown sharpens, and hurtles the ships to the lee. And Spaniard on Spaniard smites, and shat- ters, and yields; and we, 125 Ere battle begin, stand lords of the battle, acclaimed of the sea. And the day sweeps round to the night- ward ; and heavy and hard the waves Roll in on the herd of the hurtling galleons; and masters and slaves Reel blind in the grasp of the dark strong wind that shall dig their graves. For the sepulchers hollowed and shaped of the wind in the swerve of the seas, 130 The graves that gape for their pasture, and laugh, thrilled through by the breeze. The sweet soft merciless waters, await and are fain of these. As the hiss of a Python heaving in menace of doom to be They hear through the clear night round them, whose hours are as clouds that flee. The whisper of tempest sleeping, the heave and the hiss of the sea. i3S But faith is theirs, and with faith are they girded and helmed and shod: Invincible are they, almighty, elect for a sword and a rod ; Invincible even as their God is omnipotent, infinite, God. In him is their strength, who have sworn that his glory shall wax not dim: In his name are their war-ships hallowed as mightiest of all that swim: mo The men that shall cope with these, and conquer, shall cast out him. In him is the trust of their hearts ; the de- sire of their eyes is he; The light of their ways, made lightning for men that would fain be free: Earth's hosts are with them, and with them is heaven : but with us is the sea. THE ARMADA 911 I And a day and a night pass over ; MS And the heart of their chief swells high ; For England, the warrior, the rover, Whose banners on all winds fly. Soul-stricken, he saith, by the shadow of death, holds off him, and draws not nigh. And the wind and the dawn together 'So Make in from the gleaming east : And fain of the wild glad weather As famine is fain of feast, And fain of the fight, forth sweeps in its might the host of the Lord's high priest. And lightly before the breeze '55 The ships of his foes take wing: Are they scattered, the lords of the seas? Are they broken, the foes of the king? And ever now higher as a mounting fire the hopes of the Spaniard spring. And a windless night comes down: '60 And a breezeless morning, bright With promise of praise to crown The close of the crowning fight. Leaps up as the foe's heart leaps, and glows with lustrous rapture of light. And stinted of gear for battle 165 The ships of the sea's folk lie, Unwarlike, herded as cattle, Six miles from the foeman's eye That fastens as flame on the sight of them tame and offenceless, and ranged as to die. Surely the souls in them quail, 170 They are stricken and withered at heart. When in on them, sail by sail. Fierce marvels of monstrous art, Tower darkening on tower till the sea-winds cower crowds down as to hurl them apart. And the windless weather is kindly, 175 And comforts the host in these; And their hearts are uplift in them blindly, And blindly they boast at ease That the next day's fight shall exalt them, and smite with destruction the lords of the seas. And lightly the proud hearts prattle, 180 And lightly the dawn draws nigh. The dawn of the doom of the battle When these shall falter and fly; No day more great in the roll of fate filled ever with fire the sky. To fightward they go as to feastward, '85 And the tempest of ships that drive Sets eastward ever and eastward. Till closer they strain and strive; And the shots that rain on the hulls of Spain are as thunders afire and alive. And about them the blithe sea smiles 190 And flashes to windward and lee Round capes and headlands and isles That heed not if war there be; Round Sark, round Wight, green jewels of light in the ring of the golden sea. But the men that within them abide '95 Are stout of spirit and stark As rocks that repel the tide. As day that repels the dark; And the light bequeathed from their swords unsheathed shines lineal on Wight and on Sark. And eastward the storm sets ever, 200 The storm of the sails that strain And follow and close and sever And lose and return and gain ; And English thunder divides in sunder the holds of the ships of Spain. Southward to Calais, appalled 205 And astonished, the vast fleet veers; And the skies are shrouded and palled. But the moonless midnight hears And sees how swift on them drive and drift strange flames that the darkness fears. They fly through the night from shore- ward, 210 Heart-stricken till morning break, And ever to scourge them forward Drives down on them England's Drake, And hurls them in as they hurtle and spin and stagger, with storm to wake. VI And now is their time come on them. For eastward they drift and reel, 215 912 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE With the shallows of Fiaiulcrs ahead, with destruction and havoc at iieel, With God for their comfort only, the God whom they serve; and here Their Lord, of his great loving-kindness, may revel and make good cheer ; Though ever his lips wax thirstier with drinking, and hotter the lusts in him swell ; For he feeds the thirst that consumes him with blood, and his winepress fumes virith the reek of hell. 220 Fierce noon beats hard on the battle ; the galleons that loom to the lee Bow down, heel over, uplifting their shel- terless hulls from the sea : From scuppers aspirt with blood, from guns dismounted and dumb, The signs of the doom they looked for, the loud mute witnesses come. They press with sunset to seaward for comfort : and shall not they find it there ? 225 O servants of God most high, shall his winds not pass you by, and his waves not spare ? Ill The wings of the south-west wind are widened ; the breath of his fervent lips. More keen than a sword's edge, fiercer than fire, falls full on the plunging ships. The pilot is he of their northward flight, their stay and their steersman he; A helmsman clothed with the tempest, and girdled with strength to constrain the sea. 230 And the host of them trembles and quails, caught fast in his hand as a bird in the toils; For the wrath and the joy that fulfil him are mightier than man's, whom he slays and spoils. And vainly, with heart divided in sunder, and labor of wavering will. The lord of their host takes counsel with hope if haply their star shine still, If haply some light be left them of chance to renew and redeem the fray; -35 But the will of the black south-wester is lord of the councils of war to-day. One only spirit it quells not, a splendor un- darkened of chance or time ; Be the praise of his foes with Oquendo for ever, a name as a star sublime. But here what aid in a hero's heart, what help in his hand may be? For ever the dark wind whitens and black- ens the hollows and heights of the sea. And galley by galley, divided and desolate, founders; and none takes heed, 241 Nor foe nor friend, if they perish; forlorn, cast off in their uttermost need, 'Ihcy sink in the whelm of the waters, as p(.I)bles by children from shoreward hurled. In the North Sea's waters that end not, nor know they a bourn but the bourn of the world. Past many a secure unavailable harbor, and many a loud stream's mouth, 24s Past Humbcr and Tees and Tyne and Tweed, they fly, scourged on from the. south. And torn by the scourge of the storm-wind that smites as a harper smites on a lyre, And consumed of the storm as the sacrifice loved of their God is consumed with fire. And devoured of the darkness as men that are slain in the fires of his love are de- voured. And deflowered of their lives by the storms, as by priests is the spirit of life de- flowered. 2S0 For the wind, of its godlike mercy, relents not, and hounds them ahead to the north, With English hunters at heel, till now is the herd of them past the Forth, All huddled and hurtled seaward ; and now need none wage war upon these, Nor huntsmen follow the quarry whose fall is the pastime sought of the seas. Day upon day upon day confounds them, with measureless mists that swell, 255 With drift of rains everlasting and dense as the fumes of ascending hell. The visions of priest and of prophet be- holding his enemies bruised of his rod Beheld but the likeness of this that is fallen on the faithful, the friends of God. Northward, and northward, and northward they stagger and shudder and swerve and flit, Dismantled of masts and of yards, with sails by the fangs of the storm-wind split. 260 But north of the headland whose name is Wrath, by the wrath or the ruth of the sea. THE ARMADA 913 They are swept or sustained to the west- ward, and drive through the rollers aloof to the lee. Some strive yet northward for Iceland, and perish : but some through the storm- hewn straits That sunder the Shetlands and Orkneys are borne of the breath which is God's or fate's : And some, by the dawn of September, at last give thanks as for stars that smile, For the winds have swept them to shelter and sight of the cliffs of a Catholic isle. 266 Though many the fierce rocks feed on, and many the merciless heretic slays. Yet some that have labored to land with their treasure are trustful, and give God praise. And the kernes of murderous Ireland, athirst with a greed everlasting of blood, Unslakable ever with slaughter and spoil, rage down as a ravening flood, ^7° To slay and to flay of their shining apparel their brethren whom shipwreck spares ; Such faith and such mercy, such love and such manhood, such hands and such hearts are theirs. Short shrift to her foes gives England, but shorter doth Ireland to friends; and worse Fare they that come with a blessing on treason than they that come with a curse. Hacked, harried, and mangled of axes and skenes, three thousand naked and dead Bear witness of Catholic Ireland, what sons of what sires at her breasts are bred. ^T^^ Winds are pitiful, waves are merciful, tem- pest and storm are kind: The waters that smite may spare, and the thunder is deaf, and the lightning is blind: Of these perchance at his need may a man, though they know it not, yet find grace ; But grace, if another be hardened against him, he gets not at this man's face. 280 For his ear that hears and his eye that sees the wreck and the wail of men, And his heart that relents not within him, but hungers, are like as the wolf's in his den. Worthy are these to worship their master, the murderous Lord of lies. Who hath given to the pontiff his servant the keys of the pit and the keys of the skies. 58 Wild famine and red-shod rapine are cruel, and bitter with blood are their feasts; But fiercer than famine and redder than rapine the hands and the hearts of priests. 286 God, God bade these to the battle ; and here, on a land by his servants trod, They perish, a lordly blood-offering, sub- dued by the hands of the servants of God. These also were fed of his priests with faith, with the milk of his word and the wine; These too are fulfilled with the spirit of darkness that guided their quest di- vine. 290 And here, cast up from the ravening sea on the mild land's merciful breast. This comfort they find of their fellows in worship ; this guerdon is theirs of their quest. Death was captain, and doom was pilot, and darkness the chart of their way; Night and hell had in charge and in keep- ing the host of the foes of day. Invincible, vanquished, impregnable, shat- tered, a sign to her foes of fear, 295 A sign to the world and the stars of laugh- ter, the fleet of the Lord lies here. Nay, for none may declare the place of the ruin wherein she lies ; Nay, for none hath beholden the grave whence never a ghost shall rise. The fleet of the foemen of England hath found not one but a thousand graves ; And he that shall number and name them shall number by name and by tale the waves. 300 VII Sixtus, Pope of the Church whose hope takes flight for heaven to dethrone the sun, Philip, king that wouldst turn our spring to winter, blasted, appalled, undone. Prince and priest, let a mourner's feast give thanks to God for your conquest won. England's heel is upon you : kneel, O priest, O prince, in the dust, and cry, 'Lord, why thus? art thou wroth with us whose faith was great in thee, God most high ? 305 Whence is this, that the serpent's hiss de- rides us? Lord, can thy pledged word lie? 914 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 'God of hell, arc its flames that swell quenched now for ever, extinct and dead? Who shall fear thee? or who shall hear the word thy servants who feared thee said? Lord, art thou as the dead gods now, whose arm is shortened, whose rede is read? * Yet we thought it was not for naught thy word was given us, to guard and guide : Yet we deemed that they had not dreamed who put their trust in thee. Hast thou lied? 311 God our Lord, was the sacred sword we drew not drawn on thy Church's side? 'England hates thee as hell's own gates; and England triumphs, and Rome bows down: England mocks at thee; England's rocks cast off thy servants to drive and drown : England loathes thee; and fame betroths and plights with England her faith for 'Spain clings fast to thee; Spain, aghast with anguish, cries to thee; where art thou? Spain puts trust in thee; lo, the dust that soils and darkens her prostrate brow! Spain is true to thy service ; who shall raise up Spain for thy service now? 'Who shall praise thee, if none may raise thy servants up, nor affright thy foes? Winter wanes, and the woods and plains forget the likeness of storms and snows : ^-° So shall fear of thee fade even here: and what shall follow thee no man knows.' Lords of night, who would breathe your blight on April's morning and August's noon, God your Lord, the condemned, the ab- horred, sinks hellward, smitten with deathlike swoon : Death's own dart in his hateful heart now thrills, and night shall receive him soon. God the Devil, thy reign of revel is here for ever eclipsed and fled : 325 God the Liar, everlasting fire lays hold at last on thee, hand and head : God the Accurst, the consuming thirst that burns thee never shall here be fed. England, queen of the waves whose green inviolate girdle curings thee round, Mother fair as the morning, where is now the place of thy foemen found? Still the sea that salutes us free proclaims them stricken, acclaims thee crowned. Times may change, and the skies grow strange with signs of treason and fraud and fear: 33' Foes in union of strange communion may rise against thee from far and near : Sloth and greed on thy strength may feed as cankers waxing from year to year. Yet, though treason and fierce unreason should league and lie and defame and smite. We that know thee, how far below thee the hatred burns of the sons of night, 335 We that love thee, behold above thee the witness written of life in light. Life that shines from thee shows forth signs that none may read not but eyeless foes : Hate, born blind, in his abject mind grows hopeful now but as madness grows: Love, born wise, with exultant eyes adores thy glory, beholds and glows. Truth is in thee, and none may win thee to lie, forsaking the face of truth : 340 Freedom lives by the grace she gives thee, born again from thy deathless youth : Faith should fail, and the world turn pale, wert thou the prey of the serpent's tooth. Greed and fraud, unabashed, unawed, may strive to sting thee at heel in vain: Craft and fear and mistrust may leer and mourn and murmur and plead and plain : 344 Thou art thou: and thy sunbright brow is hers that blasted the strength of Spain. Mother, mother beloved, none other could claim in place of thee England's place: Earth bears none that beholds the sun so pure of record, so clothed with grace : Dear our mother, nor son nor brother is thine, as strong or as fair of face. How shalt thou be abased? or how shall fear take hold of thy heart? of thine, CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 915 England, maiden immortal, laden with charge of life and with hopes divine? 35o Earth shall wither, when eyes turned hither behold not light in her darkness shine. England, none that is born thy son, and lives, by grace of thy glory, free, Lives and yearns not at heart and burns with hope to serve as he worships thee ; None may sing thee : the sea-wind's wing beats down our songs as it hails the sea. (1889) COR CORDIUM O Heart of hearts, the chalice of love's fire, Hid round with flowers and all the bounty of bloom ; O wonderful and perfect heart, for whom The lyrist liberty made life a lyre; O heavenly heart, at whose most dear de- sire 5 Dead love, living and singing, cleft his tomb. And with him risen and regent in death's room All day thy choral pulses rang full choir; O heart whose beating blood was running song, O sole thing sweeter than thine own songs were, 1° Help us for thy free love's sake to be free, True for thy truth's sake, for thy strength's sake strong, Till very liberty make clean and fair The nursing earth as the sepulchral sea. (1871) 'NGN DOLET' It does not hurt. She looked along the knife Smiling, and watched the thick drops mix and run * Down the sheer blade : not that which had been done Could hurt the sweet sense of the Roman wife, But that which was to do yet ere the strife 5 Could end for each for ever, and the sun : ] Nor was the palm yet nor was peace yet won While pain had power upon her husband's life. It does not hurt. Italia. Thou art more il Than bride to bridegroom : how shalt thou not take 10 The gift love's blood has reddened for thy sake? Was not thy life-blood given for us be- fore ? And if love's heart-blood can avail thy need, And thou not die, how should it hurt in- deed? (187O ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS CAR- LYLE AND GEORGE ELIOT Two souls diverse out of our human sight Pass, followed one with love and each with wonder : The stormj' sophist with his mouth of thun- der, Clothed with loud words and mantled in the might Of darkness and magnificence of night; 5 And one whose eye could smite the night in sunder. Searching if light or no light were there- under, And found in love of loving-kindness light. Duty divine and Thought with eyes of fire Still following Righteousness with deep de- sire 10 Shone sole and stern before her and above Sure stars and sole to steer by ; but more sweet Shone lower the loveliest lamp for earthly feet,— The light of little children, and their love. (1881) CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE Crowned, girdled, garbed, and shod with light and fire, Son first-born of the morning, sovereign star! Soul nearest ours of all, that wert most far, j\Iost far off in the abysm of time, thy lyre Hung highest above the dawn-enkindled quire s Where all ye sang together, all that are. And all the starry songs behind thy car Rang sequence, all our souls acclaim thee sire. 'If all the pens that ever poets held Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts,' 10 And as with rush of hurtling chariots The flight of all their spirits were impelled Toward one great end, thy glory — nay, not then, Not yet mightst thou be praised enough of men. (1882) WALTER HORATIO PATER (1839-1894) Pater began his life-long academic career at King's School, Canterbury, from which he proceeded to Queen's Collegt*, Oxford, where he took his bachelor's degree in 18tJ2. As an undergraduate I'ater knew few men, devoting himself closely to books, especially to Greek literature, in which Benjamin .Towett gave hiui much encouragement. After graduation he was elected to the Old Mortality, an essay society, through which he came into contact with the stimulating personalities of T. II. Green, A. C. Swinburne, and others. In 1804, he was elected fellow of Braseuose College, and except for visits to the Continent and a short residence in London, he remained in Oxford for the rest of his life. In 18(m, a sojourn in Italy gave Pater those impressions of Renaissance art that appear conspic- uously in his later writing. The quiet poise of his life as Oxford tutor and author was disturbed by nothing more eventful than an occasional vacation tour in France or Ger- many. Pater's most significant mission was in interpreting to his age the spirit of the Renais- sance in art and literature. His first essays, which had begun to appear in periodicals in 1867, were collected and published in a considerable volume. Studies in the History of the Renaissance, in 1873. In 1885 appeared Pater's finest single work. Marins the Epi- curean, a historical romance expounding the best phases of Epicureanism. Plis Imaginary Portraits (1S87) contains fine studies in philosophic fiction, and his Appreciations, with an Essay on Style (1889) reveals bits of his most subtle literary criticism. Plato and Platonism (1893) is a notable result of his early classical studies. Pater's somewhat painful seeking for precision of expression resulted in a style more delicate and rhyth- mical than direct and simple. His philosophy of temperance, discipline, and asceticism in art has had a permanent and refining influence upon English criticism. STYLE Since all progress of mind consists for the most part in differentiation, in the resolution of an obscure and complex object into its component aspects, it is surely the stupidest of losses to confuse things which right reason has put asun- der, to lose the sense of achieved dis- tinctions, the distinction between poetry and prose, for instance, or, to speak more exactly, between the laws and charac- teristic excellences of verse and prose composition. On the other hand, those who have dwelt most emphatically on the distinction between prose and verse, prose and poetry, may sometimes have been tempted to limit the proper func- tions of prose too narrowly; and this again is at least false economy, as being, in effect, the renunciation of a certain means or faculty, in a world where after all we must needs make the most of things. Critical efforts to limit art a priori, by anticipations regarding the natural incapacity of the material with which this or that artist works, as the sculptor with solid form, or the prose- writer with the ordinary language of men, are always liable to be discredited by the facts of artistic production ; and while prose is actually found to be a colored thing with Bacon, picturesque with Livy and Carlyle, musical with Cicero and Newman, mystical and inti- mate with Plato and Michelet and Sir Thomas Browne, exalted or florid, it may be, with Milton and Taylor, it will be useless to protest that it can be nothing at all, except something very tamely and narrowly confined to mainly practical ends — a kind of ' good round-hand ' ; as useless as the protest that poetry might not touch prosaic subjects as with Wordsworth, or an abstruse matter as with Browning, or treat contemporary life nobly as with Tennyson. In subor- dination to one essential beauty in all good literary style, in ail literature as a fine art, as there are many beauties of poetry, so the beauties of prose are many, and it is the business of criticism to 9t6 STYLE 917 estimate them as such ; as it is good in and with it the prejudice that there can the criticism of verse to look for those be but one only beauty of prose style, I hard, logical and quasi-prosaic excel- propose here to point out certain quali- lences which that too has, or needs. To ties of all literature as a fine art, which, find in the poem, amid the flowers, the 5 if they apply to the literature of fact, allusions, the mixed perspectives, of apply still more to the literature of the Lycidas for instance, the thought, the imaginative sense of fact, while they ap- logical structure: — how wholesome! ply indifferently to verse and prose, so far how delightful! as to identify in prose as either is really imaginative — certain what we call the poetry, the imaginative 10 conditions of true art in both alike, which power, not treating it as out of place conditions may also contain in them the and a kind of vagrant intruder, but by secret of the proper discrimination and way of an estimate of its rights, that is, guardianship of the peculiar excellences of its achieved powers, there. of either. Dryden, with the characteristic in- 15 The line between fact and something stinct of his age, loved to emphasize the quite different from external fact is, in- distinction between poetry and prose, the deed, hard to draw. In Pascal, for in- protest against their confusion with each stance, in the persuasive writers other, coming with somewhat diminished generally, how difficult to define the effect from one whose poetry was so 20 point where, from time to time, argument prosaic. In truth, his sense of prosaic which, if it is to be worth anything at excellence affected his verse rather than all, must consist of facts or groups of his prose, which is not only fervid, richly facts, becomes a pleading — a theorem figured, poetic, as we say, but vitiated, no longer, but essentially an appeal to the all unconsciously, by many a scanning 25 reader to catch the writer's spirit, to line. Setting up correctness, that hum- think with him, if one can or will — ble merit of prose, as the central literary an expression no longer of fact but of excellence, he is really a less correct his sense of it, his peculiar intuition of writer than he may seem, still with an a world prospective, or discerned below imperfect mastery of the relative pro- j" the faulty conditions of the present, in noun. It might have been foreseen that, either case changed somewhat from the in the rotations of mind, the province actual world. In science, on the other of poetry in prose would find its assertor; hand, in history so far as it conforms and, a century after Dryden, amid very to scientific rule, we have a literary do- dift'erent intellectual needs, and with the 35 main where the imagination may be need therefore of great modifications in thought to be always an intruder. And literary form, the range of the poetic as, in all science, the functions of liter- force in literature was effectively en- ature reduce themselves eventually to the larged by Wordsworth. The true dis- transcribing of fact, so all the excel- tinction between prose and poetry he re- ^° lences of literary form in regard to garded as the almost technical or ac- science are reducible to various kinds of cidental one of the absence or presence painstaking; this good quality being in- of metrical beauty, or, say ! metrical re- volved in all ' skilled work ' whatever, straint; and for him the opposition came in the drafting of an act of parliament, to be between verse and prose of course ; 45 as in sewing. Yet here again, the writ- but, as the essential dichotomy in this er's sense of fact, in history especially, matter, between imaginative and unim- and in all those complex subjects which aginative writing, parallel to De Quin- do but lie on the borders of science, will cey's distinction between ' the literature still take the place of fact, in various of power and the literature of knowl- 50 degrees. Your historian, for instance, edge,' in the former of which the com- with absolutely truthful intention, amid poser gives us not fact, but his peculiar the multitude of facts presented to him sense of fact, whether past or present. must needs select, and in selecting assert Dismissing then, under sanction of something of his own humor, something Wordsworth, that harsher opposition of 55 that comes not of the world without but poetry to prose, as savoring in fact of the of a vision within. So Gibbon molds arbitrary psychology of the last century, his unwieldy material to a preconceived 9i8 WALTER HORATIO PATER view. Livy, Tacitus, Michclet, moving That imaginative prose should be the full of poignant sensibility amid the special and opportune art of the modern records of the past, each, after his own world results from two important facts sense, modifies — who can tell where and about the latter : first, the chaotic va- to what degree ? — and becomes some- ^ riety and complexity of its interests, thing else than a transcriber; each, as making the intellectual issue, the really he thus modifies, passing into the domain master currents of the present time in- of art proper. For just in proportion calculable — a condition of mind little as the writer's aim, consciously or un- susceptible of the restraint proper to consciously, comes to be the transcribing, Jo verse form, so that the most character- not of the world, not of mere fact, but istic verse of the nineteenth century has of his sense of it, he becomes an artist, been lawless verse ; and secondly, an ali- bis work fine art; and good art (as I pervading naturalism, a curiosity about hope ultimately to show) in proportion everything whatever as it really is, in- to the truth of his presentment of that 15 volving a certain humility of attitude, sense ; as in those humbler or plainer cognate to what must, after all, be the functions of literature also, truth — less ambitious form of literature. And truth to bare fact, there — is the essence prose thus asserting itself as the special of such artistic quality as they may have. and privileged artistic faculty of the Truth ! there can be no merit, no craft 20 present day, will be, however critics may at all, without that. And further, all try to narrow its scope, as varied in its beauty is in the long run only fineness excellence as humanity itself reflecting of truth, or what we call expression, the on the facts of its latest experience — finer accommodation of speech to that an instrument of many stops, meditative, vision within. 25 observant, descriptive, eloquent, analytic, — The transcript of his sense of fact plaintive, fervid. Its beauties will be rather than the fact, as being preferable, not exclusively * pedestrian ' : it will ex- pleasanter, more beautiful to the writer ert, in due measure, all the varied charms himself. In literature, as in every other of poetry, down to the rhythm which, product of human skill, in the molding 30 as in Cicero, or Michelet, or Newman, at of a bell or a platter for instance, wher- their best, gives its musical value to ever this sense asserts itself, wherever every syllable. the producer so modifies his work as, The literary artist is of necessity a over and above its primary use or inten- scholar, and in what he proposes to do tion, to make it pleasing (to himself, 35 will have in mind, first of all, the scholar of course, in the first instance) there, and the scholarly conscience — the male ' fine ' as opposed to merely serviceable conscience in this matter, as we must art, exists. Literary art, that is, like think it, under a system of education all art which is in any way imitative or which still to so large an extent limits reproductive of fact — form, or color, 40 real scholarship to men. In his self- or incident — is the representation of criticism, he supposes always that sort such fact as connected with soul, of a of reader who will go (full of eyes) specific personality, in its preferences, its warily, considerately, though without volition and power. consideration for him, over the ground Such is the matter of imaginative or 45 which the female conscience traverses so artistic literature — this transcript, not of lightly, so amiably. For the material in mere fact, but of fact in its infinite va- which he works is no more a creation riety, as modified by human preference of his own than the sculptor's marble. in all its infinitely varied forms. It will Product of a myriad various minds and be good literary art not because it is 50 contending tongues, compact of obscure brilliant or sober, or rich, or impulsive, and minute association, a language has or severe, but just in proportion as its its own abundant and often recondite representation of that sense, that soul- laws, in the habitual and summary recog- fact, is true, verse being only one de- nition of which scholarship consists. A partment of such literature, and im- 55 writer, full of a matter he is before all aginative prose, it may be thought, being things anxious to express, may think of the special art of the modern world. those laws, the limitations of vocabulary, STYLE 919 structure, and the like, as a restriction, speak of the manner of a true master but if a real artist, will find in them an we mean what is essential in his art. opportunity. His punctilious observance Pedantry being only the scholarship of of the proprieties of his medium will le ciiistre (we have no English equiva- dififuse through all he writes a general 5 lent), he is no pedant, and does but air of sensibility, of refined usage. Ex- show his intelligence of the rules of lan- clusiones dcbitae naturae — the exclu- guage in his freedoms with it, addition sions, or rejections, which nature or expansion, which like the spon- demands — we know how large a part taneities of manner in a well-bred per- these play, according to Bacon, in the 10 son will still further illustrate good taste, science of nature. In a somewhat — The right vocabulary ! Translators changed sense, we might say that the have not invariably seen how all-im- art of the scholar is summed up in the portant that is in the work of translation, observance of those rejections demanded driving for the most part at idiom or by the nature of his medium, the mate- 15 construction ; whereas, if the original be rial he must use. Alive to the value of first-rate, one's first care should be with an atmosphere in which every term finds its elementary particles, Plato, for in- its utmost degree of expression, and with stance, being often reproducible by an all the jealousy of a lover of words, he exact following, with no variation in will resist a constant tendency on the 20 structure, of word after word, as the part of the majority of those who use pencil follows a drawing under tracing- them to efface the distinctions of Ian- paper, so only each word or syllable be guage, the facility of writers often rein- not of false color, to change my illustra- forcing in this respect the work of the tion a little. vulgar. He will feel the obligation not 25 Well ! that is because any writer worth of the laws only, but of those affinities, translating at all has winnowed and avoidances, those mere preferences, of, searched through his vocabulary, is con- his language, which through the asso- scious of the words he would select in ciations of literary history have become systematic reading of a dictionary, and a part of its nature, prescribing the re- 30 still more of the words he would reject jection of many a neology, many a li- were the dictionary other than John- cense, many a gipsy phrase which might son's; and doing this with his peculiar present itself as actually expressive. sense of the world ever in view, in search His appeal, again, is to the scholar, who of an instrument for the adequate expres- has great experience in literature, and 35 sion of that, he begets a vocabulary will show no favor to short-cuts, or faithful to the coloring of his own spirit, hackneyed illustration, or an affectation of and in the strictest sense original. That learning designed for the unlearned. living authority which language needs Hence a contention, a sense of self-re- lies, in truth, in its scholars, who recog- straint and renunciation, having for the 40 nizing always that every language pos- susceptible reader the effect of a chal- sesses a genius, a very fastidious genius, lenge for minute consideration; the at- of its own, expand at once and purify tention of the writer, in every minut- its very elements, which must needs est detail, being a pledge that it is worth change along with the changing thoughts the reader's while to be attentive too, 45 of living people. Ninety years ago/ for that the writer is dealing scrupulously instance, great mental force, certainly, with his instrument, and therefore, in- was needed by Wordsworth, to break directly, with the reader himself also, through the consecrated poetic associa- that he has the science of the instru- tions of a century, and speak the lan- ment he plays on, perhaps, after all, with 50 guage that was his, that was to become a freedom which in such case will be the in a measure the language of the next freedom of a master. generation. But he did it with the tact For meanwhile, braced only by those of a scholar also. English, for a quarter restraints, he is really vindicating his of a century past, has been assimilating liberty in the making of a vocabulary, 55 the phraseology of pictorial art: for half an entire system of composition, for him- a century, the phraseology of the great self, his own true manner; and when we German metaphysical movement of 920 WALTER HORATIO PATER eighty years ago ; in part also the Ian- pleasurable stimulus in the challenge for guage of mystical theology: and none but a continuous effort on their part, to be pedants will regret a great consequent rewarded by securer and more intimate increase of its resources. For many grasp of the author's sense. Self-re- years to come its enterprise may well S straint, a skilful economy of means, lie in the naturalization of the vocabu- asccsis, that too has a beauty of its own; lary of science, so oidy it be under the and for the reader supposed, there will eye of sensitive scholarship — in a lib- be an esthetic satisfaction in that frugal eral naturalization of the ideas of science closeness of style which makes the most too, for after all, the chief stimulus of lo of a word, in the exaction from every good style is to possess a full, rich, com- sentence of a precise relief, in the just plex matter to grapple with. The lit- spacing out of word to thought, in the erary artist, therefore, will be well aware logically filled space connected aJways of physical science; science also attain- with the delightful sense of difficulty ing, in its turn, its true literary ideal. 15 overcome. And then, as the scholar is nothing with- Different classes of persons, at differ- out the historic sense, he will be apt to ent times, make, of course, very various restore not really obsolete or really worn- demands upon literature. Still, scholars, out words, but the finer edge of words I su])pose, and not only scholars, but all still in use: ascertain, communicate, d'^- 20 disinterested lovers of books, will always coz'er — words like these it has been part look to it, as to all other fine art, for a of our ' business ' to misuse. And still, refuge, a sort of cloistral refuge, from a as language was made for man, he will certain vulgarity in the actual world. A be no authority for correctnesses which, perfect poem like Lycidas, a perfect fic- limiting freedom of utterance, were yet 25 tion like Esmond, the perfect handling of but accidents in their origin; as if one a theory like Newman's Idea of a Uni- vowed not to say 'its,' which ought to .versity, has for them something of the have been in Shakspere ; ' his ' and uses of a religious ' retreat.' Here, then, ' hci'S,' for inanimate objects, being but with a view to the central need of a a barbarous and really inexpressive sur- 3^ select few, those ' men of a finer thread ' vival. Yet we have known many things who have formed and maintain the lit- like this. Racy Saxon monosyllables, erary ideal, everything, every component close to us as touch and sight, he will element will have undergone exact trial, intermix readily with those long, savor- and, above all, there will be no unchar- some, Latin words, rich in ' second in- 35 acteristic or tarnished or vulgar decora- tention.' In this late day certainly, no tion, permissible ornament being for the critical process can be conducted rea- most part structural, or necessary. As the sonably without eclecticism. Of such painter in his picture, so the artist in eclecticism we have a justifying example his book, aims at the production by in one of the first poets of our time. 40 honorable artifice of a peculiar atmos- How illustrative of monosyllabic effect, phere. ' The artist,' says Schiller, ' may of sonorous Latin, of the phraseology of be known rather by what he ojnits;' science, of metaphysic, of colloquialism and in literature, too, the true artist may even, are the writings of Tennyson; yet be best recognized by his tact of omis- with what a fine, fastidious scholarship 45 sion. For to the grave reader words too throughout I are grave ; and the ornamental word, the A scholar writing for the scholarly, figure, the accessory form or color or he will of course leave something to the reference, is rarely content to die to willing intelligence of his reader. ' To thought precisely at the right moment, go preach to the first passer-by,' says 50 but will inevitably linger awhile, stirring Montaigne, ' to become tutor to the ig- a long ' brain-wave ' behind it of per- norance of the first I meet, is a thing haps quite alien associations. I abhor;' a thing, in fact, naturally dis- just there, it may be, is the detrimental tressing to the scholar, who will there- tendency of the sort of scholarly atten- fore ever be shy of offering uncompli- 55 tiveness of mind I am recommending, mentary assistance to the reader's wit. But the true artist allows for it. He To really strenuous minds there is a will remember that, as the very word STYLE 92] ornament indicates what is in itself non- adding to the resources of expression, essential, so the ' one beauty ' of all lit- The elementary particles of language erary style is of its very essence, and will be realized as color and light and independent, in prose and verse alike, of shade through his scholarly living in the all removable decoration; that it may ex- 5 full sense of them. Still opposing the ist in its fullest luster, as in Flaubert's constant degradation of language by Madame Bovary, for instance, or in those who use it carelessly, he will not Stendhal's Le Rouge et Lc Noir, in a treat colored glass as if it were clear; composition utterly unadorned, with and while half the world is using figure hardly a single suggestion of visibly 10 unconsciously, will be fully aware not beautiful things. Parallel, allusion, the only of all that latent figurative texture allusive way generally, the flowers in the in speech, but of the vague, lazy, half- garden : — he knows the narcotic force formed personification — a rhetoric, de- of these upon the negligent intelligence pressing, and worse than nothing, be- to which any diversion, literally, is wel- 15 cause it has no really rhetorical motive come, any vagrant intruder, because one — which plays so large a part there, and, can go wandering away with it from the as in the case of more ostentatious orna- immediate subject. Jealous, if he have ment, scrupulously exact of it, from syl- a really quickening motive within, of all lable to syllable, its precise value, that does not hold directly to that, of the 20 So far I have been speaking of cer- facile, the otiose, he will never depart tain conditions of the literary aVt arising from the strictly pedestrian process, un- out of the medium or material in or upon less he gains a ponderable something which it works, the essential qualities thereby. Even assured of its congruity, of language and its aptitudes for con- he will still question its serviceableness. 25 tingent ornamentation, matters which Is it worth while, can we afford, to at- define scholarship as science and good tend to just that, to just that figure or taste respectively. They are both sub- literary reference, just then? — Sur- servient to a more intimate quality of plusage! he will dread that, as the runner good style: more intimate, as coming on his muscles. For in truth all art 30 nearer to the artist himself. The otiose, does but consist in the removal of sur- the facile, surplusage : why are these plusage, from the last finish of the gem- abhorrent to the true literary artist, ex- engraver blowing away the last particle cept because, in literary as in all other of invisible dust, back to the earliest art, structure is all-important, felt, or divination of the finished work to be, 35 painfully missed, everywhere? — that lying somewhere, according to Michel- architectural conception of work, which angelo's fancy, in the rough-hewn block foresees the end in the beginning and of stone. never loses sight of it, and in every And what applies to figure or flower part is conscious of all the rest, till the must be understood of all other acci- 40 last sentence does but, with undimin- dental or removable ornaments of writ- ished vigor, unfold and justify the first ing whatever; and not of specific orna- — a condition of literary art, which, in ment only, but of all that latent color contra-distinction to another quality of and imagery which language as such car- the artist himself, to be spoken of later, ries in it. A lover of words for their 4S I shall call the necessity of mind in style. own sake, to whom nothing about them An acute philosophical writer, the late is unimportant, a minute and constant Dean Mansel (a writer whose works il- observer of their physiognomy, he will be lustrate the literary beauty there may be on the alert not only for obviously mixed in closeness, and with obvious repres- metaphors of course, but for the meta- ?o sion or economy of a fine rhetorical gift) phor that is mixed in all our speech, wrote a book, of fascinating precision in though a rapid use may involve no cog- a very obscure subject, to show that all nition of it. Currently recognizing the the technical laws of logic are but means incident, the color, the physical elements of securing, in each and all of its ap- or particles in words like absorb, ron- ss prehensions, the unity, the strict identity sider, extract, to take the first that occur, with itself, of the apprehending mind, he will avail himself of them, as further x\ll the laws of good writing aim at a 922 WALTER HORATIO i'ATER similar unity or identity of the mind in motive, or member of the whole matter, all the processes by which the word is indicating, as Flaubert was aware, an associated to its import. The term is original structure in thought not organ- right, and has its essential beauty, when ically complete. With such foresight, it becomes, in a manner, what it sig- 5 the actual conclusion will most often get nifies, as with the names of simple sen- itself written out of hand, before, in the sations. To give the phrase, the more obvious sense, the work is finished, sentence, the structural member, the en- With some strong and leading sense of tire composition, song, or essay, a similar the world, the tight hold of which se- unity with its subject and with itself : lo cures true co;///'oj>///ou and not mere loose — style is in the right way when it accretion, the literary artist, I .suppose, tends towards that. All depends upon goes on considerably, setting joint to the original unity, the vital wholeness joint, sustained by yet restraining the and identity, of the initiatory apprehen- productive ardor, retracing the negli- sion or view. So much is true of all 15 gences of his first sketch, repeating his art, which therefore requires always its steps only that he may give the reader logic, its comprehensive reason — insight, a sense of secure and restful progress, foresight, retrospect, in simultaneous readjusting mere assonances even, that action — true, most of all, of the literary they may soothe the reader, or at least art, as being of all the arts most closely 20 not interrupt him on his way; and then, cognate to the abstract intelligence. somewhere before the end comes, is Such logical coherency may be evidenced burdened, inspired, with his conclusion, not merely in the lines of composition as and betimes delivered of it, leaving off, a whole, but in the choice of a single not in weariness and because he finds word, while it by no means interferes 25 himself at an end, but in all the freshness with, but may even prescribe, much va- of volition. His work now structurally riety, in the building of the sentence for complete, with all the accumulating ef- instance, or in the manner, argumenta- feet of secondary shades of meaning, he tive, descriptive, discursive, of this or finishes the whole up to the just propor- that part or member of the entire de- 3c tion of that ante-penultimate conclusion, sign. The blithe, crisp sentence, de- and all becomes expressive. The house cisive as a child's expression of its needs, he has built is rather a body he has in- may alternate with the long-contending, formed. And so it happens, to its victoriously intricate sentence; the sen- greater credit, that the better interest tence, born with the integrity of a sin- 35 even of a narrative to be recounted, a gle word, relieving the sort of sentence story to be told, will often be in its see- in which, if you look closely, you can ond reading. And though there are in- see much contrivance, much adjustment, stances of great writers who have been to bring a highly qualified matter into no artists, an unconscious tact sometimes compass at one view. For the literary 40 directing work in which we may detect, architecture, if it is to be rich and ex- very pleasurably, many of the efifects of pressive, involves not only foresight of conscious art, yet one of the greatest the end in the beginning, but also de- pleasures of really good prose literature velopment or growth of design, in the is in the critical tracing out of that con- process of execution, with many irregu- 45 scions artistic structure, and the pervad- larities, surprises, and after-thoughts ; ing sense of it as we read. Yet of poetic the contingent as well as the necessary literature too; for, in truth, the kind of being subsumed under the unity of the constructive intelligence here supposed whole. As truly, to the lack of such is one of the forms of the imagmation. architectural design, of a single, almost 5o That is the special function of mind, visual, image, vigorously informing an in style. Mind and soul,— hard to as- entire, perhaps very intricate, composi- certain philosophically, the distinction is tion, which shall be austere, ornate, ar- real enough practically, for they often gumentative, fanciful, yet true from first interfere, are sometimes in conflict, with to last to that vision within, may be 55 each other. Blake, in the last century, attributed those weaknesses of conscious is an instance of preponderating soul, or unconscious repetition of word, yihrase, embarrassed, at a loss, in an era of pre- STYLE 923 ponderating mind. As a quality of style, of choosing and rejecting what is con- at all events, soul is a fact, in certain gruous or otherwise, with a drift to- writers — the way they have of absorb- wards unity — unity of atmosphere here, ing language, of attracting it into the as there of design — soul securing color peculiar spirit they are of, with a sub- 5 (or perfume, might we say?) as mind tlety which makes the actual result seem secures form, the latter being essentially like some inexplicable inspiration. By finite, the former vague or infinite, as mind, the literary artist reaches us, the influence of a living person is prac- through static and objective indications tically infinite. There are some to whom of design in his work, legible to all. By 10 nothing has any real interest, or real soul, he reaches us, somewhat capri- meaning, except as operative in a given ciously perhaps, one and not another, person ; and it is they who best appreciate through vagrant sympathy and a kind of tlie quality of soul in literary art. They immediate contact. Mind we cannot seem to know a person, in a book, and choose but approve where we recognize 15 make way by intuition : yet, although it; soul may repel us, not because we they thus enjoy the completeness of a misunderstand it. The way in which personal information, it is still a char- theological interests sometimes avail acteristic of soul, in this sense of the themselves of language is perhaps the word, that it does but suggest what can best illustration of the force I mean to ao never be uttered, not as being different indicate generally in literature, by the from, or more obscure than, what actu- word soul. Ardent religious persuasion ally gets said, but as containing that may exist, may make its way, without plenary substance of which there is only finding any equivalent heat in language: one phase or facet in what is there ex- or, again, it may enkindle words to va- 25 pressed. rious degrees, and when it really takes If all high things have their martyrs, hold of them doubles its force. Reli- Gustave Flaubert might perhaps rank as gious history presents many remarkable the martyr of literary style. In his instances in which, through no mere printed correspondence, a curious series phrase-worship, an unconscious liter- 3° of letters, written in his twenty-fifth ary tact has, for the sensitive, laid open year, records what seems to have been a privileged pathway from one to an- his one other passion — a series of let- other. ' The altar-fire,' people say, ' has ters which, with its fine casuistries, its touched those lips ! ' The Vulgate, the firmly repressed anguish, its tone of bar- English Bible, the English Prayer-Book, 35 monious gray, and the sense of disillusion the writings of Swedenborg, the Tracts in which the whole matter ends, might for the Times : — there, we have in- have been, a few slight changes sup- stances of widely different and largely posed, one of his own fictions. Writing diffused phases of religious feeling in to Madame X. certainly he does display, operation as soul in style. But some- 40 by 'taking thought' mainly, by constant thing of the same kind acts with similar and delicate pondering, as in his love power in certain writers of quite other for literature, a heart really moved, but than theological literature, on behalf of still more, and as the pledge of that emo- some wholly personal and peculiar sense tion, a loyalty to his work. Madame X., of theirs. Most easily illustrated by 45 too, is a literary artist, and the best gifts theological literature, this quality lends he can send her are precepts of perfec- to profane writers a kind of religious tion in art, counsels for the eft'ectual influence. At their best, these writers pursuit of that better love. In his become, as we say sometimes, ' proph- love-letters it is the pains and pleasures ets ' ; such character depending on the 50 of art he insists on, its solaces : he com- effect not merely of their matter, but of municates secrets, reproves, encourages, their matter as allied to, in ' electric with a view to that. Whether the lady affinity ' with, peculiar form, and work- was dissatisfied with such divided or in- ing in all cases by an immediate sym- direct service, the reader is not enabled pathetic contact, on which account it is 55 to see ; but sees that, on Flaubert's part that it may be called soul, as opposed to at least, a living person could be no mind, in stvle. And this too is a faculty rival of what was, from first to last, his 924 WALTER HORATIO PATER leading passion, a somewhat solitary and there exists but one way of expressing exclusive one. one thing, one word to call it by, one ad- 'I must scold you,' he writes, 'for one jective to qualify, one verb to animate thing, which shocks, scandalizes me, the it, he gave himself to superhuman labor small concern, namely, you sliow for art 5 for the discovery, in every phrase, of that just now. As regards glory be it so: word, that verb, that epithet. In this there, I approve. But for art! — the one way, he believed in some mysterious thing in life that is good and real — • harmony of expression, and when a true can you compare with it an earthly love? word seemed to him to lack eupliony still — prefer the adoration of a relative lo went on seeking another, with invincible beauty to the cultiis of the true beauty? patience, certain that he had not yet got Well ! I tell you the truth. That is the hold of the unique word. ... A one thing good in me : the one thing I thousand preoccupations would beset him have, to me estimable. For yourself, you at the same moment, always with this blend with the beautiful a heap of alien 15 desperate certitude fixed in his spirit: things, the useful, the agreeable, what Among all the expressions in the world, not ? — all forms and turns of expression, there 'The only way not to be unhappy is is but one — one form, one mode — to ex- to shut yourself up in art, and count press what I want to say.' everything else as nothing. Pride takes 20 The one word for the one thing, the one the place of all beside when it is estab- thought, amid the multitude of words, lished on a large basis. Work! God terms, that might just do: the problem wills it. That, it seems to me, is clear. — of style was there ! — the unique word, ' I am reading over again the AIncid, phrase, sentence, paragraph, essay, or certain verses of which I repeat to my- 25 song, absolutely proper to the single self to satiety. There are phrases there mental presentation or vision within. In which stay in one's head, by which I that perfect justice, over and above the find myself beset, as with those musical many contingent and removable beauties airs which are forever returning, and with which beautiful style may charm us, cause you pain, you love them so much. 30 but which it can exist without, inde- I ol:iserve that I no longer laugh much, pendent of them yet dexterously availing and am no longer depressed. I am ripe. itself of them, omnipresent in good work, You talk of my serenity, and envy me. in function at every point, from single It may well surprise you. Sick, irritated, epithets to the rhythm of a whole book, the prey a thousand times a day of cruel 3s lay the specific, indispensable, very intel- pain, I continue my labor like a true lectual, beauty of literature, the possibility working-man, who, with sleeves turned of wdiich constitutes it a fine part, up, in the sweat of his brow, beats away One seems to detect the influence of a at his anvil, never troubling himself philosophic idea there, the idea of a whether it rains or blows, for hail or ao natural economy, of some preexistent thunder. I was not like that formerly, adaptation, between a relative, somewhere The change has taken place naturally, in the world of thought, and its correl- though my will has counted for some- ative, somewhere in the world of language thing in the matter. — — both alike, rather, somewhere in the 'Those who write in good style are 45 mmd of the artist, desiderative, expectant, sometimes accused of a neglect of ideas, inventive — meeting each other with the and of the moral end. as if the end of the readiness of ' soul and body reunited.' in physician were something else than heal- Blake's rapturous design ; and, in fact, ing, of the painter than painting — as if Flaubert was fond of giving his theory the end of art were not, before all else, 50 philosophical expression. — the beautiful.' ' There are no beautiful thoughts,' he What, then, did Flaubert understand would say, 'without beautiful forms, and by l)eauty, in the art he pursued with so conversely. As it is impossible to extract much fervor, with so much self-com- from a physical body the qualities which mand? Let us hear a sympathetic com- 5s really constitute it — color, extension, and mentator: — the like — without reducing it to a hollow ' Possessed of an absolute belief that abstraction, in a word, without destroying STYLE 925 it; just so it is impossible to detach the that anxiety in 'seeking the phrase,' form from the idea, for the idea only which gathered all the other small ciiiiuis exists by virtue of the form.' of a really quiet existence into a kind of All the recognized flowers, the remov- battle, was connected with his lifelong able ornaments of literature (including 5 contention against facile poetry, facile harmony and ease in reading aloud, very art — art, facile and flimsy ; and what carefully considered by him) counted constitutes the true artist is not the slow- certainly; for these too are part of the ness or quickness of the process, but the actual value of what one says. But still, absolute success of the result. As with after all, with Flaubert, the search, the 10 those laborers in the parable, the prize is unwearied research, was not for the independent of the mere length of the smooth, or winsome, or forcible word, as actual day's work. ' You talk,' he writes, such, as with false Ciceronians, but quite odd, trying lover, to Madame X. — simply and honestly for the word's ad- ' You talk of the exclusiveness of my justment to its meaning. The first con- ,5 literary tastes. That might have enabled dition of this must be, of course, to know you to divine what kind of a person I am yourself, to have ascertained your own in the matter of love. I grow so hard to sense exactly. Then, if we suppose an please as a literary artist, that I am driven artist, he says to the reader, — I want you to despair. I shall end by not writing an- te see precisely what I see. Into the 20 other line.' mind sensitive to ' form,' a flood of random ' Happy,' he cries, in a moment of dis- sounds, colors, incidents, is ever penetrat- couragement at that patient labor, which ing from the world without, to become, by for him, certainly, was the condition of a sympathetic selection, a part of its very great success. — structure, and, in turn, the visible vesture 25 ' Happy those who have no doubts of and expression of that other world it sees themselves ! who lengthen out, as the pen so steadily within, nay, already with a runs on, all that flows forth from their partial conformity thereto, to be refined, brains. As for me, I hesitate, I disappoint enlarged, corrected, at a hundred points; myself, turn round upon myself in despite : and it is just there, just at those doubtful 30 my taste is augmented in proportion as points that the function of style, as tact my natural vigor decreases, and I afflict or taste, intervenes. The unique term my soul over some dubious word out of will come more quickly to one than an- all proportion to the pleasure I get from other, at one time than another, according a whole page of good writing. One also to the kind of matter in question. 35 would have to live two centuries to attain Quickness and slowness, ease and close- a true idea of any matter whatever, ness alike, have nothing to do with the What Buffon said is a big blasphemy: artistic character of the true word found genius is not long-continued patience, at last. As there is a charm of ease, so Still, there is some truth in the statement, there is also a special charm in the signs 40 and more than people think, especially as of discovery, of effort and contention regards our own day. Art ! art ! art ! towards a due end, as so often with bitter deception ! phantom that glows with Flaubert himself — in the style which has light, only to lead one on to destruction.' been pliant, as only obstinate, durable Again — metal can be, to the inherent perplexities 45 ' I am growing so peevish about my and recusancy of a certain difficult writing. I am like a man whose ear is thought. true but who plays falsely on the violin : If Flaubert had not told us, perhaps we his fingers refuse to reproduce precisely should never have guessed how tardy and those sounds of which he has the inward painful his own procedure really was, and 50 sense. Then the tears come rolling down after reading his confession may think from the poor scraper's eyes and the bow that his almost endless hesitation had falls from his hand.' much to do with diseased nerves. Often, Coming slowly or quickly, when it perhaps, the felicity supposed will be the comes, as it came with so much labor of product of a happier, a more exuberant 55 mind, but also with so much luster, to nature than Flaubert's. Aggravated, cer- Gustave Flaubert, this discoverv of the tainly, by a morbid physical condition, word will be, like all artistic success and 9^6 WALTER HORATIO PATER felicity, incapable of strict analysis: effect rectness or purism of the mere scholar, of an intuitive condition of mind, it must but a security against the otiose, a jealous be recognized by like intuition on the part exclusion of what does not really tell of the reader, and a sort of immediate towards the pursuit of relief, of life and sense. In every one of those masterly 5 vigor in the portraiture of one's sense, sentences of Flaub'ert there was, below ail License again, the making free with rule, mere contrivance, shaping and after- if it be indeed, as people fancy, a habit thought, by some happy instantaneous of genius, flinging aside or transforming concourse of the various faculties of the all that opposes the liberty of beautiful mind with each other, the exact appre- lo production, will be but faith to one's own hension of what was needed to carry the meaning. The seeming baldness of Le meaning. And that it fits with absolute Rouge et Le Noir is nothing in itself; the justice will be a judgment of immediate wild ornament of Les Miserables is noth- sense in the appreciative reader. We all ing in itself; and the restraint of Flaubert, feel this in what may be called inspired 15 amid a real natural opulence, only re- translation. Well! all language involves doubled beauty — the phrase so large and translation from inward to outward. In so precise at the same time, hard as literature, as in all forms of art, there are bronze, in service to the more perfect the absolute and the merely relative or adaptation of words to their matter, accessory beauties ; and precisely in that 20 Afterthoughts, retouchings, finish, will be exact proportion of the term to its pur- of profit only so far as they too really pose is the absolute beauty of style, prose serve to bring out the original, initiative, or verse. All the good qualities, the generative, sense in them, beauties, of verse also, are such, only as In this way, according to the well- precise expression. 25 known saying, ' The style is the man,' In the highest as in the lowliest litera- complex for simple, in his individuality, ture, then, the one indispensable beauty his plenary sense of what he really has is, after all, truth: — truth to bare fact to say, his sense of the world ; all cautions in the latter, as to some personal sense regarding style arising out of so many of fact, diverted somewhat from men's 30 natural scruples as to the medium through ordinary sense of it, in the former; truth which alone he can expose that inward there as accuracy, truth here as expres- sense of things, the purity of this medium, sion, that finest and most intimate form its laws or tricks of refraction : nothing of truth, the vraie veritc. And what an is to be left there which might give con- eclectic principle this really is ! employ- ^^ veyance to any matter save that. Style in ing for its one sole purpose — that ab- all its varieties, reserved or opulent, terse, solute accordance of expression to idea — abundant, musical, stimulant, academic, so all other literary beauties and excellences long as each is really characteristic or whatever: how many kinds of style it expressive, finds thus its justification, the covers, explains, justifies, and at the same 40 sumptuous good taste of Cicero being as time safeguards ! Scott's facility, Flau- truly the man himself, and not another, bert's deeply pondered evocation of ' the justified, yet insured inalienably to him, phrase,' are equally good art. Say what thereby, as would have been his portrait you have to say, what you have a will to by Raphael, in full consular splendor, on say, in the simplest, the most direct and 45 his ivory chair. exact manner possible, with no surplus- A relegation, you may say perhaps — age: — there, is the justification of the a relegation of style to the subjectivity, sentence so fortunately born, ' entire, the mere caprice, of the individual, which smooth, and round,' that it needs no must soon transform it into mannerism, punctuation, and also (that is the point!) 5° Xot so! since there is, under the condi- of the most elaborate period, if it be right tions supposed, for those elements of the in its elaboration. Here is the office of man, for every lineament of the vision ornament: here also the purpose of re- within, the one word, the one acceptable straint in ornament. As tlie exponent of word, recognizable by the sensitive, by truth, that austerity (the beauty, the func- 55 others 'who have intelligence' in the tion, of which in literature Flaubert un- matter, as absolutely as ever anything can derstood so well) becomes not the cor- be in the evanescent and delicate region STYLE 927 of human language. The style, the man- takes rank as the typically perfect art. ner, would be the man, not in his unrea- If music be the ideal of all' art whatever, soned and really uncharacteristic caprices, precisely because in music it is impossible involuntary or affected, but in absolutely to distinguish the form from the substance sincere apprehension of what is most real 5 or matter, the subject from the expres- to him. But let us hear our French guide sion, then, literature, by finding its specific again. — excellence in the absolute correspondence ' Styles,' says Flaubert's commentator, of the term to its import, will be but ful- ' Styles, as so many peculiar molds, each filling the condition of all artistic quality of which bears the mark of a particular 10 in things everywhere, of all good art. writer, who is to pour into it the whole Good art, but not necessarily great art ; content of his ideas, were no part of his the distinction between great art and good theory. What he believed in was Style: art depending immediately, as regards that is to say, a certain absolute and literature at all events, not on its form, unique manner of expressing a thing, V2 i5 but on the matter. Thackeray's Esmond^ all its intensity and color. For him the surely, is greater art than Vanity Fair, form was the work itself. As in living by the greater dignity of its interests. It creatures, the blood, nourishing the body, is on the quality of the matter it informs determines its very contour and external or controls, its compass, its variety, its aspect, just so, to his mind, the matter, 2° aUiance to great ends, or the depth of the the basis, in a work of art, imposed nee- note of revolt, or the largeness of hope in essarily, the unique, the just expression, it, that the greatness of literary art de- the measure, the rhythm — the form in all pends, as The Divine Comedy, Paradise its characteristics.' Lost, Les Miserables, The English Bible, If the style be the man, in all the color 25 are great art. Given the conditions I and intensity of a veritable apprehension, have tried to explain as constituting good it will be in a real sense ' impersonal.' art; — then, if it be devoted further to the I said, thinking of books like Victor increase of men's happiness, to the re- Hugo's Les Miserables, that prose litera- demption of the oppressed, or the enlarge- ture was the characteristic art of the 30 ment of our sympathies with each other, nineteenth century, as others, thinking of or to such presentment of new or old its triumphs since the youth of Bach, have truth about ourselves and our relation to assigned that place to music. Music and the world as may ennoble and fortify us prose literature are, in one sense, the op- in our sojourn here, or immediately, as posite terms of art; the art of literature 35 with Dante, to the glory of God, it will presenting to the imagination, through be also great art; if, over and above those the intelligence, a range of interests, as qualities I summed up as mind and soul free and various as those which music — that color and mystic perfume, and that presents to it through sense. And cer- reasonable structure, it has something of tainly the tendency of what has been here 4° the soul of humanity in it, and finds its said is to bring literature too under those logical, its architectural place, in the great conditions, by conformity to which music structure of human life. (1888) ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850-1894). Stevenson's great-grandfather, grandfatlier, and father were engineers to the Board of Northern Lighthouses, and he was educated for the family profession. At twenty-one he asked to be allowed to give up engineering for literature, autl his father consented on condition that he qualified for the Scottish Bar. Stevenson fultilled the condition, but took as little interest in his legal as in his engineering studies, setting far more store ' by certain other odds and ends that he came by in the open street while he was phiyiug truant.' At his chosen pursuit of literature, however, he toiled incessantly. He says: 'I imagine nobody had ever such pains to learn a trade as 1 had; but 1 slogged at it day in and day out; and I frankly believe (thanks to my dire industry) I have done more with smaller gifts than almost any man of letters in the world.' As a schoolboy he edited magazines and wrote essays, stories and plays ; his first novel was turned into a historical essay and privately printed when he was sixteen. As an undergraduate at Edinburgh he established the University Magazine which ' ran four months in undisturbed obscurity and died without a gasp.' In 1873-4 he had half-a-dozen articles in various magazines, and his first book. An Inland Voyage, was published in 1878. It is an account of a canoe trip in Belgium and France made two years earlier. About this time Stevenson met and fell in love with JNIrs. Fanny Osbourne, an American lady who came to study art in France. In 1878 she returned to California, and thither in 1879 Stevenson followed her. Some of his experiences in crossing the Atlantic and the American continent (though by no means all the sufferings he endured) are told in The Amateur Emigrant and Across the Plains. He arrived at San Francisco in desperate straits of health and pocket, and only Mrs. Osbourne's devoted nursing saved his life. After his recovery, they were married, and spent their honeymoon in the neighboring mountains, described in The Silccrado Squatters. His first volume of essays, Virgiaibus Puerisque, was highly appreciated, but only by a few : it was a book for boys, Treasure Island, which made him suddenly famous. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and Kidnapped were equally successful. During these years he was living in various health resorts in Europe and America ; in 1888 he went for a long voyage in the Pacific, at the end of which he bought an estate and settled in Samoa. He endeared himself to the natives, and in spite of continued illness, did some of his best literary work. The year before his death he wrote : ' For fourteen years I have not had a day's real health ; I have wakened sick and gone to bed weary ; and I have done my work unflinchingly. I have written in bed, and written out of it, written in hemorrhages, written in sickness, written torn by coughing, written when my baud swam for weakness; and for so long, it seems to me I have won my wager and recovered my glove. I am better now, have been, rightly speaking, since first I came to the Pacific; and still, few are the days when I am not in some physical distress. And the battle goes on — ill or well, is a trifle: so as it goes. I was made for a contest, and the Powers have so willed that my battlefield should be this dingy, inglorious one of the bed and the physic bottle.' He was buried at the top of the mountain overlooking his Samoan home in a tomb inscribed with his own Requiem: Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill. 928 I THE FOREIGNER AT HOME 929 THE FOREIGNER AT HOME tion, ignorance of his neighbors is the ,^,. . . , character of the typical John Bull. His This ,s no my am house; j^ ^ domineering niture/ steady in fight, I ken by the b.ggm o t. imperious to comma.Kl, but neither curi- Two recent books, ^ one by Mr. Grant S ous nor quick about the life of others. White on England, one on France by the In French colonies, and still more in the diabolically clever Mr. Hillebrand, may Dutch, I have read that there is an im- w^ll have set people thinking on the di- mediate and lively contact between the visions of races and nations. Such dominant and the dominated race, that a thoughts should arise with particular con- 10 certain sympathy is begotten, or at the gruity and force to inhabitants of that least a transfusion of prejudices, making United Kingdom, people from so many life easier for both. But the English- different stocks, babbling so many differ- man sits apart, Inirsting with pride and ent dialects, and offering in its extent ignorance. He figures among his vassals such singular contrasts, from the busiest '5 in the hour of peace with the same dis- over-population to the unkindliest desert, dainful air that led him on to victory, from the Black Country to the Moor of A passing enthusiasm for some foreign Rannoch. It is not only when we cross art or fashion may deceive the world, it the seas that we go abroad ; there are cannot impose upon his intimates. He foreign parts of England ; and the race 20 may be amused by a foreigner as by a that has conquered so wide an empire monkey, but he will never condescend to has not yet managed to assimilate the study him with any patience. Miss Bird, islands whence she sprang. Ireland, an authoress with whom I profess myself Wales, and the Scottish mountains still in love, declares all the viands of Japan cling, in part, to their old Gaelic speech. 25 to be uneatable — a staggering pretension. It was but the other day that English So, when the Prince of Wales's marriage triumphed in Cornwall, and they still was celel^rated at Mentone by a dinner show in Mousehole, on St. Michael's Bay, to the Mentonese, it was proposed to give the house of the last Cornish-speaking them solid English fare — roast beef and woman. English itself, which will now 3° plum pudding, and no tomfoolery. Here frank the traveler through the most of we have either pole of the Britannic folly. North America, through the greater South We will not eat the food of any foreigner; Sea Islands, in India, along much of the nor, when we have the chance, will we coast of Africa, and in the ports of China suffer him to eat of it himself. The same and Japan, is still to be heard, in its home 35 spirit inspired Miss Bird's American country, in half a hundred varying stages missionaries, who had come thousands of of transition. You may go all over the miles to change the faith of Japan, and States, and — setting aside the actual in- openly professed their ignorance of the trusion and influence of foreigners, negro, religions they were trying to supplant. French, or Chinese — you shall scarce 40 I quote an American in this connection meet with so marked a difference of ac- without scruple. Uncle Sam is better cent as in the forty miles between Edin- than John Bull, but he is tarred with the burgh and Glasgow, or of dialect as in English stick. For Mr. Grant White the the hundred miles between Edinburgh and States are the New England States and Aberdeen. Book English has gone round 45 nothing more. He wonders at the amount the world, but at home we still preserve of drinking in London; let him try San tlie racy idioms of our fathers, and every Francisco. He wittily reproves English county, in some parts every dale, has its ignorance as to the status of women in own quality of speech, vocal or verbal. America ; but has he not himself forgotten In like manner, local custom and 50 Wyoming? The name Yankee, of which prejudice, even local religion and local he is so tenacious, is used over the most law, linger on into the latter end of the of the great Union as a term of reproach, nineteenth century — iinpcria in impcrio The Yankee States, of which he is so [kingdoms within the kingdom], foreign staunch a subject, are but a drop in the things at home. 55 bucket. And we find in his book a vast In spite of these promptings to reflec- virgin ignorance of the life and prospects 11881. of America; every view partial, parochial, 930 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON not raised to the horizon ; the moral feel- but it does not stand alone in the experi- ing proper, at the largest, to a clique ence of Scots. of States; and the whole scope and at- England and Scotland differ, indeed, in mosphere not American, but merely law, in history, in religion, in education, Yankee. I will go far beyond him in 5 and in the very look of nature and reprobating the assumption and the in- men's faces, not always widely, but al- civility of my countryfolk to their cousins ways trenchantly. Many particulars that from beyond the sea ; I grill in my blood struck Mr. Grant White, a Yankee, struck over the silly rudeness of our newspaper me, a Scot, no less forcibly ; he and I articles ; and I do not know where to 10 felt ourselves foreigners on many com- look when I find myself in company with mon provocations. A Scotchman may an American and see my countrymen un- tramp the better part of Europe and the bending to him as to a performing dog. United States, and never again receive so But in the case of Mr. Grant White ex- vivid an impression of foreign travel and ample were better than precept. Wyom- 15 strange lands and manners as on his first ing, is, after all, more readily accessible excursion into England. The change to Mr. White than Boston to the Eng- from a hilly to a level country strikes him lish, and the New England self-sufficiency with delighted wonder. Along the flat no better justified than the Britannic. horizon there arise the frequent vener- It is so, perhaps, in all countries ; per- 20 able towers of churches. He sees at the haps in all, men are most ignorant of the end of airy vistas the revolution of the foreigners at home. John Bull is igno- windmill sails. He may go where he rant of the States; he is probably pleases in the future; he may see Alps, ignorant of India; but considering his and Pyramids, and lions; but it will be opportunities, he is far more ignorant of 25 hard to beat the pleasure of that moment, countries nearer his own door. There is There are, indeed, few merrier spectacles one country, for instance — its frontier than that of many windmills bickering not so far from London, its people closely together in a fresh breeze over a woody akin, its language the same in all essen- country; their halting alacrity of move- tials with the English — of which I will ^0 ment, their pleasant business, making go bail he knows nothing. His ignorance bread all day with uncouth gesticulations, of the sister kingdom cannot be described; their air, gigantically human, as of a it can only be illustrated by anecdote. I creature half alive, put a spirit of ro- once traveled with a man of plausible mance into the tamest landscape. When manners and good intelligence, — a uni- 3s fhe Scotch child sees them first he falls versity man, as the phrase goes, — a man, immediately in love ; and from that time besides, who had taken his degree in life forward windmills _ keep turning in his and knew a thing or two about the age dreams. And so, in their degree, with we live in. We were deep in talk, whirl- every feature of the life and landscape, ing between Peterborough and London ; 40 The warm, habitable age of towns and among other things, he began to describe hamlets, the green, settled, ancient look some piece of legal injustice he had re- of the country; the lush hedgerows, stiles cently encountered, and I observed in my and privy pathways in the fields; the innocence that things were not so in sluggish, brimming rivers ; chalk and Scotland. *I beg your pardon,' said he, 45 smock-frocks; chimes of bells and the ' this is a matter of law.' He had never rapid, pertly sounding English speech heard of the Scots law; nor did he choose they are all new to the curiosity; they to be informed. The law was the same are all set to English airs in the child's for the whole country, he told me story that he tells himself at night. The roundly; every child knew that. At last, 50 sharp edge of novelty wears off; the feel- to settle matters, I explained to him that ing is scotched, but I doubt whether it is I was a member of a Scottish legal body, ever killed. Rather it keeps returning, and had stood the brunt of an examina- ever the more rarely and strangely, and tion in the very law in question. There- even in scenes to which you have been upon he looked me for a moment full in 55 long accustomed suddenly awakes and the face and dropped the conversation. gives a relish to enjoyment or heightens This is a monstrous instance, if you like, the sense of isolation. THE FOREIGNER AT HOME 931 One thing especially continues unfamil- wrong direction. Yet surely his com- iar to the Scotchman's eye — the domestic plaint is grounded; surely the speech of architecture, the look of streets and Englishmen is too often lacking in gener- buildings ; the quaint, venerable age of ous ardor, the better part of the man too many, and the thin walls and warm 5 often withheld from the social commerce, coloring of all. We have, in Scotland, and the contact of mind with mind evaded far fewer ancient buildings, above all in as with terror. A Scotch peasant will country places ; and those that we have talk more liberally out of his own ex- are all of hewn or harled masonry. perience. He will not put you by with Wood has been sparingly used in their 10 conversational counters and small jests ; construction ; the window-frames are he will give you the best of himself, like sunken in the wall, not flat to the front, one interested in life and man's chief as in England; the roofs are steeper- end. A Scotchman is vain, interested in pitched; even a hill farm will have a himself and others, eager for sympathy, massy, square, cold, and permanent ap- 15 setting forth his thoughts and experience pearance. English houses, in comparison, in the best light. The egoism of the have the look of cardboard toys, such as Englishman is self-contained. He does a puff might shatter. And to this the not seek to proselytize. He takes no in- Scotchman never becomes used. His eye terest in Scotland or the Scotch, and, can never rest consciously on one of these 20 what is the unkindest cut of all, he does brick houses — rickles of brick, as he not care to justify his indifference. Give might call them — or on one of these him the wages of going on and being an flat-chested streets, but he is instantly re- Englishman, that is all he asks; and in minded where he is, and instantly travels the meantime, while you continue to back in fancy to his home. ' This is no 25 associate, he would rather not be re- my ain house ; I ken by the biggin' o't.' minded of your baser origin. Compared And yet perhaps it is his own, bought with the grand, tree-like self-sufiiciency with his own money, the key of it long of his demeanor, the vanity and curiosity polished in his pocket ; but it has not yet, of the Scot seem uneasy, vulgar, and inl- and never will be, thoroughly adopted by 30 modest. That you should continually try his imagination ; nor does he cease to re- to establish human and serious relations, member that, in the whole length and that you should actually feel an interest breadth of his native country, there was in John Bull, and desire and invite a re- no building even distantly resembling it. turn of interest from him, may argue But it is not alone in scenery and 35 something more awake and lively in your architecture that we count England for- mind, but it still puts you in the attitude eign. The constitution of society, the of a suitor and a poor relation. Thus very pillars of the empire, surprise and even the lowest class of the educated even pain us. The dull, neglected peas- English towers over a Scotchman by the ant, sunk in matter, insolent, gross, 40 head and shoulders. and servile, makes a startling contrast Different indeed is the atmosphere in with our own long-legged, long-headed, which Scotch and English youth begin thoughtful, Bible-quoting plowman. A to look about them, come to themselves week or two in such a place as Suffolk in life, and gather up those first apprehen- leaves the Scotchman gasping. It seems 45 sions which are the material of future incredible that within the boundaries of thought and, to a great extent, the rule his own island a class should have been of future conduct. I have been to school thus forgotten. Even the educated and in both countries, and I found, in the boys intelligent, who hold our own opinions of the North, something at once rougher and speak in our own words, yet seem 50 and more tender, at once more reserve to hold them with a difference or from and more expansion, a greater habitual another reason, and to speak on all things distance checkered by glimpses of a with less interest and conviction. The nearer intimacy, and on the whote wider first shock of Englisli society is like a extremes of temperament and sensibility, cold plunge. It is possible that the Scot 55 The boy of the South seems more whole- comes looking for too much, and to be some, but less thoughtful; he gives him- sure his first experiment will be in the self to games as to a business, striving to 932 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON excel, but is not readily transported by imagination; the type remains with me as cleaner in mind and body, more active, fonder of eating, endowed with a lesser and a less romantic sense of life and of the future, and more innncrscd in present circumstances. And certainly, for one thing, English boys are younger for their age. Sabbath observance make a series of grim, and perhaps serviceable, pauses in the tenor of Scotch boyhood — days of great stillness and solitude for the re- liellious mind, when in the dearth of books and play, and in the intervals of studying the Shorter Catechism, the intel- lect and senses prey upon and test each other. The typical English Sunday, with the huge midday dinner and the plethoric afternoon, leads perhaps to different re- sults. About the very cradle of the Scot there goes a hum of metaphysical di- vinity; and the whole of two divergent systems is summed up, not merely spe- ciously, in the two first questions of the rival catechisms, the English tritely in- quiring, 'What is your name?' the Scot- tish striking at the very roots of life with, ' What is the chief end of man ? ' and an- swering nobly, if obscurely, 'To glorify God and to enjoy Him forever.' I do not wish to make an idol of the Shorter Catechism ; but the fact of such a ques- tion being asked opens to us Scotch a great field of speculation; and the fact that it is asked of all of us, from the peer to the plowboy, binds us more nearly together. No Englishman of Byron's age, character, and history, would have had patience for long theological discus- sions on the way to fight for Greece; but the daft Gordon blood and the Aber- donian schooldays kept their influence to the end. We have spoken of the material conditions ; nor need much more be said of these : of the land lying everywhere more exposed, of the wind always louder and bleaker, of the black, roaring win- ters, of the gloom of high-lying, old stone cities, imminent on the windy seaboard ; compared with the level streets, the warm coloring of the brick, the domestic quaint- ness of the architecture, among which English children begin to grow up and come to themselves in life. As the stage of the university approaches, the con- trast becomes more express. The English lad goes to Oxford or Cambridge; there. in an ideal world of gardens, to lead a semi-scenic life, costumed, disciplined, and drilled by proctors. Nor is this to be regarded merely as a stage of education ; 5 it is a piece of privilege besides, and a step that separates him further from the bulk of his compatriots. At an earlier age the Scottish lad begins his greatly different experience of crowded class- ic rooms, of a gaunt quadrangle, of a bell hourly booming over the traffic of the city to recall him from the public-house where he has been lunching, or the streets where he has been wandering 15 fancy-free. His college life has little of restraint, and nothing of necessary gen- tility. He will find no quiet clique of the exclusive, studious, and cultured; no rot- ten borough of the arts. All classes rub 20 shoulders on the greasy benches. The raffish young gentleman in gloves must measure his scholarship with the plain, clownish laddie from the parish school. They separate, at the session's end, one 25 to smoke cigars about a watering-place, the other to resume the labors of the field beside his peasant family. The first muster of a college class in Scotland is a scene of curious and painful interest; so 30 many lads, fresh from the heather, hang round the stove in cloddish embarrass- ment, ruffled by the presence of their smarter comrades, and afraid of the sound of their own rustic voices. It was in these 35 early days, I think, that Professor Blackie won the affection of his pupils, putting these uncouth, umbrageous students at their ease with ready human geniality. Thus, at least, we have a healthy demo- 4^ cratic atmosphere to breathe in while at work; even when there is no cordiality there is always a juxtaposition of the different classes, and in the competition of study the intellectual power of each 45 is plainly demonstrated to the other. Our tasks ended, we of the North go forth as freemen into the humming, lamp- lit city. At five o'clock you may see the last of us hiving from the college gates, 50 in the glare of the shop windows, under the green glimmer of the winter sunset. The frost tingles in our blood ; no proctor lies in wait to intercept us; till the bell sounds again, we are the masters of the 5^ world ; and some portion of our lives is always Saturday, la trcve de Dicn [the truce of God]. THE FOREIGNER AT HOME 933 Nor must we omit the sense of the Highlander wore a different costume, nature of his country and his country's spoke a different language, worshipped in history gradually growing in the child's another church, held different morals, mind from story and from observation. and obeyed a different social constitution A Scottish child hears much of ship- 5 from his fellow-countrymen either of the wreck, outlying iron skerries, pitiless South or North. Even the English, it is breakers, and great sea-lights; much of recorded, did not loathe the Highlander heathery mountains, wild clans, and and the Highland costume as they were hunted Covenanters. Breaths come to loathed by the remainder of the Scotch, him in song of the distant Cheviots and 10 Yet the Highlander felt himself a Scot, the ring of foraying hoofs. He glories He would willingly raid into the Scotch in his hard-fisted forefathers, of the iron lowlands; but his courage failed him at girdle and the handful of oatmeal, who the border, and he regarded England as a rode so swiftly and lived so sparely on perilous, unhomely land. When the their raids. Poverty, ill-luck, enterprise, ,5 Black Watch, after years of foreign and constant resolution are the fibers of service, returned to Scotland, veterans the legend of his country's history. The leaped out and kissed the earth at Port heroes and kings of Scotland have been Patrick. They had been in Ireland, tragically fated; the most marking in- stationed among men of their own race cidents in Scottish history — Flodden, 20 and language, where they were well liked Darien, or the Forty-five — were still and treated with affection; but it was the either failures or defeats; and the fall soil of Galloway that they kissed at the of Wallace and the repeated reverses of extreme end of the hostile lowlands, the Bruce combine with the very small- among a people who did not understand ness of the country to teach rather a ^5 their speech, and who had hated, harried, moral than a material criterion for life. and hanged them since the dawn of his- Britain is altogether small, the mere tap- tory. Last, and perhaps most curious, root of her extended empire; Scotland, the sons of chieftans were often educated again, which alone the Scottish boy on the continent of Europe. They went adopts in his imagination, is but a little 30 abroad speaking Gaelic; they returned part of that, and avowedly cold, sterile, speaking, not English, but the broad and unpopulous. It is not so for noth- dialect of Scotland. Now, what idea ing. I once seemed to have perceived had they in their minds when they thus, in an American boy a greater readiness in thought, identified themselves with of sympathy for lands that are great, and 35 their ancestral enemies? What was the rich, and growing, like his own. It sense in which they were Scotch and not proved to be quite otherwise: a mere English, or Scotch and not Irish? Can dumb piece of boyish romance, that I a bare name be thus influential on the had lacked penetration to divine. But the minds and affections of men, and a polit- error serves the purpose of my argument ; 40 ical aggregation blind them to the nature for I am sure, at least, that the heart of of facts? The story of the Austrian young Scotland will be always touched Empire would seem to answer. No; the more nearly by paucity of number and far more galling business of Ireland Spartan poverty of life. clenches the negative from nearer home. So we may argue, and yet the differ- 45 Is it common education, common morals, ence is not explained. That Shorter a common language, or a common faith. Catechism which I took as being so that joins men into nations? There typical of Scotland, was yet composed in were practically none of these in the case the city of Westminster. The division we are considering. of races is more sharply marked within 5o The fact remains : in spite of the dif- the borders of Scotland itself than be- ference of blood and language, the Low- tween the countries. Galloway and lander feels himself the sentimental Buchan, Lothian and Lochaber, are like countryman of the Highlander. When foreign parts; yet you may choose a man they meet abroad, they fall upon from any of them, and, ten to one, he ^5 each other's necks in spirit; even shall prove to have the headmark of a at home there is a kind of clannish Scot. A century and a half ago the intimacy in their talk. But from bis 934 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON compatriot in the South the Lowlander It is a staggering thought, and one that .stands consciously apart. He has had a affords a fine figure of the imperishahiHty (Hfferent training; he ohcys different of men's acts, that the steaUh of the laws; he makes his will in other terms, private inquiry office can he carried so is otherwise divorced and married; his 5 far back into the dead and dusty past, eyes are not at home in an English land- We are not so soon quit of our concerns scape or with English houses; his ear as Villon fancied. In the extreme of dis- continues to remark the English speech ; solution, when not so much as a man's and even though his tongue acquire the name is remembered, when his dust is Southern knack, he will still have a lo scattered to the four winds, and perhaps strong Scotch accent of the mind. the very grave and the very graveyard (1882) where he was laid to rest have been for- gotten, desecrated, and buried under pop- ulous towns, — even in this extreme let an FRANCOIS VILLON, STUDENT, i5 antiquary fall across a sheet of manu- POET AND HOUSEBREAKER script, and the name will be recalled, the ' old infamy will pop out into daylight like Perhaps one of the most curious revo- a toad out of a fissure in the rock, and lutions in literary history is the sudden the shadow of the shade of what was bull's-eye light cast by M. Longnon on the ^° p"ce a man will be heartdy pilloried by obscure existence of Franqois Villon.^ his descendants. A httle while ago and His book is not remarkable merely as a X^^O" was almost totally forgotten; then chapter of biography exhumed after four he was revived for the sake of his verses ; centuries. To readers of the poet it will and now he is being revived with a ven- recall, with a flavor of satire, that char- ^5 geance in the detection of his misdemean- acteristic passage in which he bequeaths o^s. How unsubstantial is this projection his spectacles — with a humorous reserva- of a man s existence, which can he in tion of the case -to the hospital for abeyance for centur.es and then be blind paupers known as the Fifteen-Score, brushed up again and set forth for the Thus equipped, let the blind paupers go 30 consideration of posterity by a few dips and separate the good from the bad in '" an antiquary s inkpot! This precari- the cemetery of the Innocents! For his ous tenure of fame goes a long way to own part the poet can see no distinction, justify those (and they are not few) Much have the dead people made of their who prefer cakes and cream in the im- advantages. What does it matter now 35 mediate present, that they have lain in state beds and nourished portly bodies upon cakes and ^ wild youth. cream ! Here they all lie, to be trodden Francois de Montcorbier, alias Fran<;ois in the mud ; the large estate and the small, des Loges, aliais Franqois Villon, alias sounding virtue and adroit or powerful 40 Michel Mouton, Master of Arts in the vice, in very much the same condition; University of Paris, was born in that and a bishop not to be distinguished from city in the summer of 1431. It was a a lamplighter with even the strongest memorable year for France on other and spectacles. higher considerations. A great-hearted Such was Villon's cynical philosophy. 45 girl and a poor-hearted boy made, the one Four hundred years after his death, when her last, the other his first appearance surely all danger might be considered at on the public stage of that unhappy coun- an end a pair of critical spectacles have try. On the 30th of May the ashes of been applied to his own remains; and Joan of Arc were thrown into the Seine, thouMi he left behind him a sufficiently 50 and on the 2d of December, our Henry ragged reputation from the first, it is Sixth made his joyous entry dismally only after these four hundred years that enough into disaffected and depopulating his delinquencies have been finally tracked Paris. Sword and fire still ravaged the home, and we can assign him to his open country. On a single April Satur- proper place among the good or wicked. 55 day twelve hundred persons, besides chil- ' . ,. „ . ,,.,.„ dren, made their escape out of the ' Ftudc Biosrrahlnaue siir Francois Villon. ' . • 1 /-ni 1 • j. Paris H. Mem, Starving capital. The hangman, as is not FRANCOIS VILLON 935 uninteresting to note in connection with University of Paris were, to our way of Master Francis, was kept hard at work thinking, somewhat incomplete. Worldly in 143 1 ; on the last of April and on the and monkish elements were presented in 4th of May alone, sixty-two bandits a curious confusion, which the youth swung from Paris gibbets.^ A more con- 5 might disentangle for himself. If he had fused or troublous time it would have an opportunity, on the one hand, of ac- been difficult to select for a start in life. quiring much hair-drawn divinity and a Not even a man's nationality was cer- taste for formal disputation, he was put tain ; for the people of Paris there was in the way of much gross and flaunting no such thing as a Frenchman. The 10 vice upon the other. The lecture room English were the English, indeed, but the of a scholastic doctor was sometimes un- French were only the Armagnacs, whom, der the same roof with establishments with Joan of Arc at their head, they had of a very different and peculiarly unedify- beaten back from under their ramparts ing order. The students had extraordi- not two years before. Such public senti- 15 nary privileges, which by all accounts ment as they had centered about their they abused extraordinarily. And while dear Duke of Burgundy, and the dear some condemned themselves to an almost Duke had no more urgent business than sepulchral regularity and seclusion, others to keep out of their neighborhood. . . . fled the schools, swaggered in the street At least, and whether he liked it or not, 20 ' with their thumbs in their girdle,' passed our disreputable troubadour was tubbed the night in riot, and behaved themselves and swaddled as a subject of the English as the worthy forerunners of Jehan Frollo crown. in the romance of Notre Dame dc Paris. We hear nothing of Villon's father ex- Villon tells us himself that he was among cept that he was poor and of mean ex- 25 the truants, but we hardly needed his traction. His mother was given piously, avowal. The burlesque erudition in which does not imply very much in an which he sometimes indulged implies no old Frenchwoman, and quite uneducated. more than the merest smattering of He had an uncle, a monk in an abbey knowledge; whereas his acquaintance at Angers, who must have prospered be- 30 with blackguard haunts and industries yond the family average, and was re- could only have been acquired by early ported to be worth five or six hundred and consistent impiety and idleness. He crowns. Of this uncle and his money- passed his degrees, it is true; but some box the reader will hear once more. In of us who have been to modern universi- 1448 Francis became a student of the 35 ties will make their own reflections on University of Pans; in 1450 he took the the value of the test. As for his three degree of Bachelor, and in 1452 that of pupils, Colin Laurent, Girard Gossouyn, Master of Arts. His bourse, or the sum and Jehan Marceau — if they were really paid weekly for his board, was of the his pupils in any serious sense — what amount of two sous. Now two sous was 40 can we say but God help them ! And sure about the price of a pound of salt butter enough, by his own description, they in the bad times of 1417 ; it was the price turned out as ragged, rowdy, and igno- of half-a-pound in the worse times of rant as was to be looked for from the 1419; and in 1444, just four years before views and manners of their rare pre- Villon joined the University, it seems to 45 ceptor. have been taken as the average wage for At some time or other, before or dur- a day's manual labor.^ In short, it can- jng his university career, the poet was not have been a very profuse allowance adopted by Master Guillaume de \^illon to keep a sharp-set lad in breakfast and chaplain of Saint Benoit-le-Betourne near supper for seven mortal days; and Vil- 50 the Sorbonne. From him he borrowed Ion's share of the cakes and pastry and the surname by which he is known to general good cheer, to which he is never posterity. It was most likely from his weary of referring, must have been house, called the Porte Rouge, and sit- slender from the first. uated in a garden in the cloister of Saint The educational arrangements of the 55 Benoit. that Master Francis heard the » Bourgeois de Paris, ed Pantheon, pp. 688, 689. '^^'l ^f the Sorbonne ring out the Angelus ^Bourgeois, pp. 627, 636, and 725. while he was finishing his Small Testa- 936 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON ment at Christmastide in 1456. Toward he tells us, the leisures of a rich ecclesi- this benefactor he usually gets credit for astic. a respectable display of gratitude. But It was, perhaps, of some moment in the with his trap and pitfall style of writing, poet's life that he should have inhabited it is easy to make too sure. His senli- 5 the cloister of Saint Benoit. Three of the ments are about as much to be relied on most remarkable among his early ac- as those of a professional beggar; and in quaintances are Catherine de Vauselles, this, as in so many other matters, he for whom he entertained a short-lived comes toward us whining and piping the affection and an enduring and most un- eye, and goes off again with a whoop and 10 manly resentment ; Regnier dc Montigny, his finger to his nose. Thus, he calls Guil- a young blackguard of good birth; and laume de Villon his ' more than father,' Colin de Cayeux, a fellow with a marked thanks him with a great show of sincerity aptitude for picking locks. Now we are for having helped him out of many on a foundation of mere conjecture, but scrapes, and bequeaths him his portion of 15 it is at least curious to find that two of renown. But the portion of renown the canons of Saint Benoit answered re- which belonged to a young thief, dis- spectively to the names of Pierre de tinguished (if, at the period when he Vaucel and Etienne de Montigny, and wrote this legacy, he was distinguished at that there was a householder called all) for having written some more or less 20 Nicolas de Cayeux m a street — the Rue obscene and scurrilous ballads, must have des Poirees — in the immediate neighbor- been little fitted to gratify the self-re- hood of the cloister. M. Longnon is al- spect or increase the reputation of a most ready to identify Catherine as the benevolent ecclesiastic. The same re- niece of Pierre; Regnier as the nephew mark applies to a subsequent legacy of the 25 of Etienne, and Colin as the son of Nic- poet's library, with specification of one olas. Without going so far, it must be work which was plainly neither decent owned that the approximation of names is nor devout. We are thus left on the significant. As we go on to see the part horns of a dilemma. If the chaplain played by each of these persons in the was a godly, philanthropic personage, 30 sordid melodrama of the poet's life, we who had tried to graft good principles shall come to regard it as even more and good behavior on this wild slip of notable. Is it not Clough who has re- an adopted son, these jesting legacies marked that, after all, everything lies in would obviously cut him to the heart. juxtaposition? Many a man's destiny The position of an adopted son toward 35 has been settled by nothing apparently his adoptive father is one full of deli- more grave than a pretty face on the cacy; where a man lends his name he opposite side of the street and a couple looks for great consideration. And this of bad companions round the corner, legacy of Villon's portion of renown may Catherine de Vauselles (or de Vaucel be taken as the mere fling of an un- 40 — the change is within the limits of Vil- regenerate scapegrace who has wit Ion's license) had plainly delighted in the enough to recognize in his own shame the poet's conversation ; near neighbors pr readiest weapon of offense against a not, they were much together; and Vil- prosy benefactor's feelings. The grati- Ion made no secret of his court, and suf- tr.de of Master Francis figures, on this 45 fered himself to believe that his feeling reading, as a frightful minus quality. If, was repaid in kind. This may have been on the other hand, those jests were given an error from the first, or he may have and taken in good humor, the whole re- estranged her by subsequent misconduct lation between the pair degenerates into or temerity. One can easily imagine Vil- the unedifying complicity of a debauched 50 Ion an impatient wooer. One thing, at old chaplain and a witty and dissolute least, is sure: that the affair terminated young scholar. At this rate the house in a manner I)itterly humiliating to Mas- with the red door may have rung with ter Francis. In presence of his lady-love, the most mundane minstrelsy; and^it may perhaps under her window and certainly have been below its roof' that Villon, S5 with her connivance, he was unmercifully through a hole in the plaster, studied, as thrashed by one Noe le Joly — beaten, as i FRANCOIS VILLON 937 he says himself, Hke dirty linen on the and counting as acquaintances the most washing-board. It is characteristic that disreputable people he could lay his hands his malice had notably increased between on : fellows who stole ducks in Paris the time when he wrote the Small Testa- Moat ; sergeants of the criminal court, nicnt immediately on the back of the oc- 5 and archers of the watch ; blackguards currence, and the time when he wrote the who slept at night under the butchers' Large Testament five years after. On stalls, and for whom the aforesaid archers the latter occasion nothing is too bad for peered about carefully with lanterns; his ' damsel with the twisted nose,' as he Regnier de Montigny, Colin de Cayeux, calls her. She is spared neither hint nor 10 and their crew, all bound on a favoring accusation, and he tells his messenger to breeze toward the gallows ; the disorderly accost her with the vilest insults. Villon, abbess of Port Royal, who went about it is thought, was out of Paris when these at fair time with soldiers and thieves, and amenities escaped his pen ; or perhaps the conducted her abbey on the queerest prin- stroijg arm of Noe le Joly would have 15 ciples ; and most likely Perette Mauger, been again in requisition. So ends the the great Paris receiver of stolen goods, love story, if love story it may properly not yet dreaming, poor woman ! of the be called. Poets are not necessarily last scene of her career when Henry fortunate in love; but they usually fall Cousin, executor of the high justice, shall among more romantic circumstances and 20 bury her, alive and most reluctant, in bear their disappointment with a better front of the new Montigny gibbet.^ Nay, grace. our friend soon began to take a foremost The neighborhood of Regnier de Mon- rank in this society. He could string off tigny and Colin de Cayeux was probably verses, which is always an agreeable tal- more influential on his after life than the 25 ent ; and he could make himself useful in contempt of Catherine. For a man who many other ways. The whole ragged is greedy of all pleasures, and provided army of Bohemia, and whosoever loved with little money and less dignity of char- good cheer without at all loving to work acter, we may prophesy a safe and speedy and pay for it, are addressed in contem- voyage downward. Humble or even3oporary verses as the 'Subjects of truckling virtue may walk unspotted in Franqois Villon.' He was a good genius this life. But only those who despise to all hungry and unscrupulous persons; the pleasures can afford to despise the and became the hero of a whole legendary opinion of the world. A man of a strong, cycle of tavern tricks and cheateries. heady temperament, like Villon, is very 35 At best, these were doubtful levities, differently tempted. His eyes lay hold on rather too thievish for a schoolboy, rather all provocations greedily, and his heart too gamesome for a thief. But he would flames up at a look into imperious de- not linger long in this equivocal border sire ; he is snared and broached to by land. He must soon have complied with anything and everything, from a pretty 40 his surroundings. He was one who face to a piece of pastry in a cook-shop would go where the cannikin clinked, not window; he will drink the rinsing of the caring who should pay; and from supping wine cup, stay the latest at the tavern in the wolves' den, there is but a step to party ; tap at the lit windows, follow the hunting with the pack. And here, as I sound of singing, and beat the whole 45 am on the chapter of his degradation, I neighborhood for another reveler, as he shall say all I mean to say about its goes reluctantly homeward; and grudge darkest expression, and be done with it himself every hour of sleep as a black for good. Some charitable critics see no empty period in which he cannot follow more than a jcn d 'esprit, a graceful and after pleasure. Such a person is lost 50 trifling exercise of the imagination, in if he have not dignity, or, failing that, the grimy ballad of Fat Peg {Grosse at least pride, which is its shadow and Mar got). I am not able to follow these in many ways its substitute. Master gentlemen to this polite extreme. Out of Francis, I fancy, would follow his own all Villon's works that ballad stands eager instincts without much spiritual 55 forth in flaring reality, gross and ghastly, struggle. And we soon find him fallen as a thing written in a contraction of among thieves in sober, literal earnest, ^Chromquc Scandaleuse, ed. Pantheon, p. 237. 938 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON disgust. M. Longnon shows us more and So these three dallied in front of St. more clearly at every page that we are Benoit, taking their pleasure (pour soy to read our poet literally, that his names csbatrc). Suddenly there arrived upon are the names of real persons, and the the scene a priest, Philippe Chcrmoye or events he chronicles were actual events. 5 Sermaise, also with sword and cloak, and But even if the tendency of criticism had accompanied by one Master Jehan le run the other way, this ballad would Mardi. Sermaise, according to Villon's have gone far to prove itself. I can well account, which is all we have to go upon, understand the reluctance of worthy per- came up blustering and denying God; as sons in this matter; for of course it is lo Villon rose to make room for him upon unpleasant to think of a man of genius the bench, thrust him rudely back into as one who held, in the words of Marina his place; and finally drew his sword to Boult — and cut open his lower lip, by what I should imagine was a very clumsy stroke. A place, for which the pained'st fiend i5 Up to this point, Villon professes to have Of hell would not in reputation change. been a model of courtesy, even of feeble- ness ; and the brawl in his version, reads But beyond this natural unwillingness, like the fable of the wolf and the lamb, the whole difficulty of the case springs But now the lamb was roused ; he drew from a highly virtuous ignorance of life. 20 his sword, stabbed Sermaise in the groin, Paris now is not so different from the knocked him on the head with a big stone, Paris of then; and the whole of the do- and then, leaving him to his fate, went ings of Bohemia are not written in the away to have his own lip doctored by a sugar-candy pastorals of Murger. It is barber of the name of Fouquet. In one really not at all surprising that a young 25 version, he says that Gilles, Isabeau, and man of the fifteenth century, with a Le Mardi ran away at the first high knack of making verses, should accept words, and that he and Sermaise had it his bread upon disgraceful terms. The out alone; in another, Le Mardi is repre- race of those who do is not extinct; and sented as returning and wresting Villon's some of them to this day write the pretti-30 sword from him: the reader may please est verses imaginable. . . . After this, himself. Sermaise was picked up, lay all it were impossible for Master Francis to that night in the prison of Saint Benoit, fall lower: to go and steal for himself where he was examined by an official of would be an admirable advance from the Chatelet and expressly pardoned Vil- every point of view, divine or human. 35 Ion, and died on the following Saturday And yet it is not as a thief, but as a in the Hotel Dieu. homicide, that he makes his first appear- This, as I have said, was in June. Not ance before angry justice. On June 5, before January of the next year could Vil- 1455, when he was about twenty-four. Ion extract a pardon from the king; but and had been Master of Arts for a matter 40 while his hand was in, he got two. One of three years, we behold him for the is for ' Franqois des Loges, alias (aiitre- first time quite definitely. Angry justice ment dit) de Villon ' ; and the other runs had as it were, photographed him in the in the name of Fran(;ois de Montcorbier. act of his homicide ; and M. Longnon, Nay, it appears there was a further corn- rummaging among old deeds, has turned 45 plication; for in the narrative of the first up the negative and printed it off for our of these documents, it is mentioned that instruction. Villon had been supping — he passed himself off upon Fouquet, the copiously we may believe — and sat on barber-surgeon, as one Michel Mouton. a stone bench in front of the Church M. Longnon has a theory that this un- of St. Benoit, in company with a priest 50 happy accident with Sermaise was the called Gilles and a woman of the name cause of Villon's subsequent irregularities; of Isabeau. It was nine o'clock, a mighty and that up to that moment he had been late hour for the period, and evidently a the pink of good behavior. But the fine summer's night. Master Francis matter has to my eyes a more dubious carried a mantle, like a prudent man, to 55 air. A pardon necessary for Des Loges keep him from the dews (scrain), and had and another for Montcorbier? and these a sword below it dangling from his girdle, two the same person? and one or both FRANCOIS VILLON 939 of them known by the alias of Villon, prised to meet with thieves in the shape however honestly come by? and lastly, in of tonsured clerks, or even priests and the heat of the moment, a fourth name monks. thrown out with an assured countenance? To a knot of such learned pilferers our A ship is not to be trusted that sails under 5 poet certainly belonged ; and by turning so many colors. This is not the simple over a few more of M. Longnon's nega- bearing of innocence. No — the young tives, we shall get a clear idea of their master was already treading crooked character and doings. Montigny and De paths ; already, he would start and blench Cayeux are names already known ; Guy at a hand upon his shoulder, with the look 10 Ta'bary, Petit-Jehan, Dom Nicolas, little we know so well in the face of Hogarth's Thiljault, who was both clerk and gold- Idle Apprentice ; already, in the blue smith, and who made picklocks and devils, he would see Henry Cousin, the melted plate for himself and his compan- executor of high justice, going in dolor- ions — with these the reader has still to ous procession toward Montfaucon, and ,5 become acquainted. Petit-Jehan and De hear the wind and the birds crying around Cayeux were handy fellows and enjoyed Paris gibbet. a useful preeminence in honor of their A Gang of Thieves doings with the picklock. ' Dictus des Cahyeus est fortis operator croclietorum In spite of the prodigious number of ^o [the said De Cayeux is an able manipula- people who managed to get hanged, the tor of picklocks],' says Tabary's interroga- fifteenth century was by no means a bad tion, ' sed dictus Petit-Jehan, ejus socius, time for criminals. A great confusion est forcins operator [but the said Petit- of parties and great dust of fighting Jehan, his companion, is a more able ma- favored the escape of private house- 25 nipulator].' But the flower of the flock breakers and quiet fellows who stole was little Thibault; it was reported that ducks in Paris Moat. Prisons were no lock could stand before him : he had a leaky; and as we shall see, a man with a persuasive hand; let us salute capacity few crowns in his pocket and perhaps wherever we may find it. Perhaps the some acquaintance among the officials, 30 term gang is not quite properly applied to could easily slip out and become once the persons whose fortunes we are now more a free marauder. There was no about to follow; rather they were inde- want of a sanctuary where he might pendent malefactors, socially intimate, harbor until troubles blew by; and ac- and occasionally joining together for complices helped each other with more 35 some serious operation, just as modern or less good faith. Clerks, above all, had stock-jobbers form a syndicate for an im- remarkable facilities for a criminal way portant loan. Nor were they at all par- of life; for they were privileged, except ticular to any branch of misdoing. They in cases of notorious incorrigibility, to be did not scrupulously confine themselves to plucked from the hands of rude secular 40 a single sort of theft, as I hear is common justice and tried by a tribunal of their among modern thieves. They were ready own. In 1402, a couple of thieves, both for anything, from pitch-and-toss to man- clerks of the University, were condemned slaughter. Montigny, for instance, had to death by the Provost of Paris. As neglected neither of these extremes, and they were taken to Montfaucon, they kept 45 we find him accused of cheating at games crying ' high and clearly ' for their benefit of hazard on the one hand, and on the of clergy, but were none the less pitilessly other of the murder of one Thevenin hanged and gibbeted. Indignant Alma Pensete in a house by the Cemetery of Mater interfered before the king; and the St. John. If time had only spared us Provost was deprived of all royal offices, 50 some particulars, might not this last have and condemned to return the bodies and furnished us with the matter of a grisly erect a great stone cross, on the road vvinter's tale? from Paris to the gibbet, graven with the At Christmas-time in 1456, readers of effigies of these two holy martyrs.^ We Villon will remember that he was en- shall hear more of the benefit of clergy ; 55 gaged on the Small Testament. About for after this the reader will not be sur- the same period, circa festnm nativitatis »MonstreIet: Pantheon Littcraire, p. 26. Domini [about the feast of the birth 940 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON of Our Lord], he took part in a mem- suspicion it was Dom Nicolas, the Pic- orable supper at the Mule Tavern, in ardy monk) hurried them away. It was front of the church of St. Mathurin. ten o'clock when they mounted the lad- Tabary, who seems to have been very der ; it was about midnight before Tabary much Villon's creature, had ordered the 5 beheld them coming back. To him they supper in the course of the afternoon, gave ten crowns, and promised a share He was a man who had had troubles in of a two-crown dinner on the morrow ; his time and languished in the Bishop whereat wc may suppose his mouth of Paris's prisons on a suspicion of pick- watered. In course of time, he got wind ing locks; confiding, convivial, not very lo of the real amount of their booty and astute — who had copied out a whole im- understood how scurvily he had been proper romance with his own right hand, used ; but he seems to have borne no This supper-party was to be his first in- malice. How could he, against such troduction to De Cayeux and Petit-Jehan, superb operators as Petit-Jehan and De which was probably a matter of some 15 Cayeux; or a person like Villon, who concern to the poor man's muddy wits; could have made a new improper romance in the sequel, at least, he speaks of both out of his own head, instead of merely with an undisguised respect, based on copying an old one with mechanical right professional inferiority in the matter hand? of picklocks. Dom Nicolas, a Picardy 20 The rest of the winter was not un- monk, was the fifth and last at table, eventful for the gang. First they made When supper had been despatched and a demonstration against the Church of fairly washed down, we may suppose, St. Mathurin after chalices, and were with white Baigneux or red Beaune, ignominiously chased away by barking which were favorite wines among the 25 dogs. Then Tabary fell out with Casin fellowship, Tabary was solemnly sworn Chollet, one of the fellows who stole over to secrecy on the night's perform- ducks in Paris Moat, who subsequently ances; and the party left the Mule and became a sergeant of the Chatelet and proceeded to an unoccupied house belong- distinguished himself by misconduct, fol- ing to Robert de Saint-Simon. This, 3o lowed by imprisonment and public cas- over a low wall, they entered without ligation, during the wars of Louis difficulty. All but Tabary took off their Eleventh. The quarrel was not con- upper garments; a ladder was found and ducted with a proper regard to the king's applied to the high wall which sepa- peace, and the pair publicly belabored rated Saint-Simon's house from the court 35 each other until the police stepped in, of the College of Navarre; the four fel- and Master Tabary was cast once more lows in their shirtsleeves (as we might into the prisons of the Bishop. While say) clambered over in a twinkling; and he still lay in durance, another job was Master Guy Tabary remained alone be- cleverly executed by the band in broad side the overcoats. From the court the 40 daylight, at the Augustine Monastery, burglars made their way into the vestry Brother Guillaume Coiffier was beguiled of the chapel, where they found a large by an accomplice to St. Mathurin to say chest, strengthened with iron bands and mass ; and during his absence, his cham- closed with four locks. One of these ber was entered and five or six hundred locks they picked, and then, by levering 45 crowns in money and some silver-plate up the corner, forced the other three, successfully abstracted. A melancholy Inside was a small coffer, of walnut wood, man was Coifiier on his return ! Eight also barred with iron, but fastened with crowns from this adventure were for- only three locks, which were all com- warded by little Thibault to the incarcer- fortably picked by way of the keyhole. 5° ated Tabary ; and with these he bribed In the walnut coffer — a joyous sight by the jailer and reappeared in Paris fav- our thieves' lantern — were five hundred erns. Some time before or shortly after crowns of gold. There was some talk this, Villon set out for Angers, as he had of opening the aumries, where, if they promised in the Sinall Testament. The had only known, a booty eight or nine 55 object of this excursion was not merely times greater lay ready to their hand ; to avoid the presence of his cruel mis- but one of the party ( I have a humorous tress or the strong arm of Noe le Joly, FRANCOIS VILLON 941 but to plan a deliberate robbery on his six, wearing long hair behind. The uncle the monk. As soon as he had prior expressed, through Tabary, his an- properly studied the ground, the* others xiety to become their accomplice and al- were to go over in force from Paris — together such as they were (dc leur sorte picklocks and all — and away with my let le leurs complices). Mighty polite uncle's strongbox ! This throws a com- they showed themselves, and made him ical sidelight on his own accusation many fine speeches in return. But for against his relatives, that they had ' for- all that, perhaps because they had longer gotten natural duty ' and disowned him heads than Tabary, perhaps because it is because he was poor. A poor relation 10 less easy to wheedle men in a body, they is a distasteful circumstance at the best, kept obstinately to generalities and gave but a poor relation who plans deliberate him no information as to their exploits, robberies against those of his blood, and past, present, or to come. I suppose trudges hundreds of weary leagues to put Tabary groaned under this reserve ; for them into execution, is surely a little on 15 no sooner were he and the Prior out of the wrong side of toleration. The uncle the church than he fairly emptied his at Angers may have been monstrously heart to him, gave him full details of undutiful; but the nephew from Paris many hanging matters in the past, and was upsides with him. explained the future intentions of the On the 23d April, that venerable and 20 band. The scheme of the hour was to discreet person. Master Pierre Marchand, rob another Augustine monk, Robert de Curate and Prior of Paray-le-Monial, in la Porte, and in this the Prior agreed to the diocese of Chartres, arrived in Paris take a hand with simulated greed. Thus, and put up at the sign of the Three in the course of two days, he had turned Chandeliers, in the Rue de la Huchette. 25 this wineskin of a Tabary inside out. Next day, or the day after, as he was For a while longer the farce was carried breakfasting at the sign of the Arm- on ; the Prior was introduced to Petit- chair, he fell into talk with two cus- Jehan, whom he describes as a little, very tomers, one of whom was a priest and smart man of thirty, with a black beard the other our friend Tabary. The idiotic 30 and a short jacket; an appointment was Tabary became mighty confidential as to made and broken in the de la Porte his past life. Pierre Marchand, who was affair; Tabary had some breakfast at the an acquaintance of Guillaume Coiffier's Prior's charge and leaked out more and had sympathized with him over his secrets under the influence of wine and loss, pricked up his ears at the mention 35 friendship ; and then all of a sudden, on of picklocks, and led on the transcriber the 17th of May, an alarm sprang up, of improper romances from one thing to the Prior picked up his skirts and walked another, until they were fast friends, quietly over to the Chatelet to make a For picklocks the Prior of Paray pro- deposition, and the whole band took to fessed a keen curiosity; but Tabary, upon 40 their heels and vanished out of Paris and some late alarm, had thrown all his into the sight of the police, the Seine. Let that be no difficulty, Vanish as they like, they all go with however, for was there not little Thibault, -a clog about their feet. Sooner or later, who could make them of all shapes and here or there, they will be caught in sizes, and to whom Tabary, smelling an 45 the fact, and ignominiously sent home, accomplice, would be only too glad to From our vantage of four centuries introduce his new acquaintance? On the afterward, it is odd and pitiful to watch morrow, accordingly, they met; and the order in which the fugitives are cap- Tabary, after having first wet his whistle tured and dragged in. at the Prior's expense, led him to Notre 50 Montigny was the first. In August of Dame and presented him to four or five that same year, he was laid by the heels ' young companions,' who were keeping on many grievous counts ; sacrilegious sanctuary in the church. They were all robberies, frauds, incorrigibility, and that clerks, recently escaped, like Tabary bad business about Thevenin Pensete in himself, from the episcopal prisons. 55 the house by the Cemetery of St. John. Among these we may notice Thibault, He was reclaimed by the ecclesiastical the operator, a little fellow of twenty- authorities as a clerk; but the claim was 942 ROP.KRT LOUIS STKVENSON rebutted on the score of incorrigibility, 1460 was an ill-starred year: for justice and ultimately fell to the ground ; and he was making a clean sweep of ' poor and was condemned to death by the Provost indigent persons, thieves, cheats, and of Paris. It was a very rude hour for lock])ickers,' in the neighborhood of Montigny, but hope was not yet over. 5 Paris; > and Colin dc Caycux, with many lie was a' fellow of some birth; his father others, was condemned to death and had been king's pantler; his sister, hanged.- probably married to some one about the Court, was in the family way, and her Villon and the Gallows health would be endangered if the exc- 10 villon was still absent on the Angers cution was proceeded with. So down expedition when the Prior of Paray sent comes Charles the Seventh with letters guch a bombshell among his accomplices; of mercy, commuting the penalty to a ^^-^^l ^j^^ j^tes of his return and arrest year in a dungeon on bread and water, remain undiscoverable. M. Campaux and a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. 15 plausibly enough opined for the autumn James in Galicia. Alas! the document qJ j^^^^ which would make him closely was incomplete; it did not contani the follow on Montigny, and the first of full tale of Montigny's enormities; it did ^i^gg^ denounced by the Prior to fall into not recite that he had been denied benefit ^\^q tojig. We may suppose, at least, that of clergy, and it said nothing about 20 ((■ ^^g not long thereafter; we may sup- Thevenin Pensete. Montigny's hour was pQgg i-jj,-,^ competed for between lay and at hand. Benefit of clergy, honorable clerical Courts; and we may suppose him descent from king's pantler, sister in the alternately pert and impudent, humble family way, royal letters of commuta- and fawning, in his defense. But at the tion — all were of no avail. He had as end of all supposing, we come upon some been in prison in Rouen, in Tours, in nuggets of fact. For first, he was put to Bordeaux, and four times already in ^^g question by water. He who had Paris; and out of all these he had come tossed off so many cups of white Baig- scathless; but now he must make a Httle ^^nx or red Beaune, now drank water excursion as far as Montfaucon with 30 through linen folds, until his bowels were Henry Cousin, executor of high justice, flooded and his heart stood still. After There let him swing among the carrion go much raising of the elbow, so much crows. outcry of fictitious thirst, here at last About a year later, in July, 1458. the ^as enough drinking for a lifetime, police laid hands on Tabary. Before the 35 Truly, of our pleasant vices, the gods ecclesiastical commissary he was twice make whips to scourge us. And secondly examined, and, on the latter occasion, he was condemned to be hanged. A put to the question ordinary and extraor- nian may have been expecting a catas- dinary. What a dismal change from trophe for years, and yet find himself pleasant suppers at the Mule, where he sat 40 unprepared when it arrives. Certainly, in triumph with expert operators and Villon found, in this legitimate issue of great wits ! He is at the lees of life, poor hig career, a very staggering and grave rogue; and those fingers which once consideration. Every beast, as he says, transcribed improper romances are now clings bitterly to a whole skin. If every- agonizingly stretched upon the rack. 45 thing is lost, and even honor, life still We have no sure knowledge, but we may remains; nay, and it becomes, like the have a shrewd guess of the conclusion. g^^g iamb in Nathan's parable, as dear Tabary, the admirer, would go the same as all the rest. ' Do you fancy,' he asks, way as those whom he admired. Jn a lively ballad, ' that I had not enough The last we hear of is Colin de Cayeux. 50 He was caught in autumn 1460, in the ^Chron. Scand. ut supra. /"I ? r Ci. T j'TT „ 2 Here and there, princinallv in the order of great Church of St. Leu d Esserens. ^^.^^^^ ^^^.^ ^^^.^^^ ^.J^^^ ^l^^- ^ j^^^^^^r^'s own which makes so fine a figure in the pleas- reading of his material. The ground on which ant Oise valley between Creil and Beau- he defers the execution of Montigny and De mont. He was reclaimed by no less than 55 Cayeux beyond the date of their trials seems >n^ ... 1 ^ ^1 T) r ^1. sufficient. There is a law of parsimony for the two bishops; but the PrOCUreur for the construction of historical documents; simplicity is Provost held fast by incorrigible Colin. the first duty of narration; and hanged they were. FRANCOIS VILLON 943 philosophy under my hood to cry out: shuddering soul. There is an intensity I appeal? If I had made any bones of consideration in the piece that shows about the matter, I should have been it to be the transcript of familiar planted upright in the fields, by the St. thoughts. It is the quintessence of many Denis Road ' — Montfaucon being on the 5 a doleful nightmare on the straw, when way to St. Denis. An appeal to Par- he felt himself swing helpless in the wind, ' liament, as we saw in the case of Colin and saw the birds turn about him, scream- de Cayeux, did not necessarily lead to ing and menacing his eyes, an acquittal or a commutation ; and while And, after all, the Parliament changed the matter was pending, our poet had 10 his sentence into one of banishment ; and ample opportunity to reflect on his posi- to Roussillon, in Dauphiny, our poet tion. Hanging is a sharp argument, and must carry his woes without delay. I to swing with many others on the gibbet Travelers between Lyons and Marseilles adds a horrible corollary for the imagina- may remember a station on the line, some tion. With the aspect of Montfaucon he 15 way below Vienne, where the Rhone was well acquainted; indeed, as the fleets seaward between vine-clad hills, neighborhood appears to have been sacred This was Villon's Siberia. It would be to junketing and nocturnal picnics of a little warm in summer, perhaps, and a wild young men and women, he had little cold in winter in that draughty probably studied it under all varieties of 20 valley between two great mountain fields ; hour and weather. And now, as he lay but what with the hills, and the racing in prison waiting the mortal push, these river, and the fiery Rhone wines, he was different aspects crowded back on his im- little to be pitied on the conditions of his agination with a new and startling signifi- exile. Villon, in a remarkably bad bal- cance ; and he wrote a ballad, by way of 25 ]ad, written in a breath, heartily thanked epitaph for himself and his companions, and fulsomely belauded the Parliament; which remains unique in the annals of the envoi, like the proverbial postscript mankind. It is, in the highest sense, a of a lady's letter, containing the pith of piece of his biography : — his performance in a request for three 30 days' delay to settle his affairs and bid La pluye nous a debuez et lavez, his friends farewell. He was probably Et le soleil dessechez et noirciz; not followed out of Paris, like Antoine Pies, corbeaulx, nous ont les yeux cavez, Fradin, the popular preacher, another Et arrachez la barbe et les sourcilz. exile of a few years later, by weeping Jamais, nul temps, nous ne sommes rassis ; 35 multitudes ; ^ but I dare say one or two Puis ga, puis la, comme le vent varie, rogues of his acquaintance would keep A son plaisir sans cesser nous charie, him company for a mile or so on the Plus becquetez d' oiseaulx que dez a couldre. south road, and drink a bottle with him Ne soyez done de nostre confrairie, before they turned. For banished people, Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille ab- 40 in those days, seem to have set out on souldre. their own responsibility, in their own guard, and at their own expense. It was [The rain has soaked us and washed us, no joke to make one's way from Paris and the sun has dried us and tanned us ; to Roussillon alone and penniless in the magpies and crows have pecked out our 45 fifteenth century. Villon says he left a eyes, and snatched away our beards and rag of his tails on every bush. Indeed, eye-brows. Never, never are we at rest! he must have had many a weary tramp. Now here, now there, as the wind shifts, it many a slender meal, and many a to-do carries us along at its pleasure, ceaselessly, with blustering captains of the Ordon- more pecked by birds than thimbles for 50 nance. But with one of his light fingers, sewing. Do not join, then, our band, but we may fancy that he took as good as pray God that he may be willing to absolve he gave; for every rag of his tail, he "s.] would manage to indemnify himself upon the population in the shape of food, or Here is' some genuine thieves' litera-^S wine, or ringing money; and his route ture after so much that was spurious; would be traceable across France and sharp as an etching, written with a ^ Chrou. Scand., p. 338. 944 ROBERT LOUTS STEVENSON Burgundy by housewives and inn-keepers — this we know not, nor, from the de- lamenting over petty thefts, hke the track struction of authorities, are we ever likely of a single human locust. A strange to learn. But on Octolicr 2d, 1461, or figure he must have cut in the eyes of the some day inmiediately preceding, the new good country people: this ragged, black- 5 King, Louis Eleventh, made his joyous guard city poet, with a smack of the Paris entry into Meun. Now it was a part of student, and a smack of the Paris street the formality on such occasions for the arab, posting along the highways, in rain new King to liljcrate certain prisoners; or sun, among the green fields and vine- and so the basket was let down into yards. For himself, he had no taste for 10 Villon's pit, and hastily did Master rural loveliness; green fields and vine- Francis scramble in, and was most joy- yards would be mighty indifferent to fully hauled up, and shot out, blinking Master Francis ; but he would often have and tottering, but once more a free man, his tongue in his cheek at the simplicity into the blessed sun and wind. Now or of rustic dupes, and often, at city gates, i5 never is the time for verses ! Such a he might stop to contemplate the gibbet happy revolution would turn the head of with its swinging bodies, and hug himself a stocking-weaver, and set him jingling on his escape. rimes. And so — after a voyage to How long he stayed at Roussillon, how Paris, where he finds Montigny and De far he became the protege of the Bour- 20 Cayeux clattering their bones upon the bons, to whom that town belonged, or gibbet, and his three pupils roystering in when it was that he took part, under the Paris streets, ' with their thumbs under auspices of Charles of Orleans, in a their girdles,' — down sits Master Fran- riming tournament to be referred to once cis to write his Large Testament, and again in the pages of the present volume, 25 perpetuate his name in a sort of glorious are matters that still remain in dark- ignominy, ness, in spite of M. Longnon's diligent rummaging among archives. When we The ' Large Testament ' next find him, in summer 1461, alas ! he Of this capital achievement and, with is once more in durance : this time at 30 it, of Villon's style in general, it is here Meun-sur-Loire, in the prisons of Thi- the place to speak. The Large Testament bault d'Aussigny, Bishop of Orleans. is a hurly-burly of cynical and senti- He had been lowered in a basket into mental reflections about life, jesting leg- a noisome pit, where he lay, all summer, acies to friends and enemies, and, in- gnawing hard crusts and railing upon 35 terspersed among these many admirable fate. His teeth, he says, were like the ballades, both serious and absurd. With teeth of a rake : a touch of haggard so free a design, no thought that occurred portraiture all the more real for being to him would need to be dismissed with- excessive and burlesque, and all the more out expression ; and he could draw at full proper to the man for being a caricature 40 length the portrait of his own bedeviled of his own misery. His eyes were soul, and of the bleak and blackguardly ' bandaged with thick walls.' It might world which was the theater of his ex- blow hurricanes overhead ; the lightning ploits and sufferings. If the reader can might leap in high heaven ; but no word conceive something between the slap- of all this reached him in his noisome 45 dash inconsequence of Byron's Don Juan pit. ' // n'cntre, ou gist, n'escler ni and the racy humorous gravity and brief tourbillon [Where he lies neither light- noble touches that distinguish the ver- ning nor whirlwind enters].' Above all, nacular poems of Burns, he will have he was fevered with envy and anger at formed some idea of Villon's style. To the freedom of others; and his heart 50 the latter writer — except in the ballades, flowed over into curses as he thought of which are quite his own, and can be Thibault d'Aussigny, walking the streets paralleled from no other language known in God's sunlight, and blessing people to me — he bears a particular reseni- with extended fingers. So much we find blance. In common with Burns he has sharply lined in his own poems. Why 55 a certain rugged compression,' a brutal he was cast again into prison — how he vivacity of epithet, a homely vigor, a had again managed to shave the gallows delight in local personalities, and an in- FRANCOIS VILLON 945 terest in many sides of life, that are shame, and death; monks and the serv- often despised and passed over by more ants of great lords hold high wassail effete and cultured poets. Both also, in upon cakes and pastry; the poor man their strong, easy, colloquial way, tend licks his lips before the baker's window; to become difficult and obscure ; the ob- 5 people with patched eyes sprawl all night scurity in the case of Villon passing at under the stall; chuckling Tabary tran- times into the absolute darkness of cant scribes an improper romance ; bare- language. They are perhaps the only bosomed lasses and ruffling students swag- two great masters of expression who ger into the streets; the drunkard goes keep sending their readers to a glossary. 10 stumbling homeward; the graveyard is ful' 'Shall we not dare to say of a thief,' of bones; and away on Montfaucon, Colir asks Montaigne, ' that he has a handsome de Cayeux and Montigny hang draggled leg'? It is a far more serious claim that in the rain. Is there nothing better to we have to put forward in behalf of be seen than sordid misery and worth- Villon. Beside that of his contempo- 15 less joys? Only where the poor old raries, his writing, so full of color, so mother of the poet kneels in church be- eloquent, so picturesque, stands out in an low painted windows, and makes tremu- almost miraculous isolation. If only one lous supplication to the Mother of God. or two of the chroniclers could have In our mixed world, full of green fields taken a leaf out of his book, history 20 and happy lovers, where not long before, would have been a pastime, and the [oan of Arc had led one of the" highest fifteenth century as present to our minds and noblest lives in the whole storv of as the age of Charles Second. This mankind, this was all worth chronicling gallows-bird was the one great writer of that our poet could perceive. His eyes his age and country, and initiated modern 25 were indeed sealed with his own filth, literature for France. Boileau, long ago. He dwelt all his life in a pit more noi- in the period of perukes and snuff-boxes, some than the dungeon at Meun. In the recognized him as the first articulate poet moral world, also, there are large phe- in the language; and if we measure him, nomena not cognizable out of holes and not by priority of merit, but living dura- 3^ corners. Loud winds blow, speeding tion of influence; not on a comparison home deep-laden ships and sweeping rub- with obscure forerunners, but with great bish from the earth; the lightning leaps and famous successors, we shall install and cleans the face of heaven ; high pur- this ragged and disreputable figure in a poses and brave passions shake and sub- far higher niche m glory's temple than 35 Hmate men's spirits; and meanwhile, in was ever dreamed of by the critic. It the narrow dungeon of his soul, Villon is, in Itself, a memorable fact that, be- is mumbling crusts and picking vermin, fore 1542, in the very dawn of printing, Along with this deadly gloom of out- and while modern France was in the look, we must take another characteristic making, the works of Villon ran through 40 of his work : its unrivaled insincerity, seven different editions. Out of him I can give no better similitude of this flows much of Rabelais; and through quality than I have given already: that Rabelais, directly and indirectly, a deep, he comes up with a whine, and runs permanent, and growing inspiration. away with a whoop and his finger to Not only his style, but his callous per- ^5 his nose. His pathos is that of a profes- tinent way of looking upon the sordid sional mendicant who should happen to and ugly sides of life, becomes every be a man of genius; his levity that of day a more specific feature in the liter- a bitter street arab, full of bread. On ature of France. And only the other a first reading, the pathetic passages pre- year, a work of some power appeared in 50 occupy the reader, and he is cheated out Paris, and appeared with infinite scandal, of an alms in the shape of sympathy, which owed its whole inner significance But when the thing is studied the illu- and much of its outv^ard form to the sion fades away: in the transitions, study of our riming thief. above all, we can detect the evil, ironical The world to which he introduces us 55 temper of the man ; and instead of a is, as before said, blackguardly and bleak. flighty work, where many crude but Paris swarms before us, full of famine, genuine feelings tumlile together for the 60 946 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON mastery as in the lists of tournament, beseeching here in the street, but I would we are tempted to think of the Lar^^e not go down a dark road with him for Testament as of one long-drawn epical a large consideration. grimace, pulled by a merry-andrew, who The second of the points on which he has found a certain despicable eminence 5 was genuine and emphatic was common over human respect and human affections lo the middle ages; a deep and somewhat by perching himself astride upon the sniveling conviction of the transitory g-allows. Between these two views, at nature of this life and the pity and hor- best, all temperate judgments will be ror of death. Old age and the grave, found to fall; and rather, as I imagine, lo with some dark and yet half-sceptical toward the last. terror of an after-world — these were There were two things on which he ideas that clung about his bones like a dis- felt with perfect and, in one case, even case. An old ape, as he says, may play threatening sincerity. all the tricks in its repertory, and none The first of these was an undisguised 15 of them will tickle an audience into good envy of those richer than himself. He humor. Tousjours vieil synge est des- was forever drawing a parallel, already plaisant. It is not the old jester who exemplified from his own words, between receives most recognition at a tavern the happy life of the well-to-do and the party, but the young fellow, fresh and miseries of the poor. Burns, too proud 20 handsome, who knows the new slang, and and honest not to work, continued carries off his vice with a certain air. through all reverses to sing of poverty Of this, as a tavern jester himself, he with a light, defiant note. Beranger would be pointedly conscious. As for waited till he was himself beyond the the women with whom he was best ac- reach of want, before writing the Old 25 quainted, his reflections on their old age, Vagabond or Jacques. Samuel Johnson, in all their harrowing pathos, shall re- although he was very sorry to be poor, main in the original for me. Horace ' was a great arguer for the advantages of has disgraced himself to something the poverty ' in his ill days. Thus it is that same tune ; but what Horace throws out brave men carry their crosses, and smile 3^ with an ill-favored laugh, Villon dwells with the fox burrowing in their vitals, on with an almost maudlin whimper. But Villon, who had not the courage to It is in death that he finds his truest be poor with honesty, now whiningly inspiration; in the swift and sorrowful implores our sympathy, now shows his change that overtakes beauty; in the teeth upon the dung-heap with an ugly 35 strange revolution by which great for- snarl. He envies bitterly, envies pas- tunes and renowns are diminished to a sionately. Poverty, he protests, drives handful of churchyard dust ; and in the men to steal, as hunger makes the wolf utter passing away of what was once sally from the forest. The poor, he goes lovable and mighty. It is in this that on, will always have a carping word to 40 the mixed texture of his thought enables say, or, if that outlet be denied, nourish him to reach such poignant and terrible rebellious thoughts. It is a calumny on effects, and to enhance pity with ridicule, the noble army of the poor. Thousands like a man cutting capers to a funeral in a small way of life, ay, and even in march. It is in this, also, that he rises the smallest, go through life with tenfold 45 out of himself into the higher spheres as much honor and dignity and peace of of art. So, in the ballade by which he mind, as the rich gluttons whose dainties is best known, he rings the changes on and state-beds awakened Villon's cov- names that once stood for beautiful and etous temper. And every morning's sun queenly women, and are now no more sees thousands who pass whistling to So than letters and a legend. ' Where are their toil. But Villon was the ' manvais the snows of yester year?' runs the bur- pauvre': defined by Victor Hugo, and, den. And so, in another not so famous, in its English expression, so admirably he passes in review the different degrees stereotyped by Dickens. He was the of bygone men, from the holy Apostles first wicked sans-culotte [tatterdemalion]. 55 and the golden Emperor of the East, He is the man of genius with the mole- down to the heralds, pursuivants, and skin cap. He is mighty pathetic and trumpeters, who also bore their part in IN THE STATES 947 the world's pageantries and ate greedily BED in summer at great folks' tables: all this to the re- in winter 1 get up at night frain of ' So much carry the winds And dress by yellow candle-light, away ! ' Probably, there was some mel- In summer, quite the other way,— ancholy in his mind for a yet lower 5 I have to go to bed by day. grade, and Montigny and Colin de Cayeux clattering their bones on Paris gibbet. I have to go to bed and see Alas, and with so pitiful an experience The birds still hopping on the tree, of life, Villon can ofYer us nothing but Or hear the grown-up people's feet terror and lamentation about death ! 1° Still going past me in the street. No one has ever more skilfully com- municated his own disenchantment ; no And docs it not seem hard to you, one ever blown a more ear-piercing note When all the sky is clear and blue, 10 of sadness. This unrepentant thief can And I should like so much to play, attain neither to Christian confidence, '5 To have to go to bed by day? nor to the spirit of the bright Greek say- ing, that whom the gods love die early. SYSTEM It is a poor heart, and a poorer age. Every night my prayers I say, that cannot accept the conditions of life And get my dinner every day; with some heroic readiness. ^° And every day that I 've been good, I get an orange after food. The date of the Larpe Testament is -r. ^ t -i^ *u ^ • ..1 1 ., , ^ , ^ • ^1 ^ .' 1 ■ 1 ^he chdd that is not clean and neat. s the last date m the poet s biography ^-^^ j^^^ ^^ ' After having achieved that admirable and .5 He is a naughty child, I 'm sure- despicable performance, he disappears q, ^^^^ ^is dear papa is poor into the night from whence he came. How or when he died, whether decently HAPPY THOUGHT in bed or trussed up to a gallows, re- rp, , , . r ,, r , . ^ ■ • 1 11 r J- 11 1 ^ Ine world is so full of a number of thinss mams a riddle for foolhardy commenta- ,0 t ' u ,j n u """"^*'' "' unioi'. A r^ 1 • 1 1^1 1 1 rr 1 '^ t 111 surc wc should all be as hannv as kinsrs tors. It appears his health had suffered ^^^ «viiis3. in the pit at Meun; he was thirty years jq auntie of age and quite bald ; with the notch in ^, . , his under lip where Sermaise had struck £^'^^,f/ our aunts — not only I, him with the sword, and what wrinkles,. ^"^ all your dozen of nurslings cry- the reader may imagine. In default of ^^''^' ^"^ '^'^ other children do? portraits, this is all I have been able to "^'"^ ''''"^^ '''"'' childhood, zvantmg you? piece together, and perhaps even the Cioo5) baldness should be taken as a figure of his destitution. A sinister dog, in all 40 likelihood, but with a look in his eye, and the loose flexile mouth that goes ^y-^^ ^^jf ^ ^^^^^ j ^^^^^^ ^^^^ with wit and an overweening sensual ^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^^ , temperament. Certainly the sorriest fig- ^ brother -yet though young in years, ure on the rolls of fame. 45 An elder brother. I. (1877) You speak another tongue than mine, ■■ Though both were English born. From A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES ^ towards the night of time decline. 5° You mount into the morn. WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN ,, , , „ iouth shall grow great and strong and free. A child should always say what's true, But age must still decay: 10 And speak when he is spoken to. To-morrow for the States, — for me. And behave mannerly at table : 55 England and Yesterday. At least as far as he is able. (1887) San Francisco. IN THE STATES 948 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON HEATHER ALE: Down by the shore he had them ; 45 A GALLOWAY LEGEND And there on the giddy brink — ' I will give you life, ye vermin. From the bonny bells of heather For the secret of the drink.' They brewed a drink long-syne, Was sweeter far than honey, Was stronger far than wino. They brewed it and they drank it, s And lay in a blessed swound For days and day together In their dwellings underground. There stood the son and father; And they looked high and low ; The heather was red around them. The sea rumbled below. And up and spoke the father, Shrill was his voice to hear: 50 There rose a king in Scotland, A fell man to his foe, ■" ' I have a word in private, A word for the royal ear. 55 He smote the Picts in battle. He hunted them like roes. ' Life is dear to the aged. Over miles of the red mountain And honor a little thing; He hunted as they fled, I would gladly sell the secret,' And strewed the dwarfish bodies is Quoth the Pict to the King. 60 Of the dying and the dead. His voice was small as a sparrow's. And shrill and wonderful clear: Summer came in the country. ' I would gladly sell my secret, Red was the heather bell ; Only my son I fear. But the manner of the brewing Was none alive to tell. 20 ' For life is a little matter. 6S In graves that were like children's And death is naught to the young ; On many a mountain head, And I dare not sell my honor The Brewsters of the Heather Under the eye of my son. Lay numbered with the dead. Take him, king, and bind him, And cast him far in the deep; 70 The king in the red moorland ^S And it 's I will tell the secret Rode on a summer's day ; That I have sworn to keep.' And the bees hummed, and the curlews Cried beside the way. They took the son and bound him, The king rode, and was angry. Neck and heels in a thong, Black was his brow and pale, 3© And a lad took him and swung him. 75 To rule in a land of heather And lack the Heather Ale. And flung him far and strong. And the sea swallowed his body. It fortuned that his vassals, Riding free on the heath. Like that of a child of ten ; — And there on the cliff stood the father. Last of the dwarfish men. 80 Came on a stone that was fallen 35 And vermin hid beneath. Rudely plucked from their hiding, * True was the word I told you : Never a word they spoke : Only my son I feared; A son and his aged father — For I doubt the sapling courage Last of the dwarfish folk. 40 That goes without the beard. But now in vain is the torture, 8S And the king sat high on his charger, Fire shall never avail : He looked on the little men; Here dies in my bosom And the dwarfish and swarthy couple The secret of Heather Ale.' Looked at the king again. (1891) t GEORGE MEREDITH (1828-1909) Meredith is perhaps most widely known by his novels, but during recent years his poetry has come in for an increasing share of attention. His radical ideas, especially with respect to the emancipation of women, which are suggested rather than openly advocated in the novels, are explicitly avowed in the poems; and the form of his poetry, while no less characteristic than the style of his prose, is equally distiuguished, and at times excjuisitely musical. Meredith had to wait a long time to come by his own; his first volume of poems was published as long ago as 3851, and his first work of fiction. The Shaving of Shagpat, appeared in I80G. The Ordeal of Richard Fcverel (1859) established his position in the world of fiction, as Modern Love (18G2) won him recognition as one of the leading poets of the day ; an unappreciative review provoked Swinburne to a letter of vigorous protest, in the course of which he said : ' Mr. Meredith is one of the three or four poets now alive whose work, perfect or imperfect, is always as noble in design as it is often faultless in result.' But after winning the suffrages of contemporary men of letters, Meredith had still to conquer the public. The Egoist (1879) is usually re- garded as turning the tide in his favor, but in reviewing the Poems and Lyries of the Joy of Earth in 1883 Mark Pattisou could still write: 'Mr. Meredith is well known, by name, to the widest circle of readers — the novel readers. By name, because his name is a label warn- ing them not to touch.' Diana of the Crossaaps (1885) opened the way for a larger circle of readers not only of this, but of the earlier and later novels, especially in the United States; the poems have made their way much more slowly to any considerable popularity, if indeed they can be said, as a whole, to have won it yet. Except in a few love lyrics and wayside studies, Meredith makes large demands upon his readers' powers of comprehension. He has his own system of philosophy, which needs some familiarity with his modes of expressing it before it can be understood. ' Where other writers appeal to the christian divinities or to humanity,' says a recent critic, ' he speaks, somewhat insistently, of the Earth, a term to which he at- taches his own mystic meaning. The Earth is Nature, considered not as the malign step- mother which she is in pessimistic theory, but as a stern yet genial mother and instructress. The Earth gives us our bodies, our fund of power, and our basis of instinct. Life is an ad- justment and realization of the inward forces that the Earth generates, and love it is that both tasks and rewards most completely our power of controlling these forces.' These are high themes for young readers, and they may well leave them till they are older and wiser. If they can appreciate Meredith's simpler poems, the understanding of the more difficult ones will come later. Of the external events of Meredith's life there is little to be said. Of Welsh descent, he was born in Hampshire, and educated in Germany. During his early manhood he worked as a journalist, and in 1866 he was a war correspondent in Italy and Austria, his sympathy with the cause of Italian unity and independence being shown in his novel Vittoria, published the following year. The last thirty years of his life were spent in quiet retirement at Boxhill, near London, and the enjoyment of the admiration of an ever-widening circle of readers. In 1905 he received the Order of Merit, perhaps the most distinguished of British decorations, and in 1908, on his eightieth birthday, an address of congratulation was presented to him from the leading writers of the English-speaking world. LOVE IN THE VALLEY Under yonder beech-tree single on the greensward, Couched with her arms behind her golden head, Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, 5 Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow, Waking in amazement she could not but em- brace me ; Then would she hold me and never let me go? Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, Swift as the swallow along the river':^ light 'o 949 950 GEORGE MEREDITH Circleting the surface to meet his niirrorod winglets, Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight. Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer 'S Hard, but oh, the glory of the winning were she won ! When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, More love should I have, and much less care. 2° When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror, Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, I should miss but one for many boys and girls. Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows 25 Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder ; Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. Deals she an unkindness, 't is but her rapid measure. Even as in a dance ; and her smile can heal no less: 3° Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless. Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note un- varied, 35 Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar. Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting : So were it with me if forgetting could be willed. Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bub- bling well-spring, Tell it to forget the source that keeps it lilkd. 40 Stepping down the hill with her fair com- panions. Arm in arm, all against the raying West, Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches. Brave in her shape, and sweeter un- possessed. Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking 45 Whispered the world was; morning light is she. Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free. Happy happy time, when the white star hovers Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, 50 Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness. Threading it with color, as yewberries the yew. Thicker crowd the shades while the grave East deepens Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret ; 55 Strange her eyes ; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells. Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along. Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. 6° Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple- feathered bosom Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset Rich, deep like love in beauty without end. When at dawn she sighs, and like an in- fant to the window 65 Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams. Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lily. Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams. LOVE IN THE VALLEY 951 When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May, 70 Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lily, Pure from the night, and splendid for the day. Mother of the dews, dark eye-lashed twi- light ; Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim, Rounding on thy breast sings the dew- delighted skylark, 75 Clear as though the dew-drops had their voice in him. Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the ray- less planet, Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers. Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers. 80 All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose; Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands. My sweet leads : she knows not why, but now she loiters. Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands. Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping, 85 Coming the rose; and unaware a cry Springs in her bosom for odors and for color, Covert and the nightingale ; she knows not why. Kerchiefed head and chin she darts between her tulips. Streaming like a willow gray in arrowy rain : 90 Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angel She will be ; she lifts them, and on she speeds again. Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron gate-way ; She is forth to cheer a neighbor lacking mirth. So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunder 9S Saw I once a white dove, sole light of earth. Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden, Trained to stand in rows, and asking if they please. I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones ; O my wild ones! they tell me more than these, 10° You, my wild one, you tell of honied field- rose, Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they, They, by the wayside are earnest of your goodness. You are of life's on the banks that line the way. Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, '05 Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three. Parted is the window ; she sleeps ; the starry jasmine Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me. Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest ? Not while she sleeps : while she sleeps the jasmine breathes, "o Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Bears me to her pillow under white rose- wreaths. Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass- glades ; Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-gray leaf; Yellow with stonecrop; the moss-mounds are yellow; us Blue-necked the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf. Green-yellow, bursts from the copse the laughing yaffle. Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine : Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens. Thinking of the harvest : I look and think of mine. '^o This I may know: her dressing and un- dressing Such a change of light shows as when the skies in sport Shift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunder 952 GEORGE MEREDITH Slips a ray of sun ; or sweeping into port White sails furl; or on the ocean borders '^s White sails lean along the waves leaping green. Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesight Guarded she would be like the sun were she seen. Front door and back of the mossed old farmhouse Open with the morn, and in a breezy link '30 Freshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadowed orchard, Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink. Busy in the grass the early sun of summer Swarms, and the blackbird's mellow fluting notes Call my darling up with round and roguish challenge: '35 Quaintest, richest carol of all the sing- ing throats ! Cool was the woodside; cool as her white dairy Keeping sweet the cream-pan ; and there the boys from school, Cricketing below, rushed brown and red with sunshine ; O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool ! 140 Spying from the farm, herself she fetched a pitcher Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak. Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tip- toe, Said, ' I will kiss you ' : she laughed and leaned her cheek. Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roof 145 Through the long noon coo, crooning through the coo. Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadway Sometimes pipes a chaffinch ; loose droops the blue. Cows flap a slow tail knee-deep in the river, Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly, "50 Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her no- where. Lightning may come, straight rains and tiger sky. O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure- armful ! O the nutbrown tresses nodding inter- laced ! O the treasure-tresses one another over 155 Nodding! O the girdle slack about the waist ! Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarlet Quick amid the wheat-ears: wound about the waist. Gathered, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness ! O the nutbrown tresses nodding inter- laced! >6o Large and smoky red the sun's cold disk drops. Clipped by naked hills, on violet shaded snow : Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise. Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow. Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-tree 165 Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could L Here may life on death or death on life be painted. Let me clasp her soul to know she can- not die! Gossips count her faults ! they scour a nar- row chamber Where there is no window, read not heaven or her. 170 ' When she was a tiny,' one aged woman quavers. Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear. Faults she had once as she learned to run and tumbled : Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete. Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holy Earth and air, may have faults from head to feet. ^76 Hither she comes ; she comes to me ; she lingers, Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surprise High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger. JUGGLING TERRY 953 Yet am I the light and living of her eyes. Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming, '8i Nets her in her blushes, and w^ounds her, and tames. — Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting, Arms up, she dropped ; our souls were in our names. Soon will she lie like a white frost sun- rise. i8s Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye, Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher. Felt the girdle loosened, seen the tresses fly. Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset. Swift with the to-morrow, green-winged Spring! 190 Sing from the South-west, bring her back the truants, Nightingale and swallow, song and dip- ping wing. Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April Spreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, you Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the sky- fields, • I9S Youngest green transfused in silver shin- ing through : Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry: Fair as in image my seraph love appears Born to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids; Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears. 200 Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out : heaven is my need. Every woodland tree is flushing like the dogwood. Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed. Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October ; 205 Streaming like the flag-reed south-west blown ; Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam : All seem to know what is for heaven alone. (1851-78) THE LAST WORDS OF JUGGLING JERRY Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes : By the old hedge-side we '11 halt a stage. It 's nigh my last above the daisies : My next leaf '11 be man's blank page. Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying: 5 Juggler, constable, king, must bow. One that out juggles all 's been spying Long to have me, and has me now. We 've traveled times to this old common : 9 Often we 've hung our pots in the gorse. We've had a stirring life, old woman! You, and I, and the old gray horse. Races, and fairs, and royal occasions. Found us coming to their call : Now they'll miss us at our stations: '5 There 's a Juggler outjuggles all ! Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly! Over the duck-pond the willow shakes. It 's easy to think that grieving 's folly, When (he hand's firm as driven stakes! 20 Ay, when we 're strong, and braced, and manful. Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful: Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch. Here 's where the lads of the village cricket : 25 I was a lad not wide from here: Couldn't I juggle the bale off the wicket? Like an old world those days appear ! Donkey, sheep, geese and thatched ale- house — I know 'em ! They are old friends of my halts, and seem, 30 Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe *em: Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem. Juggling 's no sin, for we must have victual : Nature allows us to bait for the fool. Holding one's own makes us juggle no little; 35 But, to increase it, hard juggling 's the rule. You that are sneering at my profession. Have n't you juggled a vast amount ? There 's the Prime Minister, in one Session. Juggles more games than my sins 'II count. 40 I 've murdered insects with mock thunder : Conscience, for that, in men don't quail. 954 GEORGE iVlEREDlTH I 've made broad from the hump of wonder: That 's my business, and there 's my talc. Fashion and rank all praised the professor; Ay ! and I 've had my smile from the Queen : 46 Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her! Ain't this a sermon on that scene? I 've studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and, I reckon, rather true. so Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy; Most, a dash between the two. But it 's a woman, old girl, that makes me Think more kindly of the race: And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me 55 When the Great Juggler I must face. We two were married, due and legal : Honest we 've lived since we 've been one. Lord ! I could then jump like *ii eagle : You danced bright as a bit o' the sun. 6o Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry! All night we kissed, we juggled all day. Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry ! Now from his old girl he 's juggled away. It's past parsons to console us; 65 No, nor no doctor fetch for me : I can die without my bolus ; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor ! — don't they love rarely, Fighting the devil in other men's fields ! 70 Stand up yourself and match him fairly: Then sec how the rascal yields ! I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting Finery while his poor helpmate grubs : Coin I 've stored, and you won't be wanting : You sha 'n 't beg from the troughs and tubs. 76 Nobly you 've stuck to me, though in his kitchen Duke might kneel to call you Cook! Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in, But your old Jerry you never forsook. 80 Hand up the chirper ! ripe ale winks in it; Let 's have comfort and be at peace. Once a stout draft made me light as a linnet. Cheer up ! the Lord must have his lease. May be — for none see in that black hol- low — 85 It 's just a place where we 're held in pawn. And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow, It's just the sword-trick — I ain't quite gone. Yonder came smells of the gorsc, so nutty, Gold-like and warm : it 's the prime of May. 90 Better than mortar, brick, and putty, Is God's house on a blowing day. Lean me more up the mound ; now I feel it ; All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange? There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it ! 9S But He 's by us, juggling the change. I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying, Once — it 's long gone — when two gulls we beheld, Which, as the moon got up, were flying Down a big wave that sparked and swelled. Crack went a gun ; one fell : the second 100 Wheeled round him twice, and was off for new luck : There in the dark her white wing beckoned ; — Give me a kiss — I'm the bird dead- struck ! (1859) THE OLD CHARTIST Whate'er I be, old England is my dam ! So there's my answer to the judges, clear. I'm nothing of a fox, nor of a lamb; I don't know how to cheat, nor how to leer : I 'm for the nation ! S 1 That 's why you see me by the waysidej here, Returning home from transportation. It 's Summer in her bath this morn, I thinlcj I 'm fresh as dew, and chirpy as the birds :| And just for joy to see old England wink Thro' leaves again, I could harangue the*] herds : Is n't it something To speak out like a man when you 've gotj words, .•\nd prove you 're not a stupid dumb] thing? They shipped me off for it: I'm here] again. Old England is my dam, whate'er I be. '* THE OLD CHARTIST 955 Says I, I '11 tramp it home, and see the grain : If you see well, you're king of what you see: Eyesight is having, If you're not given, I said, to gluttony. 20 Such talk to ignorance sounds as raving. You dear old brook, that from his Grace's park Come bounding! on you run near my old town : My lord can't lock the water ; nor the lark, Unless he kills him, can my lord keep down. 25 Up, is the song-note ! I've tried it, too: — for comfort and re- nown, I rather pitched upon the wrong note. I 'm not ashamed : Not beaten 's still my boast : Again I '11 rouse the people up to strike. 3° But home's where different politics jar most. Respectability the women like. This form, or that form — The Government may be hungry pike, But don't you mount a Chartist plat- form ! 35 Well, well! Not beaten — spite of them, I shout ; And my estate is suffering for the Cause. — Now, what is yon brown water-rat about, Who washes his old poll with busy paws? What does he mean by 't? 40 It's like defying all our natural laws. For him to hope that he '11 get clean by 't. His seat is on a mud-bank, and his trade Is dirt: — he's quite contemptible; and yet The fellow 's all as anxious as a maid 45 To show a decent dress, and dry the wet. Now it 's his whisker, And now his nose, and ear ; he seems to get Each moment at the motion brisker! To see him squat like little chaps at school, I can't help laughing out with all my might. 51 He peers, hangs both his fore-paws : bless that fool. He 's bobbing at his frill now ! what a sight ! Licking the dish up, As if he thought to pass from black to white, 55 Like parson into lawny bishop. The elms and yellow reed-flags in the sun. Look on quite grave: — the sunlight flecks his side; And links of bindweed-flowers round him run, And shine up doubled with him in the tide. 60 I 'm nearly splitting, But nature seems like seconding his pride, And thinks that his behavior 's fitting. That isle o' mud looks baking dry with gold. His needle-muzzle still works out and in. It really is a wonder to behold, 66 And makes me feel the bristles of my chin. Judged by appearance, I fancy of the two I 'm nearer Sin, And might as well commence a clearance. And that 's what my fine daughter said : — she meant: 71 Pray hold your tongue, and wear a Sun- day face. Her husband, the young linendraper, spent Much argument thereon : — I 'm their disgrace. Bother the couple ! 75 I feel superior to a chap whose place Commands him to be neat and supple. But if I go and say to my old hen: I '11 mend the gentry's boots, and keep discreet, Until they grow too violent, — why, then, 80 A warmer welcome I might chance to meet : Warmer and better. And if she fancies her old cock is beat, And drops upon her knees — so let her ! She suffered for me: — women, you'll observe, §5 Don't suffer for a Cause, but for a man. When I was in the dock she showed her nerve : I saw beneath her shawl my old tea-can Trembling . . . she brought it To screw me for my work: she loathed my plan, 90 And therefore doubly kind I thought it. I've never lost the taste of that same tea: That liquor on my logic floats like oil. When I state facts, and fellows disagree. 956 GEORGE MEREDITH For human creatures all are in a coil ; 95 All may want pardon. I see a clay when every put will boil Ifarmonious in one great Tea-garden ! We wait the setting of the Dandy's day, Before that time! — He's furbishing his dress— '°° He will be ready for it! — and I say That yon old dandy rat amid the cress,— Thanks to hard labor ! — If cleanliness is next to godliness, The old fat fellow 's Heaven's neighbor ! You teach me a fine lesson, my old boy ! 'o^ I 've looked on my superiors far too long. And small has been my profit as my joy. You 've done the right while 1 've de- nounced the wrong. Prosper me later! "° Like you I will despise the sniggering throng, And please myself and my Creator. I '11 bring the linendraper and his wife Some day to see you; taking off my hat. Should they ask why, I '11 answer : in my life "5 I never found so true a democrat. Base occupation Can't rob you of your own esteem, old rat ! I 'II preach you to the British nation. (1862) FRANCE 1870 We look for her that sunlike stood Upon the forehead of our day. An orb of nations, radiating food For body and for mind alway. Where is the Shape of glad array ; 5 The nervous hands, the front of steel. The clarion tongue? Where is the bold proud face? We see a vacant place ; We hear an iron heel. O she that made the brave appeal 1° For manhood when our time was dark. And from our fetters struck the spark Which was as lightning to reveal New seasons, with the swifter play Of pulses, and benigner day; >5 She that divinely shook the dead From living man ; that' stretched ahead Her resolute forefinger straight. And marched towards the gloomy gate Of earths Untried, gave note, and in 2c The good name of Humanity Called forth the daring vision ! she. She likewise half corrupt of sin, Angel and Wanton! Can it be? Her star has foundered in eclipse, 25 The shriek of madness on her lips; Shreds of her, and no more, we see. There is a horrible convulsion, smothered din, As of one that in a grave-cloth struggles to be free. Look not on spreading boughs 30 For the riven forest tree. Look down where deep in blood and mire Black thunder plants his feet and plows The soil for ruin ; that is France : Still thrilling like a lyre, 35 Amazed to shivering discord from a fall Sudden as that the lurid hosts recall Who met in Heaven the irreparable mis- chance. O that is France ! The brilliant eyes to kindle bliss, 40 The shrewd quick lips to laugh and kiss, Breasts that a sighing world inspire, And laughter-dimpled countenance Whence soul and senses caught desire ! Ever invoking fire from Heaven, the fire 45 Has seized her, unconsumable, but framed For all the ecstasies of suffering dire. Mother of Pride, her sanctuary shamed : Mother of Delicacy, and made a mark For outrage : Mother of Luxury, stripped stark: Mother of Heroes, bondsmen; through the rains. Across her boundaries, lo the league-long chains ! Fond mother of her martial youth; they pass. They are specters in her sight, are mown as grass ! Mother of Honor, and dishonored: Mother Of Glory, she condemned to crown with bays 56 Her victor, and be fountain of his praise. Is there another curse? There is another: Compassionate her madness : is she not Mother of Reason? she that sees them mown, 60 Like grass, her young ones ! Yea, in the low groan. And under the fixed thunder of this hour \\']iich holds the animate world in one foul blot ♦ FRANCE 1870 957 Tranced circumambient while relentless Power Beaks at her heart and claws her limbs down-thrown, 65 She, with the plunging lightnings overshot. With madness for an armor against pain, With milkless breasts for little ones athirst, And round her all her noblest dying in vain, Mother of Reason is she, trebly cursed, 7° To feel, to see, to justify the blow; Chamber to chamber of her sequent brain Gives answer of the cause of her great woe. Inexorably echoing through the vaults, "Tis thus they reap in blood, in blood who sow : 75 This is the sum of self-absolved faults.' Doubt not that through her grief, with sight supreme. Through her delirium and despair's last dream. Through pride, through bright illusion and the brood Bewildering of her various Motherhood, 8° The high strong light within her, though she bleeds. Traces the letters of returned misdeeds. She sees what seed long sown, ripened of late, Bears this fierce crop; and she discerns her fate From origin to agony, and on 85 As far as the wave washes long and wan Off one disastrous impulse: for of waves Our life is, and our deeds are pregnant graves Blown rolling to the sunset from the dawn. Ah, what a dawn of splendor, when her sowers 90 Went forth and bent the necks of popula- tions. And of their terrors and humiliations Wove her the starry wreath that earthward lowers Now in the figure of a burning yoke ! Her legions traversed North and South and East, 95 Of triumph they enjoyed the glutton's feast : They grafted the green sprig, they lopped the oak. They caught by the beard the tempests, by the scalp The icy precipices, and clove sheer through The heart of horror of the pinnacled Alp, Emerging not as men whom mortals knew. They were the earthquake and the hurri- cane, 102 The lightnings and the locusts, plagues of blight. Plagues of the revel: they were Deluge rain. And dreaded Conflagration; lawless Might. Death writes a reeling line along the snows, 106 Where under frozen mists they may be tracked. Who men and elements provoked to foes. And Gods: they were of God and Beast compact : Abhorred of all. Yet, how they sucked the teats no Of Carnage, thirsty issue of their dam, Whose eagles, angrier than their ori- fiamme. Flushed the vext earth with blood, green earth forgets. The gay young generations mask her grief; Where bled her children hangs the loaded sheaf. IIS Forgetful is green earth; the Gods alone Remember everlastingly: they strike Remorselessly, and ever like for like. By their great memories the Gods are known. They are with her novy, and in her ears, and known. 120 'Tis they that cast her to the dust for Strength, Their slave, to feed on her fair body's length. That once the sweetest and the proudest shone ; Scoring for hideous dismemberment Her limbs, as were the anguish-taking breath 125 Gone out of her in the insufferable de- scent From her high chieftainship; as were she death. Who hears a voice of justice, feels the knife Of torture, drinks all ignominy of life. They are with her, and the painful Gods might weep, 130 If ever rain of tears came out of Heaven To flatter Weakness and bid Conscience sleep. Viewing the woe of this Immortal, driven For the soul's life to drain the maddening cup Of her own children's blood implacably: 958 (lEORGE MEREDITH Unsparing even as they to furrow up '36 The yellow land to likeness of a sea: The bountiful fair land of vine and grain. Of wit and grace and ardor, and strong roots, Fruits perishable, imperishable fruits; Ho Furrowed to likeness of the dim gray main Behind the black obliterating cyclone. Behold, the Gods are with her, and arc known. Whom they abandon misery persecutes No more: them half-eyed apathy may loan The happiness of the pitiable brutes. 146 Whom the just Gods abandon have no light. No ruthless light of introspective eyes That in the midst of misery scrutinize The heart and its iniquities outright. 150 They rest, they smile and rest; they have earned perchance Of ancient service quiet for a term; Quiet of old men dropping to the worm; And so goes out the soul. But not of France. She cries for grief, and to the gods she cries, ^55 For fearfully their loosened hands chas- tise, And mercilessly they watch the rod's ca- ress Ravage her flesh from scourges merciless, But she, inveterate of brain, discerns That Pity has as little place as Joy 160 Among their roll of gifts; for Strength she yearns, For Strength, her idol once, too long her toy. Lo, Strength is of the plain root-Virtues born : Strength shall ye gain by service, prove in scorn, Train by endurance, by devotion shape. 165 Strength is not won by miracle or rape. It is the offspring of the modest years. The gift of sire to son, through those sound laws Which we name Gods, which are the righteous cause. The cause of man, and Manhood's minis- ters. 170 Could France accept the fables of her priests, Who blest her banners in this game of beasts, And now bid hope that Heaven will in- tercede To violate its laws in her sore need. She would find comfort in their opiates. 175 Mother of Reason! can she cheat the Fates? Would she, the champion of the open mind. The Omnipotent's first gift — the gift of growth — Consent even for a night-time to be blind, And sink her soul on the delusive sloth 180 For fruits ethereal and material, both, In peril of her place among mankind? The Mother of the many Laughters might Call one poor shade of laughter in the light Of her unwavering lamp to mark what things 185 The world puts faith in, careless of the truth : What silly puppet-bodies danced on strings, Attached by credence, we appear in sooth, Demanding intercession, direct aid. When the whole tragic tale hangs on a for- feit blade! 190 She swung the sword for centuries; in a day It slipped her, like a stream cut from its source. She struck a feeble hand, and tried to pray, Clamored of treachery, and had recourse To drunken outcries in her dream that Force '95 Needed but to hear her shouting to obey. Was she not formed to conquer? The bright plumes Of crested vanity shed graceful nods: Transcendent in her foundries. Arts and looms. Had France to fear the vengeance of the Gods? 200 Her Gods were then the battle-roll of names Sheathed in the records of old war; with dance And song she thrilled her warriors and her dames. Embracing her Dishonorer: gave him France From head to foot, France present and to come, ^°5 So she might hear the trumpet and the drum — Bellona and Bacchante! rushing forth On those stout marching Schoolmen of the North. FRANCE 1870 959 Inveterate of brain, well knows she why Strength failed her, faithful to himself the first; 210 Her dream is done, and she can read the sky, And she can take into her heart the worst Calamity to drug the shameful thought Of days that made her as the man she served, A name of terror, but a thing unnerved ; Buying the trickster, by the trickster bought, 216 She for dominion, he to patch a throne. Behold the Gods are with her now, and known : And to know them, not suffering for their sake, Is madness to the souls that may not take The easy way of death, being divine. 221 Her frenzy is not Reason's light extinct In fumes of foul revenge and desperate sense. But Reason rising on the storm intense. Three-faced, with present, past, and future linked; 22s Informed three- fold with duty to her line. By sacrifice of blood must she atone, (Since thus the foe decrees it) to her own : That she who cannot supplicate, n-or cease. Who will not utter the false word for Peace, 230 May burn to ashes, with a heart of stone, Whatso has made her of all lands the flower. To spring in flame for one redeeming hour, For one propitious hour arise from prone, Athwart Ambition's path, and have and wrench 235 His towering stature from the bitter trench. Retributive, by her taskmasters shown, — The spectral trench where bloody se^d was sown. Henceforth of her the Gods are known. Open to them her breast is laid. 240 Inveterate of brain, heart-valiant, Never did fairer creature pant Before the altar and the blade! Swift fall the blows, and men upbraid, And friends give echo blunt and cold, , 245 The echo of the forest to the axe. Within her are the fires that wax For resurrection from the mold. She snatched at Heaven's flame of old. And kindled nations: she was weak: zso Frail sister of her heroic prototype. The Man ; for sacrifice unripe, She too must fill a Vulture's beak. Once more, O earthly fortune, speak ! Has she a gleam of victory? one 255 Outshining of her old historic sun? For a while ! for an hour ! And sunlight on her banner seems A miracle conceived in dreams. The faint reflux of orient beams 260 Through a lifting shower. Now is she in the vulture-grasp of Power, And all her sins are manifest to men. Now may they reckon with punctilious pen Her list of misdemeanors, and her dower Of precious gifts that gilded the rank fen Where lay a wanton greedy to devour. 267 Now is she in the vulture-grasp of Power. The harlot sister of the man sublime, Prometheus, she, though vanquished will not cower. 270 Offending Heaven, she groveled in the slime; Offending Man, she aimed beyond her time; Offending Earth, her Pride was like a tower. O like the banner on the tower. Her spirit was, and toyed and curled 275 Among its folds to lure the world — It called to follow. But when strong men thrust The banner on the winds, 't was flame, And pilgrim-generations tread its dust, And kiss its track. Disastrously unripe, Imperfect, changeful, full of blame, 281 Still the Gods love her, for that of high aim Is this good France, the bleeding thing they stripe. She shall rise worthier of her prototype Through her abasement deep ; the pain that runs 285 From nerve to nerve some victory achieves. They lie like circle-strewn soaked Autumn- leaves Which stain the forest scarlet, her fair sons ! And of their death her life is: of their blood From many streams now urging to a flood, No more divided, France shall rise afresh. 291 Of them she learns the lesson of the flesh: — 960 GEORGE MEREDITH The lesson writ in red since first Time ran A hunter hunting down the beast in man: That till the chasing out of its last vice, ^95 The flesh was fashioned hut for sacrifice. Cast hence the slave's delights, the wan- ton's lures, O France! and of thy folly pay full price; The limitary nature that immures A spirit dulled in clay shall break, as thrice 300 It has broken on a night of blood and tears, To give thy ghost free breath, and joy thy peers. Immortal mother of a mortal host! Thou suffering of the wounds that will not slay. Wounds that bring death but take not life away ! — •^"S Stand fast and hearken while thy victors boast : Hearken, and loathe that music evermore. Slip loose thy garments woven of pride and shame : The torture lurks in them, with them the blame Shall pass to leave thee purer than be- fore. 310 Undo thy jewels, thinking whence they came. For what, and of the abominable name Of her who in imperial beauty wore. O Mother of a fated fleeting host Conceived in the past days of sin, and born 315 Heirs of disease and arrogance and scorn, Surrender, yield the weight of thy great ghost, Like wings on air, to what the Heavens proclaim With trumpets from the multitudinous mounds Where peace has filled the hearing of thy sons : 3^0 Albeit a pang of dissolution rounds Each new discernment of the undying Ones, Stoop to these graves here scattered thick and wide Along thy fields, as sunless billows roll; These ashes have the lesson for the soul. 3^5 ' Die to thy Vanity, and to thy Pride, And to thy Luxury: that thou may'st live. Die to thyself,' they say, 'as we have died From dear existence, and the foe forgive, Nor pray for aught save in our little space To warm good seed to greet the fair earth's face." J3' O mother! take their counsel, and so ^hail The broader world breathe in on this thy home. Light clear for thee the counter-changing dome. Fire lift thee to the heights meridional, 335 Strength give thee, like an ocean's vast ex- panse Off mountain cliffs, the generations all. Not whirling in their narrow rings of foam. But like a river forward. Soaring France! Now is Humanity on trial in thee : 340 Now may'st thou gather humankind in fee : Now prove that Reason is a quenchless scroll ; Make of calamity thine aureole. And bleeding lead us through the troubles of the sea. (1871) THE LARK ASCENDING He rises and begins to round. He drops the silver chain of sound, Of many links without a break. In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake, All intervolved and spreading wide, S Like water-dimples down a tide Where ripple ripple overcurls And eddy into eddy whirls; A press of hurried notes that run So fleet they scarce are more than one, 1° Yet changingly the trills repeat And linger ringing while they fleet. Sweet to the quick o' the car, and dear To her beyond the handmaid ear. Who sits beside our inner springs, i5 Too often dry for this he brings, Which seems the very jet of earth At sight of sun, her music's mirth. As up he wings the spiral stair, A song of light, and pierces air 20 With fountain ardor, fountain play, To reach the shining tops of day. And drink in everything discerned An ecstasy to nmsic turned, Impelled by what his happy bill 25 Disperses; drinking, showering still. Unthinking save that he may give His voice the outlet, there to live Renewed in endless notes of glee, So thirsty of his voice is he, 3 l'"ull brown came from the West, and like pale blood Expanded to the upper crimson cloud. Love that had robbed us of immortal things. This little moment mercifully gave, Where I have seen across the twilight wave 15 The swan sail with her young beneath her wings. L Thus piteously Love closed what he begat; The union of this ever-diverse pair! These two were rapid falcons in a snare, Condemned to do the flitting of the bat. Lovers beneath the singing sky of May, s They wandered once; clear as the dew on flowers. But they fed not on the advancing hours: Their hearts held cravings for the buried day. Then each applied to each that fatal knife. Deep questioning, which probes to endless dole. 10 Ah ! what a dusty answer gets the soul When hot for certainties in this our life! — In tragic hints here see what evermore Moves dark as yonder midnight ocean's force, Thundering like ramping hosts of warrior horse, '5 To throw that faint thin line upon the shore. (1851-62) APPENDIX BEOWULF It is supposed that Beowulf, the hero of this poem, was a real person. Although Beowulf himself does not appear in sober history, his uncle, Hygelac of the poem, is identified with a historical Scandinavian hero who invaded the land of enemies on the Lower lihine about 51U A. 1). (See Section XL of the text below.) Even though the uncle was disastrously defeated in this foray, the nephew Beowulf seems to have distinguished himself for bravery and for astounding feats of endurance. We infer that, as a result of his prowess, Beowulf was cele- brated in song and story, and that one generation of narrators after another enhanced his achievements, the enhancement consisting largely, no doubt, in the attachment to our hero of exploits originally associated with other personages, — heroes or gods. Such a natural process of story growth seems to account for the presence in our poem of some four sepa- rate stories: (1) a fight with Grendel, ^jij^a fight with Grendel's mother, _(3j_ the vic- torious return ofTlie hero to his home, and (4) _a fight with a dragon. These four stories, originally, no doubt, told or sung separat?3tj', were probably combined into a form ap- proaching that of the present poem, in the course of the seventh century. The events of lf^5*1the poem take pkic e in Denmark _and so uthern Sweden, and since England is nowhere men- tioned, it seems likely that the main elements of the story had been gathered together before the last migration of the Angles to the island. The present form of the poem, however, with its unfortunate admixture of Christian elements, is due to a final recension in England. The chief merit of Beowulf will hardly escape him who reads the poem as a v igorou s nar- rative of s tirring adventure , h eroic endea vor, and el gvated sentirn ents. Imagination and de- scriptive power are not lacking, and the cEarm of picturesque phrasTng pervades tlie poem7^ THE FIRST PART PROLOGUE. THE CHIVALRY OF THE DANISH EMPIRE. THE COMING OF SCYLD AND HIS GLORIOUS CAREER. THE BIRTH OF BEOWULF To him was born a son to come after him, a young (prince) in the palace, whom God sent for the people's com- fort. He (God) knew the hard calamity. 5 what they had erst endured when they were without a king for a long while ; and in consideration thereof the Lord HIS YOUTH. THE PASSING OF SCYLD. ^f Life, the Ruler of Glory accorded to What ho ! we have heard tell of the them a time of prosperity, grandeur of the imperial kings of the lo Beowulf was renowned, his fame spear-bearing Danes in former days, how sprang wide; heir of Scyld in the Scede- those ethelings promoted bravery. Often lands. So ought a young chief to 'woj^ did Scyld of the Sheaf wrest from harry- with his wealth, with gracious large^s|^ ing bands, from many tribes, their con- while in his father's nurture; that in his vivial seats; the dread of him fell upon 15 riper age willing comrades may in re- warriors, whereas he had at the first been turn stand by him at the coming of war, a lonely foundling; — of all that (humilia- and that men may do his bidding. Em- tion) he lived to experience solace; he inence must, in every nation, be attained waxed great under the welkin, he flour- by deeds (worthy) of praise, ished with trophies, till that every one 20 As for Scyld, he departed, at the des- of the neighboring peoples over tlie sea fined hour, full of exploit, to go into were constrained to obey hinu and pay the Master's keeping. They then car- trewage : — that was a good king ! ried him forth to the shore of the sea, 967 968 APPENDIX his faithful comrades, as lie himself had of men had ever heard tell of; and that requested, while he with his words held therewithin he would freely deal out to sway as lord of the Scyldings ; dear chief young and old what God should give him, of the land, he had long tenure of power. save people's land and lives of men. There at liithe stood the ship with 5 Then I heard of work widely pro- ringed prow, glistening fresh, and out- claimed to many a tribe throughout this ward bound; convoy for a prince. world, to make a fair gathering-place of Down laid they there the loved chief, people. His plan was in good time ac- dispenser of jewels, on the lap of the complished, with a quickness surprising ship, the illustrious (dead) by the mast. lo to men; so that it was all ready, the There was store of precious things, greatest of hall-buildings. He gave it ornaments from remote parts, brought the name of Heorot, he who with his together; never heard I of craft comelier word had wide dominion. He belied not fitted with slaughter weapons and cam- his announcement;- — rings he dis- paigning harness, with bills and breast- '5 tributed, treasure at the banquet. The mail: — in his keeping lay a multitude hall towered aloft, high and with pin- of treasures, which were to pass with nacles spanning the air ; awaited the him far away into the watery realm. scathing blasts of destructive fiame. No Not at all with less gifts, less stately appearance was there as yet of knife- opulence, did they outfit him, than those 20 hatred starting up between son-in-law had done, who at the first had sent him and father-in-law in revenge of blood, forth, lone over the wave, when he was Then the outcast creature, he who an infant. Furthermore they set up by dwelt in darkness, with torture for a him a gold-wrought banner, high over time endured that he heard joyance day his head ; they let the holm bear him, 2, by day, loud sounding in hall ; there was gave him over to ocean ; sad was their the swough of the harp, the ringing song soul, mourning their mood. { Men do not of the minstrel. know to say of a sooth, not heads of Said one who was skilled to narrate halls, men of mark under heaven, who from remote time the primeval condition received that burden ! I 30 of men ; quoth he — ' The Almighty made the earth, the country radiant with I beauty, all that water surroundcth, de- lighting in magnificence. He ordained KING HROTHGAR. HIS POPULARITY. THE gun and moon, luminaries for light to BUILDING OF HEOROT AND THE HAPPY 35 the dwellcrs on earth, and adorned the LIFE OF THE COURT. GRENDEL. rustic regions with branches and leaves; Then was in the towers Beowulf of life also he created for all the kinds that the Scyldings, the dear king of his peo- live and move.' pie, for a long time famous among the Thus they, the warrior-liand, in joy- nations — his father was gone other- 40 ance lived and full delight ; — until that where, patriarch from family seat — one began to work atrocity, a fiend in the till in succession to him was born the hall. The grim visitant was called lofty Healfdene ; he governed while he Grendel, the dread mark-ranger, he who lived, old and warlike, contented Scyld- haunted moors, fen and fastness : — the irigs. To him four children, one after 45 unblessed man had long time kept the another, awoke in the world : Heorogar, abode of monsters, ever since the Creator commander of armies, and Hrothgar, and had prescribed them. On Cain's pos- Halga the good : I heard that Elan queen terity did the eternal Lord wreak that was consort of the warlike Scylding. slaughter, for that he slew Abel. He To Hrothgar was given martial spirit, 50 profited not by that violence ; but He warlike ambition ; insomuch that his banished him far away, the Maker for cousins gladly took him for leader, until that crime banished him from mankind. the young generation grew up, a mighty From that origin all strange broods regiment of clansmen. Into his mind it awoke, eotens and elves and ogres, as came, that he would give orders for men 55 well as giants who warred against God to construct a hall-building, a great longtime; — He repaid them due rctribu- niead-house, (greater) than the children tion. BEOWULF 969 II the foul ruffian, a dark shadow of death, was pursuing the venerable and the GRENDEL. HIS SUCCESSFUL RAID. THE DE- youthful alike. He prowled about and JECTION OF HROTHGAR AND HIS COURT. j^y j^ wait; at nights he Continually held He set out then as soon as night was 5 the misty moors ; — men do not know in come, to explore the lofty house ; how the what direction hell's agents move in their mailed Danes had after carousal be- rounds. stowed themselves in it. So he found Many were the atrocities which the foe therein a princely troop sleeping after of mankind, the grisly prowler, oft ac- feast; they knew not sorrow, desolation 'o complished, hard indignities,— Heorot he of men. The baleful wight, grim and occupied, the richly decorated hall, in greedy, was ready straight, fierce and fu- dark nights — yet was he by no means rious, and in their sleep he seized thirty able to come nigh the throne, sacred to of the thanes; thence hied him back, God, nor did he share the sentiment yelling over his prey, to go to his home »5 thereof. with the war-spoils, and reach his habita- That was a huge affliction for the tion. Then was in the dawning and with friend of the Scyldings, heart breaking, early day the war-craft of Grendel plain IMany a time and oft did the realm sit to the grooms; then was upraised after in conclave; they meditated on a remedy, festivity the voice of weeping, a great 20 what course it were best for them, soul- cry in the morning. The illustrious burdened men, to take against these ruler, the honored prince, sat woebegone ; awful horrors. Sometimes they vowed majestic rage he tholed, he endured sor- at idol fanes, honors of sacrifice; with row for his thanes : — since they had words they prayed that the goblin-queller surveyed the track of the monster, of the 25 would afford them relief against huge accursed goblin ; — that contest was too oppressions. Such was their custom, severe, horrible, and prolonged. It was heathens' religion; they thought of hell not a longer space, but the interval of in their imagination; they were not one night, that he again perpetrated a aware of the Maker, the Judge of actions, huger carnage ; and he recked not of it -50 they knew not God the Governor, nor did — outrage and atrocity; he was too fixed they at all understand how to glorify the in those things. Then was it not hard Crowned Head of the heavens, the Ruler to find some who sought a resting-place of glory. elsewhere more at large, a bed among It is woe for him who is impelled by the castle-bowers, when to them was 35 headlong perversity to plunge his soul manifested and plainly declared by con- into the gulf of fire; not to believe in spicuous proof the malice of the hell- consolation nor in any way turn: — well thane ; — whoever had once escaped the is it for him who is permitted, after fiend did from thenceforward hold him- death-day, to visit the Lord, and claim self farther aloof and closer. So dom- 40 sanctuary in the Father's arms, ineered and nefariously warred he single against them all, until that the best of m houses stood emotv. The time was long ; ^„ iiuuaca 31UUU ^ [J y. ... . , . , ^; THE VOYAGE OF THE HERO. A PARLEY. twelve winters space did the friend ot the Scyldings suffer indignity, woes of 45 Thus was the son of Healfdene per- every kind, unbounded sorrows; and so petually tossed with the trouble of that in process of time it became openly time; the sapient man was unable to known to the sons of men through bal- avert the woe. Too heavy, horrible, and lads in lamentable wise, that Grendel protracted was the struggle which had warred continually against Hrothgar ; he 50 overtaken that people ; tribulation cruel, waged malignant hostilities, violence and hugest of nocturnal pests, feud, many seasons, unremitting strife ; That in his distant home learnt a thane he would not have peace with any man of Hygelac's, a brave man among the of the Danish power, or remove the life- Goths ; he learnt the deeds of Grendel ; bale, or compound for tribute; nor could 55 he was of mankind strongest in might any of the senators expect worthy com- in the day of this life; he was of noble pensation at the hands of the destroyer; birth and of robust growth. He ordered 970 APPENDIX a wave-traveler, a good one, to l)e pre- pared for him; said he would pass over the swan-road and visit the gallant king, the illustrious ruler, inasmuch as he was in need of men. That adventure was little grudged him by sagacious men, though he was dear to them ; they egged on the dareful spirit, they observed au- guries. The brave man had selected champions of the leeds of the Goths, the keenest whom he could find; with four- teen in company he took to ship ; — a swain for pilot, a water-skilled man, pointed out the landmarks. Time went on ; the floater was on the waves, the boat under the cliff. War- riors ready dight mounted on the prow; currents eddied, surf against the beach ; lads bore into the ship's lap bright ap- parel, gallant harness of war ; the men, the brave men on adventure, shoved off the tight-timbered craft. So the foamy- necked floater went forth over the swell- ing ocean urged by the wind, most like to a bird; till that in due time, on the next day, the coily-stemmed cruiser had made such way that the voyagers saw land, sea-cliffs gleaming, hills towering, headlands stretching out to sea ; then was the voyage accomplished, the water- passage ended. Then lightly up the Weder Leeds and sprang ashore, they made fast the sea-wood, they shook out their sarks, their war-weeds, they thanked God for that their seafaring had been easy. Then from his rampart did the Scyld- ings' warden, he who had to guard the sea-cliffs, espy men bearing over bul- wark bright shields, accoutrements ready for action ; — curiosity urged him with impassioned thought (to learn) who those men were. Off he set then to the shore, riding on horseback, thane of Hrothgar; powerfully he brandished a huge lance in his hands, and he demanded with authoritative words — ' Who are ye arm-bearing men, fenced with mail-coats, who have come thus with proud ship over the watery highway, hither over the billows? Long time have I been in fort, stationed on the extremity of the coun- try; I have kept the coast-guard, that on the land of the Danes no enemy with ship-harrying might be able to do hurt: — never have shield-bearing men more openly attempted to land here; nor do ye know beforehand the pass-word of our warriors, the confidential token of kinsmen. I never saw, of eorls upon ground, a finer figure in harness than is 5 one of yourselves; he is no mere good- man bedizened with armor, unless his look belies him, his unique aspect. Now I am bound to know your nationality, be- fore ye on your way hence as explorers 10 at large proceed any further into the land of the Danes. Now ye foreigners, mariners of the sea, ye hear my plain meaning; haste is best to let me know whence your comings are.' 15 IV BEOWULF EXPLAINS THEIR VISIT TO THE warden's SATISFACTION. THEREUPON HE GUIDES THEIR MARCH TO HEOROT. THE WARDEN RETURNS. To him the chiefest gave answer; the captain of the band unlocked the treasure of words : ' We are people of Gothic 25 race, and hearth-fellows of Hygelac. My father was celebrated among the na- tions, a noble commander by the name of Ecgtheow ; he lived to see many years, ere he departed an aged man out of his 30 mansion ; he is quickly remembered by every worshipful man all over the world. We with friendly intent have come to visit thy lord, the son of Healfdene, the guardian of his people; be thou good to 3S us with instructions ! We have for the illustrious prince of the Danes a great message ; there is no need to be dark about the matter, as I suppose. Thou knowest if it is so as we have heard say 40 for a truth, that among the Scyldings some strange depredator, a mysterious author of deeds, in the darkness of night inflicts in horrible wise monstrous atroc- ity, indignity, and havoc. Of this I can, 45 in all sincerity of heart, teach Hrothgar a remedy ; how he, so wise and good, shall overpower the enemy; if for him the fight of afflictions was ever destined to take a turn, better times to come again, 50 and .. the seethings of anguish grow calmer; or else for ever hereafter tholeth he a time of tribulation, sore distress, so long as the best of houses resteth there upon her eminence.' 55 The warden addressed them, where he sat on his horse, an officer undaunted: ' Of every particular must a sharp es- BEOWULF 971 quire know the certainty as to words the martial crew as to their kindred: — and works — any one who hath a sense ' Whence bring ye damasked shields, gray of duty. I gather from what I hear that sarks, and visored helms ; — a pile of this is a friendly band to the lord of the war shafts? I am Hrothgar's herald Scyldings. March ye forward, bearing 5 and esquire. Never saw I foreigners, so weapons and weeds ; I will guide you : many men, loftier looking. I think that likewise I will command my kinsmen ye for daring, not at all of desperate thanes honorably to keep against every fortune, but for courageous emprise, have foe your vessel, the newly dight, the boat come to visit Hrothgar.' on the beach : until the neck-laced craft 10 To him then with gallant bearing an- shall bear back again over the water- swered the proud leed of the Wederas ; streams her dear lord to Wedermark. words spake he back, firm under helmet: To such a benign adventurer is it given, — ' We are Hygelac's tal)le-fellows ; my that he passeth unscathed through the name is Beowulf. I will expound mine encounter of battle,' 15 errand to the son of Heal f dene, to the They proceeded then on their march ; illustrious prince, to thy lord, if he will the vessel remained still, rode on her ca- deign us that we may approach him so ble, the wide-bosomed ship, at anchor fast ; good.' — the boar-figures shone over the cheek- Wulfgar addressed them — that was a guards, pranked with gold, ornate and 20 leed of the Wendlas ; his courage had hard-welded ; — the farrow kept guard. been witnessed by many, his valor and In fighting mood they raged along, the wisdom : — * Thereanent will I ask the men pushed forward; down-hill they ran friend of the Danes, the Scyldings' lord, together, until they could see the hall the ring-dispenser, according as thou structure, gallant and gold-adorned; that 25 dost petition, the illustrious chief (will was to dwellers on earth the most cele- I ask) concerning thy visit; and to thee brated of all mansions under the sky, that promptly declare the answer, which the in which the ruler dwelt; the gleam of brave prince is pleased to give me.' it shot over many lands. Then did the Thereupon he returned briskly to warrior point out to them the court of 30 where Hrothgar sat, old and hoary, with the valiant, which was now conspicuous; his guard of warriors: he went with gal- — that they could go straight to it. Like Jant bearing till he took his stand before a man of war, he wheeled about his the shoulders of the Danish prince; he horse, and spake a parting word: 'It is knew the custom of nobility. Wulfgar time for me to go ; may the allwielding 3S addressed himself to his liege lord : Father graciously keep you safe in ad- ' Here are arrived, come from far, over ventures! I will to the sea, to keep the circuit of ocean, men of the Goths; guard against hostile force.' the companions name their chief Beo- wulf. They make petition, that they, my ^' 40 prince, may be permitted to exchange ARRIVAL AND ACCOST. BEOWULF SENDS IN (liscourse with thee : do not thou award HIS NAME. them a refusal of thy conversation, be- The street was stone-paven ; the path nignant Hrothgar ! they by their war- guided the banded men. The war-cors- harness appear worthy of the reverence let shone, hard, hand-locked; the pol- 45 of eorls ; certainly the chief is a valiant ished ring-iron sang in its meshes, when man, he who has conducted those mar- they in grim harness now came marching tial comrades hither, to the hall. The sea-weary men set yj down their broad shields, bucklers mortal hard, against the terrace of that man- so the old king knows all about him sion. Then they seated themselves on and orders him to be admitted, be- the bench: — their mail-coats rang, bar- owulf explaineth his visit and en- ness of warriors; — the spears' stood, terpriseth the battle to fight the sea-men's artillery, stacked together, ash- foe. he will remove the scourge, or timber with tip of gray : the^ iron troop 55 die in the attempt. was accoutred worthily. Hrothgar, crown of Scyldings, uttered Then a proud officer there questioned speech : ' I knew him when he was a 972 APPENDIX page. His good old father was Ecgth- battered by foes, where I hound five eow by name; to whose home Hrethel monsters, humbled the eoten brood; and of the Goths gave over his only daughter; in the waves I slew nickers in the night- it is his offspring surely, his grown-up time, I ran narrow risks, avenged the son, that is hither come, come to visit a 5 grievance of the Wederas — they had loyal friend. Sure enough they did say been acquainted with grief — a grinding that — the sailors who carried thither for I gave the spoilers ; — and now against compliment the presents to the Goths — Grendcl I am bound, against that for- that he hath thirty men's strength in his midahle one, single-handed, to champion handgrip, a valiant campaigner. Him lo the quarrel against the giant. Where- hath holy God of high grace sent to us, fore I will now petition thee, prince of sent to the western Danes, as I hope, the glorious Danes, thou roof-tree of the against Grendel's terror; I must proffer Scyldings, one petition; that thou refuse the brave man treasures for his great- me not, oh thou shelter of warriors, thou heartedness. Be thou full of alacrity, i5 imperiallord of nations, now I have come request the banded friends to enter, one from such a distance, t ' I may have and all, into my presence. Say to them the task alone — I and my band of eorls, moreover expressly with words, that they this knot of hardy men -— to purge are welcome visitors to the Danish leeds.' Heorot. I have learnt too that the ter- [Then to the door of the hall Wulfgar 20 rible one out of bravado despises weap- went] he announced his message:— ons ; I therefore will forgo the same — ' To you I am commanded to say by my as I hope that Hygelac my prince may chieftain the lord of the eastern Danes, be to me of mood benignant,— that I bear that he knoweth your noble ancestry, and not sword or broad shield, or yellow ye to him are, over the sea- waves, men ^5 buckler, to the contest,; but with hand- of hardihood, welcome hither. Now ye grip I undertake to encounter the enemy, can go, in your warlike equipage, with ''^nd contend for life, foe to foe; there helm on head, to the presence of Hroth- shall he whom death taketh resign him- gar; leave the war-boards, here to abide, self to the doom of the Lord, and the wooden battle-shafts till the par- 30 ' I suppose that he will, if he can have ley is over.' Up then arose the prince: his way, in the hall of battle devour about him many a trooper, a splendid fearlessly the men of the Goths, just as band of thanes; some remained there, he often did the power of the Hrethmen. they kept the armor, as their brave cap- Thou wilt not need to cover my head tain bade. They formed all together, as 35 (with a mound), but he will have me the ofificer (Wulfgar) showed the way, all blood-besprent, if death taketh me; under the roof of Heorot; [he went with he will bear away the gory corpse with courage high] with a firm look under intent to feast upon it, the solitary ranger his helmet, till he took his stand in the will eat it remorselessly, will stain the royal chamber. Beowulf uttered a speech 40 moor-swamps ; no need wilt thou have to — on him his byrnie shone, a curious care any longer for the disposal of my net-work linked by cunning device of the body. Send to Hygelac, if Hild take me, artificer— 'To Hrothgar hail! I am the matchless armor that protects my Hygelac's kinsman and cousin-thane; I breast, bravest of jackets ; — that is a have undertaken many exploits in young- 45 relic of Hrethla's, a work of Weland s. sterhood. To me on my native soil the Wyrd goeth ever as she is bound.' affair of Grendel became openly known ; seafaring men say that this hall do stand, vii fabric superb, of every trooper empty ^^^^^^^^ embraces his visitor's offer and useless, as soon as the light_ of even- 50 ^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^_ mg under the cope of heaven is hidden ^ ^ o ,. t>t , ^ . -rt 1-j ^ 4.U u 4. ERY. THE NEWCOMERS ARE FEASTED IN from view. Then did my people, the best of them, sagacious fellows, O royal Hrothgar, insense me that I should visit Hrothgar. crown of Scyldings, uttered thee ; because they knew the strength of 55 speech : ' For pledged rescue thou, Beo- my might; they had themselves been wulf my friend, and at honor's call, spectators when I came off my campaign hast come to visit us. Thy father did BEOWULF 973 fight out a mighty feud; he was the angered and tpius he is drawn out to banesman of Heatholaf among the Wyl- boast of his youthful feats fings; then the nation could not keep Unferth made a speech, Ecglaf's son; him for dread of invasion. Therefrom he who sat at the feet of the Scyldings' he went over the yeasty vvaves to visit 5 lord, broached a quarrelsome theme - the Southron folk of the Danes, of the the adventure of Beowulf the high-souled honorable Scyldings, a the time when I ,^ , ,^^^ ^^3^ despite to himT because had JUS then become king over the Da- he grudged that any other man should nish folk, and in my prime swayed the ever in the world achieve more exploits jewel-stored trcasure-c.ty of heroes : ,0 under heaven than he himself :--' Art when Heorogar my elder brother was thou that Beowulf, he who strove with dead, no longer living Healfdene s son Breca on open sea in swimming-match, He was better than I! Afterwards I ^^here ye twain out of bravado explored composed the feud for money; I sent to the floods, and foolhardily in deep water the Wylfings over the waters ndge an- .5 jeoparded your lives? nor could any man, cient treasures; he swore oaths (of horn- friend or foe, turn the pair of you from age) to me. the dismal adventure! What time ye It IS a sorrow for me in my soul to twain plied in swimming, where ye twain tell to any mortal men what humiliation, covered with your arms the awful stream what horrors Grendel hath brought upon 20 meted the sea-streets, buffeted with hands' me in Heorot with his malignant strata- shot over ocean; the deep boiled with gems. My hall-troop, mv warrior band,, waves, a wintry surge. Ye twain in the IS reduced to nothing; Wyrd hath swept realm of waters toiled a sennight; he at them away m the hideous visitation of swimming outvied thee, had greater force Grendel. God unquestionably can arrest 25 Then in morning hour the swell cast him the fell destroyer in his doings. Full oft ashore on the Heathoram people whence they boasted when refreshed with beer. he made for his own patrimony, dear to troop-fellows over the ale-can, that they his leeds he made for the land of the in the beer-hall would receive Grendel's Brondings, a fair stronghold where he onset with clash of swords. Then was 30 was lord of folk, of city, and of rin^rs this mead-hall at morning-tide, this royal All his boast to thee-ward, Beanstan's saloon bespattered with gore, at blush of son soothly fulfilled. Wherefore I an- dawn, all the bench-timber was reeking ticipate for thee worse luck — thou'^h with blood, the hall with deadly gore; thou wert everywhere doughtv in battfe- so much the less owned I of trusty lieges, 35 shocks, in grim war-tug— if thou darest of dear nobility, when death had taken bide in Grendel's way a night-long space.' those away. Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow. uttered ' Sit now to banquet, and merrily share speech : — ' Lo, big things hast thou, my the feast, brave captain, with (thy) fel- friend Unferth, beer-exalted, spoken lows, as thy mind moves thee.' ^o about Breca ; hast talked of his adventure ! Then was there for the Goth-men all Rightly I claim, that I have proved more together, in the beer-hall, a table cleared; sea-power, more buft'etings in waves, than there the resolute men went to sit in the any other man. He and I used to talk pride of their strength. A thane at- when we were pages, and we used to tended to the service ; one who bore in 45 brag of this — we were both of us at that his hand a decorated ale-can; he poured time in youngsterhood — how that we forth the sheer nectar. At times a min- two would out on the main and put our strel sang, clear-voiced in Heorot; there lives in jeopardy; and that we matched was* social merriment, a brave company so. Drawn sword we had. as we at of Danes and Wederas. 50 swimming plied, firm in hand : we meant to guard us against the whale-fishes. VIII ^'ot a whit from me could he further fleet on sea-waves, swifter on holm; not UNFERTH the king's ORATOR IS JEALOUS. from him would I. So we twain kept HE BAITS THE YOUNG ADVENTURER AND 55 together in the sea for the space of five IN A SCOFFING SPEECH DARES HIM TO A nights, till the flood parted us. the seething NiGHTWATCH FOR GRENDEL. BEOWULF IS billows, coldest Weather, darkening night^. 974 APPENDIX and a fierce wind from the north came though thou wast banesmen to thy dead against us ; rough were the waves. brother, thy next of kin ; for which thou The sea-fishes' temper was stirred ; and shalt in hell damnation dree, though then it was that my body-sark, firm, doughty be thy wit. I say to thee of a hand-locked, gave me help against the 5 sooth, thou son of Ecglaf, that never had spiteful ones; the plaited war-jacket lay Grendel the foul ruffian made such a tale about my breast, gold-pranked. Me to of horrors for thy prince, such disgrace bottom dragged a spotty monster, tight in Heorot, if thy courage were, if thy the grim thing had mc in grip ; nathless spirit were, so formidable as thou thyself 't was given me that I got at the vermin lo claimest. But he hath found out that he with point, with hand-bill ; combat de- need not greatly fear reprisals, grisly spatched the mighty sea-brute by my hand. edge-clash, from your people, the mighty Scyldings ; he taketh blackmail, respect- IX eth no one of the people of the Danes, 15 but maketh a sport of war, slaughtereth BEOWULF CONTINUES HIS STORY AND TELLS and feasteth : — no thought hath he of a HOW HE MADE HAVOC OF THE SEA-MON- fight with the spear-Danes. But now STERS. HE WAXES WARM AND FLOUTS ghall the Goth show him erelong puis- THE ORATOR. HE VOWS TO FACE GRENDEL. sance and emprise in the way of war. RESTORATION OF SOCIAL HARMONY 20 After that, he who can shall go proud WHEREOF THE QUEEN IS THE CENTER. into the mead-hall, when over the sons HROTHGAR SOLEMNLY COMMITS TO BE- .of men the morning light of another day, owuLF THE NiGHTWARD OF HEOROT. the sun, with radiance clothed, shall 'As repeatedly as the spiteful assail- shine from the south.' ants shrewdly pressed me, I served them 25 Then was m bliss the dispenser of (liberally) with precious sword as was wealth, gray-haired and militant; he be- meet. They did not have their slaughter- lieved in help ; the prince of the glorious ous revel, the foul brigands, that they Danes, the shepherd of the people, per- should eat me up sitting around their ceived in Beowulf a resolute purpose. supper, by the floor of the sea; but (on 30 There was laughter of mighty men; the contrary) next morning, wounded music sounded ; the words (of song) with weapons along the wrack of the were jovial. wave, they lay high and dry; by swords Wealhtheow moved forward, Hroth- they ' had their quietus, so that never gar's queen, mindful of ceremonies ; she afterwards about the swelling highway 35 greeted in her gold array the men in should they let seafaring men of their Hall; and then the noble lady presented destined course. the beaker first to the sovereign of the 'Light came from the east, the bright East-Danes, wished him blithe at the signal of God; the waves grew calm, so banquet, and dear to his leeds; — he that I was able to see the forelands, the 40 merrily enjoyed the feast and the hall- windy walls. Fortune often rescues the cup, valiant king. Then the Helming warrior, if he is not fated to die; pro- princess went the round, to elder and to vided that his courage is sound! Any- younger, every part; handed the jeweled how 't was my good luck, that I slew with cup ; till the moment came, that she. the the sword nine nickers. Never did I hear 45 diademed queen, with dignity befitting of a harder fight under heaven's roof in brought the mead-cup nigh to Beowulf; the night-time, nor of a man more dis- she greeted the leed of the Goths, she tressed in ocean streams; howbeit I thanked God with wise choice of words, escaped the clutch of foes with my life, for that her desire was come to pass, though worn and spent. Me the sea up- so that she in any warrior believed for cast, the swirling flood, upon the land of remedy of woes. He, the death-doing the Finns, the heaving billow. I never warrior, accepted the beaker at Wealh- heard say aught by thee of such deadly theow's hand, and then he descanted, fightings, sword-clashings : Breca never elate for battle ; — Beowulf, son of Ecg- yet, at war play, not he nor you, deed S5 theow, uttered speech : ' I undertook that, achieved so valorously with flashing when I went on board, and sat on the swords — of that I brag not much-— sea-boat, with the company of my fel- BEOWULF 975 lows, that I once for all would work out man Beowulf the Goth utter some vaunt- the will of your leeds, or fall in the ing words ere he mounted on bed: '1 death-struggle, in the grip of the fiend. reckon myself to be in the fury of battle, I am bound as an eorl to fulfill the cm- in warlike feats, no wise below the pre- prise, or in this mead-hall to meet my 5 tensions of Grendel ; for that reason 1 death-day.' To the lady the words were will not with sword give him his quietus, well-liking, the vaunt-speech of the Goth; deprive him of life, although I very well she walked gold-arrayed, high-born queen may. Naught knoweth he of those of the nation, to sit by her lord. gentle practices, to give and take sword- Then was again as erst within the hall lo cuts, to hew the shield, dread though the lofty word outspoken, the company he be in feats of horror : — but we twain was happy, the sound was that of a shall in the night-time supersede the mighty people ; until that sudden the son blade, if he dare to court war without of Healfdene was minded to retire to his weapon; and thereafter may the allwisc nightly rest; he knew that against the 15 God, the holy Lord, adjudge success on high hall war was determined by the which side soever may to him appear monster, from the time when they could meet ! ' [not] see the sun's light or shrouding Then the daring warrior laid him night came over all, and the creatures down ; the pillow received the counte- of darkness came stalking abroad ; he 20 nance of the eorl ; and round about him warred in obscurity. All the company many a smart sea-warrior couched to his arose. Then did man greet man, Hroth- hall-rest. Not one of them thought that gar greeted Beowulf, bespake him luck, from that place he should ever again visit mastery in the house of hospitality ; and his own estate, his folk and castle, where delivered this speech : ' Never before, 25 he was brought up ; but they had been in- since I could heave hand and shield, did formed that before now a bloody death I confide the guard-house of the Danes had all too much reduced them, the Danish to any man, but only to thee now on this people, in that festive hall. But to them, occasion. Have now and hold the best the leeds of Wedermark, did the Lord of houses ; resolve on success : show valor 30 grant webs of war-speed, strength and amain ; be vigilant against the foe ! support, that they by the force of one, Thou shalt not have any desire unful- by his single prowess, should all be vic- filled, if thou that mighty work with life torious over their foe. For a truth it achievest' is shown, that the mighty God has gov- 3S erned mankind in every age ! X He came in dim night, marching along, ranger of the dark. The defenders slept, BEOWULF DOFFS HIS ARMOR AND WATCHES ^hey whosc duty it was to guard that UNARMED. A POINT OF HONOR. HIS g^^^^^ mansion — all slept but one! COMPANIONS SLEEP. 40 jt was Very weTT~kn5^^~t5~ilT'men, So Hrothgar, chief of Scyldings, took that the ruthless destroyer might not his departure with retinue of men, out of against the will of God whirl them under hall; he was minded to join Wealhtheow, darkness; but (all the same) he. vigilant his queen and consort. The glory of in defiance of the foe. awaited in full- kings had — so men told one another — 45 fraught mood the arbitrament of battle, set up a hall-warden against Grendel ; he had undertaken the single service xi about the patriarch of the Danes, offered , watch against the monster ;- assuredly grendel s last meal, the battle be- the Gothic leed with joyous mien trusted 5o gin . in valorous might and the smile of Then came Grendel marching from the Providence. moor under the misty brows ; he bore Then put he off from him his iron the wrath of God. The assassin meant byrnie, helmet from head ; delivered to to catch some one of human-kind in that his esquire the richly-dight sword, choic- 55 lofty hall ; he tore along under heaven est steel ; and charged him with the care in the direction where he knew the hos- of his war-harness. Then did the valiant pitable building, the gold-hall of men, 976 APPENDIX nictal-spangled, ever ready for his en- tainment ; — that was not the first time he had visited Hrothgar's homestead. Never had he in his Hfc-days, earlier or later, met so tough a warrior, such hall- guards ! Came then journeying to the hall the felon mirth-bereft; suddenly the door, fastened with bars of wrought iron, sprang open as soon as he touched it with his hands; thus bale-minded and big with rage he wrecked the vestibule of the hall. Quickly after that the fiend was treading on the paven floor; he went ravening; out of his eyes there stood likest to flame an eerie light. He perceived in the hall many warriors, a troop of kinsmen, grouped together, a band of cousins, asleep. Then was his mood exalted to laughter; he counted, the fell ruffian, that he should sever, ere day came, the life of each one of them from his body, seeing that luck had favored him to gratify his slaughterous appetite. That was not, however, so destined, that he should be permitted to eat any more of mankind after that night. Mighty rage the kinsman of Hygelac curbed, considering how the assassin meant to proceed in the course of his ravenings. Nor was the marauder minded to delay it ; but he seized promptly at his first move a sleeping warrior, tore him in a moment, crunched the bony frame, drank blood of veins, swallowed huge morsels ; in a trice he had devoured the lifeless body, feet, hands, and all'. He stepped up nearer forward ; he was then taking with his hand the great- hearted warrior on his bed. The fiend reached towards him with his fang : — he promptly seized with shrewd design and grappled his arm. Quickly did the boss of horrors discover that, that never in all the world, all the quarters of the earth, had he met man more strange with bigger hand-grip ; he in mood became alarmed in spirit ; but never the quicker could he get away. His mind was to be going; he wanted to flee into darkness; rejoin the devils' pack ; his entertainment there was not such as he before had met with in bygone days. Then did the brave kinsman of Hygelac remember his dis- course of the evening; up he stood full length, and grappled with him amain ; his fingers cracked as they would burst. The monster was making off; the eorl followed him up. The oaf was minded, if so lie he might, to fling himself loose, and away therefrom to flee into fen-hol- 5 lows; he knew that the control of his fingers was in the grip of a terrible foe; that was a rash expedition which the devastator had made to Heorot ! The guard-hall roared ; — upon all the 10 Danes, upon the inhabiters of the castle, upon every brave man, upon the eorls, came mortal panic. Furious were both the maddened champions ; the building re- sounded ; it was a great wonder that the 15 genial saloon endured the combatants, that it did not fall to ground, that fair ornament of the country ; only that it was inwardly and outwardly so firmly be- smithied with iron staunchions of mas- 20 terly skill ! There, from the sill started — as my story tells — many a mead- bench adorned with gold, where the ter- rible ones contended. Thereanent had the Scylding senators weened at the first, 25 that never would any man i)y mortal force be able to wreck it, the beautiful and ivoried house, or by craft to disjoint it ; — leastwise fire's embrace should swal-: low it up in vapory reek. 30 The noise rose high, with renewed violence ; the North-Danes were stricken with eldritch horror every one, whoso- ever heard even out on the wall the dole- ful cry, the adversary of God yelling a 35 dismal lay, a song unvictorious : — the thrall of hell howling for his wound. He held him too fast, he who was in main the strongest of men in the day of this life. 40 XII grendel's flight, his arm remains with beowulf and is set up as a trophy. heorot is purged. 45 The shelter of eorls was not by any means minded to let the murderous visit- ant escape alive ; he did not reckon his life-days useful to any one of the leeds. 50 There did many an eorl of Beowulf's unsheath his old heirloom; — would res- cue the life of their master, their great captain ; if so be they might. They knew it not, — when thev plunged into the fight, 55 the stouthearted companions, and thought to hack him on every side, reach his life, — that no choicest blade upon earth, no BEOWULF 977 war-bill would touch that destroyer, but in buffets worsted, had, death-doomed he had by enchantment secured himself and fugitive, fled in mortal terror to the against victorious weapons, edges of all nickers" mere. 'I'licrc was the face of the kinds. His life-parting [in the day of lake surging with blood, the gruesome this life] was destined to be woeful, and 5 plash of waves all turbid with reeking the outcast spirit must travel far off into gore, with sword-spilth; — the death- the rca!m of fiends. Then discovered he doomed (Grendel) had discolored it ; — that, he who erst in wanton mood had presently he, void of joyance, in fenny wrought huge atrocity upon mankind — covert yielded up his life, his heathen he was out of God's peace — that his lo soul ; there did Hela receive him. body was not at his command, but the Thence back home went the old com- valiant kinsman of Hygelac had got hold panions along with many a bachelor from of him by the hand ; to either was the the pleasure-trip ; from the mere in high other's life loathsome. A deadly wound spirits riding on horses, barons on jen- the foul warlock got; on his shoulder the 15 nets. There was Beowulf's achievement fatal crack appeared ; the sinews sprang rehearsed ; many a one often said that wide, the bone-coverings burst. To Beo- south nor north between the seas all the wulf was victory given; Grendel must flee wide world over, other none of shield- life-sick therefrom to the coverts of the bearing warriors under the compass of fen, must make for a cheerless habitation ; 20 the firmament preferable were or wor- — full well he knew that the end of his thier of sovereignty. They did not, how- life was reached, the number of his days. ever, at all disparage their natural lord, AH the Danes had in the issue of that gracious Hrothgar; but he was a good dire struggle the fulfilment of their de- king ! sire. 25 ]\TQ^y ^j^^ jj^gj^ l-j^g gallant warriors He had then purged, he who but now loosened their russet nags for a gallop, Icame from far, sagacious and resolute, to run a match, where the turfways ■Hrothgar's hall; he had rescued it from looked fair, or were favorably known, 'danger; had succeeded in his night-task Otherwhiles a thane of the king's, bom- with brilliant achievement. The leed of 30 bastic groom, his mind full of ballads, the Gothic companions had made good the man who remembered good store of his vaunt to the East-Danes; likewise he old-world tales — word followed word by had entirely remedied the horror, the the bond of truth — began anon to re- harrowing sorrow, which they were en- hearse, cunningly to compose, the adven- during before, and of dire necessity were 35 ture of Beowulf, and fluently to pursue 1 forced to suffer; — huge indignity. That the story in its order, with interlacing I was a token conspicuous, when the hero words. At large he detailed, what he ;of battle had affixed the hand, arm, and had heard say of Sigemund's exploits, i shoulder — that was the whole affair of much that was strange, the battle-toil JGrendel's fang — under the gabled roof. 40 of the Wselsing, distant expeditions, j things the sons of men quite knew not xni . of, feud and atrocity; — none but Fitela , by his side, when he would say aught of HORSEMEN UPON GRENDEL S TRACK. RID- ^^^^ ^ ^^^j^ ^^ nephew, aS they ING. RACING AND TALE-TELLING. BEO- ,5 j^^d ever stood by One another in every WULFS ADVENTURE A MINSTRELS struggle: they had with swords laid low theme; his fame coupled with sige- ,^any of the monster brood. To Sige- MUNDS; contrasted with heremods. j^^^^j there sprang up after his death- Then was in the morning — so goes day no little fame; forasmuch as he, my story — about the gift-hall many a 5o hardy in fight, had quelled the dragon, warrior ; the chiefs of the folk came from the keeper of treasure ; he, the son of a ifar and near, through divers ways, to prince, in under the hoary rock, single- 1 survey the prodigy, the traces of the handed enterprised the perilous deed; — j loathed one. His life-ending was no Fitela was not with him. Nathless he I grief whatever to any of those who sur- 55 succeeded so well that the sword sped 'veyed the track of the vanquished, how through the stupendous worm, till it ihe in doleful mood away from that place, stuck in the bank, noble iron! the dragon 62 i 978 APPENDIX died the death. The champion had by sec a remedy for any of my woes, while valor attained that he might enjoy the the best of houses stood blood-stained, jewel-hoard at his own discretion; he soaked in slaughter; the woe had scat- laded the sea-boat, the son of W:els bore tercd all my senators, as men who weened to the bosom of the ship the bright orna- 5 not that they ever should rescue the na- ments; the worm dissolved with heat, tional edifice of my leeds from the hate- He was by daring exploits the most ful ones, the demons and bogles, famous of adventurers far and wide over ' Now hath a lad, through might of the world, shelter of warriors ; such God, achieved the deed which we all ere- emincnce he won. lo while were unal^le with our wisdom to When Heremod's warfare had slack- compass. Lo ! that may she say, what ened, his puissance and emprise, he lady soever mothered that child by human among the Eotens was decoyed forth into generation, if yet she liveth, that to her the power of enemies, promptly sent out was the Ancient Master favorable in her of the way. Him did billows of sorrow "5 child-bearing ! disable too long; he to his leeds, to all 'Now I will heartily love thee, Beo- his princes, became a loyal anxiety. wulf, youth most excellent, as if thou Moreover, in his earlier times, many a wert my son; from this time forth keep wise countryman had often deplored the thou up the new relation. There shall adventurous life of the ardent soul, such 20 be no lack to thee of any desires in the a one as had trusted to him for remedy world, so far as I have power. Full oft of grievances, that the royal child might have I for less service decreed reconi- grow powerful, succeed to the state of his pense, honor from the treasury, to a less fathers, protect the people, the treasure distinguished hero, less prompt to fight, and the castle, realm of heroes, patri- 2s ' Thou thyself hast by deeds achieved mony of the Scyldings. There was he, that thy fame will live ever and always. Hygelac's kinsman, to all mankind, and May the Almighty reward thee with to his friends, more acceptable; the other good, as he hath just now done!' was seized with fury. Beowulf uttered speech, Ecgtheow's At intervals racing they with their 30 son : ' We discharged that high task, horses measured the fallow streets. fighting with right good heart ; shrewdly Then was the light of morning launched we'enterprised the terror of the unknown, and advanced; there was many a varlet I had liked it vastly better, that thou going eager-minded to the lofty hall to hadst seen his very self, the fiend in full see the strange prodigy ; — likewise the 3s gear, ready to drop. I thought quickly king himself from his domestic lodge, to fix him on a bloody bed with hard keeper of jeweled hoards, trod with grapplings, that he for my hand-grip glorious mien, gorgeously distinguished in should lie death-struggling, unless his the midst of a great retinue ; — and his body vanished ; I could not, as the An- queen with him, measured the path to 40 cient would not, balk his passage ; I did the mead-hall with a bevy of ladies. not stick close enough to him, the man- queller ; the fiend was too over-mighty XIV in his making off. However he left his fist — to save his life and mark his track A PATRIARCHAL THANKSGIVING. BEO- ^5 _ j^jg ^^^^^ ^^^^ shouldcr : not thereby wulf's account of the FRAY. EFFECT however has the wretched being bought UPON UNFERTH. reprieve; none the longer will he live. Hrothgar uttered speech — he was go- the loathsome pest burdened with crimes; ing to Hall; he stood on the staple; he but the wound hath him. in deadly grip beheld the steep roof gold-glittering and 5° close pinioned, in baleful bands ; in that the hand of Grendel. condition must he, crime-stained wretch, ' For this spectacle a thanksgiving to abide the great doom, according as the the Almighty be done without delay ! Ancient One may will to assign his por- Much despite I endured, capturings by tion.' Grendel ; alwavs can God work wonder 55 A silenter man was then the son of after wonder, the Lord of Glory ! It was Ecglaf in the brag of martial exploits; but now that I thought I should never since it was by the hero's valor thf BEOWULF 979 ethelings beheld the hand, the fiendish archers. I heard not many instances of fingers, over the high roof, every one men giving to other at ale-bench four straight before him. Each one of the treasures gold-bedight in friendlier wise, nail-places was likest to steel, hand-spur About the helmet's roof the crest was of the heathenish marauder, horrible 5 fastened with wire-bound fencing for the spikes; every one declared there was head, in order that file-wrought war- nothing so hard would graze them, no scoured blades might not cruelly scathe sword of old celebrity that would take it, when the shielded fighter had to go off the monster's bloody war-fist. against angry foes. 10 Then did the shelter of eorls command >^v to bring eight horses gold-cheeked into the court within the palings; on one of iiEOROT RESTORED. REJOICINGS AND Giv- ^j,^^ ^^^^^ ^1^^ Saddle gaily caparisoned iNG OF GIFTS. ^^^ decorated with silver, which was the Then was order promptly given that '5 w-ar-seat of the high king, when the son the interior of Heorot should be dec- of Healfdene was mmded to exercise the orated; many they were, of men and of P'^'^y ^^ swords ; — never failed in the women, who garnished that genial palace, f^'^'it the charger of the famous (king) hospitable hall. Gold-glistering shone the when the slain were falling. And then brocaded tapestries along the walls, pic- 20 '^'^•^ ^^^^ ^^^'^f of the Ingwines deliver tures many for the wonder of all people ""to Beowulf possession of both at once, who have an eye for such. That bright ^'o^h horses and arms ; — bade him enjoy building was terribly wrecked in its them well. So manfully did the illustri- whole interior, though it had been 0"s chieftam, the hoard-warden of heroes, strengthened with iron fastenings; the 25 reward battle-risks with horses and treas- hinges were wrenched away; the roof "^es, so as never will any mispraise them alone had escaped altogether unhurt, who is minded to speak sooth accord- when the destroyer, stained with atroci- ^"g to right, ties, took to flight in desperation of life. xvi It is not easy to elude fdeath], try it 30 , who will; but every living soul of the ^^^^^ ™ beowulf s comrades, music sons of men, of dwellers upon ground, ^^^ song. must of necessity approach the destined Moreover, to each one of those who spot, where his body, bedded in fast re- had made the voyage with Beowulf, did pose, shall sleep after supper. 35 the captain of warriors give a precious Then was the time and the moment, gift at the mead-bench, an old heir- that Healfdene's son should go to hall ; loom ; and gave orders to compensate the king was minded himself to share with gold for that (missing) one, that the feast. Never that I heard of did one whom Grendel had atrociously killed, that nation in stronger force about their 40 as he would have killed 'more of them, bounty-giver more bravely muster. They had not the providence of God, had not went to bench in merry guise — while Wyrd, stood in his way ; — and, the their kinsmen enjoyed the copious feast, courage of that man. The Ancient One and with fair courtesy quaffed many a ruled then, as he now and always doth, mead-bowl — mighty men in the lofty hall, 45 over all persons of human race ; there- Hrothgar and Hrothulf. The interior of fore is prudence eachwhere best, fore- Heorot was wholly filled with friends; no cast of soul. Much experience of pleas- treachery had imperial Scyldings at that ant and of painful must he make, who early date attempted. long here in these struggling days brooks Then did the son of Healfdene present 5o the world, to Beowulf a golden ensign in reward of Then was song and instrumental music victory, decorated staff-banner, helmet together blended, concerning Healfdene's and mail-coat ; many beheld when they war-chief.— the harp was struck, a ballad brought the grand treasure-sword before often recited, what time the hall-joy the hero. Beowulf tasted the beaker on 55 along the mead-bench was invoked by the hall-floor ; no need had he to be Hrothgar's minstrel, ashamed of that bounty-giving before the * * * cjSo APPENDIX XVII among the treasures of men heard I ever of under heaven, since Hama bore away A PICTURE OF SOCIAL PLEASURE. SPEECH ^^ t],^ bright fortrcss the neckhicc of the OF THE QUEEN TO THE KING. Brisings — jcwel and casket; he fled the * * * 5 toils of Eormanric; chose eternal counsel. Enjoyment rose high as before, l)right That collar had Hygelac of the Goths, was the sound of revelry, the drawers grandson (or nephew) of Swcrtmg, on served wine out of curious flagons. his latest expedition, when under his flag Then came Wcalbtbcow forward, niov- be defended his prize, guarded the spoil; ing under her golden diadem, to where lo him Eate took off, when he for wanton- the two brave men sat, uncle and nephew ; ness challenged woe, feud with the Eri- up to that time was their natural affec- sians; he carried that decoration, the tion undisturbed, either to other true. costly stones over the wave-bowl, the Likewise there Unferth the speaker sat mighty chieftain; he fell shield in hand; at the feet of the Scyldings' lord ; every 15 so then came into the power of the man of them trusted his spirit that he Franks the corpse of the king, the breast had great courage, though he had not apparel, and the collar along with the been loyal to his kindred at sword-play. rest: inferior coml)atants stripped the Spake then the lady of the Scyldings: slain by the fortune of war; the people — ' Receive this beaker, sovereign mine, 20 of the Goths tenanted the bed of death. wealth-dispenser! be thou merry, a mu- —The hall echoed with sound (of nificent friend of men, and speak to the music). Goths with comfortable words. So it Wealhtheow uttered speech; she spake behooves one to do! Near and far, thou before that company: ' Brook this collar, now hast peace ! To me it hath been 25 Beowulf, beloved youth, with luck, and said, that thou wouldest have the hero for make use of this mantle ; stately posses- thy son. Heorot is purged, the bright sions; and prosper well; make thyself ring-hall; dispense whilst thou mayest famous by valor, and to these boys be many bounties ; ^ and to thy children thou a kind adviser ! I will reward thee leave folk and realm, when thou must 30 for it. Thou hast attained, that far and away to see Eternity. I know my gra- near, for all future time, men will cele- cious Hrothulf that he will honorably brate thee, even as widely as the sea govern the younger ones, if thou earlier encircleth windy walls. Be thou, whilst than he, O friend of the Scyldings, thou live, a happy prince ! With good quittest the world. I think that he will 35 will I accord thee precious possessions, repay our children with good, if he that Be thou to my son loyal with deeds, sus- fully remembers, what gracious atten- taining joyance. Here is each warrior to tions thou and I bestowed for his comfort other true, kindly disposed, loyal to their and advantage in the time past wdien he chief; the thanes are obedient, the people was an infant.' She turned then towards 4° all ready ! Retainers, be merry, do as I the bench where her boys were, Hrethric bid you.' and Hrothmund, and the sons of mighty She went then to her chair. There was men, the youth all together ; there the high festivity ; men drank wine, \Yyrd brave man sat, Beowulf of the Goths, by they knew not, the cruel destiny, as it the two brothers. 45 had gone forth, for many a noble. By and by the evening came, and Hrothgar xviii betook him to his lodge, the prince to his repose. GIFTS OF THE QUEEN TO THE HERO AND Countless uobles guarded the hall, as HER SPEECH TO HIM. THE HALL IS AR- 50 ^hey had oftcu douc in earlier time: thev RANGED AS A DORMITORY. ^,^^^^^, ^^^,^^^ ^,^^ beuch-boards ; it wa's To him the cup was borne ; and friendly strewn throughout with beds and bolsters. invitation (to drink) was offered with One of the revelers, whose end was near. words ; and twisted gold was graciously lay down to rest in hall a doomed man. presented, armlets two. a mantle and^^ At their heads they set the shields, the rings; the grandest of carcanets that I bright bucklers: there on the bench was have heard of on earth. None superior over each ethcling, plain to be seen, the BEOWULF 981 towering war-helmet, the ringed mail- coat, the shaft of awful power. Their custom was that they were constantly ready for war, whether at home or in the field, in both cases alike, whatever the occasion on which their liege lord had need of their services; — it was ,a good people. Q^ THE SECOND PART -^ XIX TN THE NIGHT THE OLD WATER-HAG COMES, SEIZES ONE OF THE SLEEPERS, AND FETCHES AWAY GRENDEL's ARM. 15E0- WULF IS HA.STILY SUMMONED TO THE KING AT EARLY DAWN. So they sank down to sleep. One there was who sorely paid for that night's rest, in the manner that had very often hap- pened to them, since Grendel had oc- cupied the gold-hall, had perpetrated violence, until his end arrived, death after crimes. That became manifest, widely known to men, that an avenger still lived after the (slain) foe; long to remember the disaster; Grendel's mother, beldam troll-wife, thought of her desolation, creature that had to dwell in the dreari- ness of water, cold streams, ever since Cain was the knife-bane of his only brother, his father's son ; he then went forth an outlaw, marked with murder, shunning human society; he kept the wilderness. Thence grew a number of branded creatures ; — one of those was Grendel, horrible ban-wolf; he at Heorot found a vigilant man waiting for battle. There did the monster grapple with him ; he, however, remembered the strength of his might, the marvelous gift which God had given to him, and he trusted to tlie Supreme for grace, courage, and support ; therefore he overcame the fiend, subdued the hellish demon ; so he departed crest- fallen, void of joyance, to see his death- place, foe of man. And yet his mother, nevertheless, bloodthirsty and gallows- minded, was going to enter upon a sorrow-fraught way to wreak the death of her son. So the hag came to Heorot where the jeweled Danes slept throughout the hall. Then was it for the eorls a sudden up- set, when Grendel's mother burst into their midst. The terror was less just in the same proportion as female strength, woman's war-terror, is (of less account) with an armed man ; when the well- hafted steel, hammer-toughened. the S bloodstained sword, with edge effective, sheareth resisting boar on helmet. Then was the hard-edged sword drawn throughout the benches, many a wide buckler raised firm in hand; many one 10 thought not of helmet, nor of spacious byrnie, when the alarm surprised him. The hag was in a hurry ; it wanted to get out from there with life, because it was discovered ; promptly it had seized 15 one of the ethelings tight, and then it went to fen. That man was to Hrothgar, in quality of comra the gruesome corpse-exulting thing took 10 I did before, with coiled gold, if thou its return-way leaving tracks of its for- comest away.' age. She hath wreaked the feud, for that thou yesternight didst quell Gren- xxi del in masterful wise with stern grap- pling"- for that he too long had wasted 15 ^'^«^^^'"'' ^^^^"'^"^ ^"^ ^^^^ "'''' ^^^^^^ a des royed my people. He in fight undertakes the new adventure. s ccumbed with forfeiture of life; and ^he cavalcade to the mere, the bU(_Lumucu w ^,1,^^ ^ J;rTl-.f,. LOOK OF IT. BEOWULF ARMS ; HIS SWORD now hath come the other, a mighty ravager, would avenge her kin; — yea, is described. hath further aggravated the feud, as may 20 Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, uttered well appear to many a thane, who along speech : ' Sorrow not, experienced sire ! with his sovereign groans in spirit, in better is it for every man that he should cruel heart-grief; now the hand of him avenge his friend, than that he should who was the promoter of all your de- greatly mourn. Every one of us must sires lies still in death. 25 ]Qok for the end of worldly life; he who ' That I did hear say by land-owners, has the chance should achieve renown leeds of mine, heads of halls, that they before death; that is for a mighty man, saw a pair of such, huge mark-stalkers, when life is past, the best memorial, keeping the moors, creatures of strange Rouse thee, guardian of the kingdom ! let fashion ; one of them was, according to 30 us promptly set forth to explore the route the clearest they could make out, a bel- of Grendel's kin. I vow it to thee ; he dam's likeness, the other miscreated thing shall by no means escape to covert; trod lonely tracks in man's figure; only neither in the bowels of the earth, nor he was huger than any other man ; him in the haunted wood, nor in ocean's depth in old times the country folk used to 35 — go where he will ! This day have thou call Grendel: they know not about any patience of all thy woes, as I have high father, whether they had any in pedigree confidence in thy behalf.' before them of mysterious goblins. They Up sprang then the agfcct fUing) ; he inhabit unvisited land, wolf-crags, windy thanked God, the mighty Le.d, for wJiat bluffs, the dread fen-track, where the 40 that man had spoken. Then Hrothgar's mountain waterfall amid precipitous horse was bridled, the crull-maned gloom vanished beneath, flood under charger. The wise monarch rode forth earth; not far hence it is, reckoning by stately; the foot-force marched, of shield- miles, that the mere standeth, and over bearing men. Traces there were broadly it hang rimy groves ;■ a wood with 45 visible along the slopes of the weald, the clenched roots overshrouds the water. track (of the foe) over the grounds: There may every night a fearful portent right forward (the warlock) had gone, be seen, fire on the flood; none so wise over the murky moor, it had carrie he greet the visitors, but he rode to- wards them ; he said to the leeds of the Wederas that the bright-mailed explorers BEOWULF 989 came welcome to their ships. Then was the third part on the beach the roomy sea-boat laden with war-harness, the ring-prowed ship xxxii with horses and treasures ; the mast rose .^^^^ ^^ happened that the man robbed high over wealth from Hrothgar s hoard. 5 ,.,,^ ^,,^,^^-3 ^^^^^ ^^^^ ^,,^3^,, He to the boat-warden presented a ^^^3 accumulated store of ancient gold-bound sword insomuch that ever af- ^^^ forgotten warriors, the drag- ter he was on the mead-bench the more ^^ prepares revenge, the beginning worshipful by reason of that decoration, ^^ ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ that sword of pedigree. 10 [The Gothic captain with his band of Not of set purpose nor by his own warriors] betook him to ship, ploughing free choice had he visited the dragon's deep water; the Danes' land he quitted. hoard, he who brought sore trouble on Then was by the mast a manner of sea- himself; but for dire necessity had he, garment, a sail with sheet made fast ; the 15 the slave of some one or other of the sea-timber hummed. There did the wind sons of men, fled from outrageous stripes over the billows not baffle the wave- a houseless wretch, and into that place floater of her course ; the sea-goer had blundered like a man in guilty ter- marched, scudded with foamy throat for- ror. [Here four (or Hve) mutilated lines ward over the swell, with gorgeous prow 20 seem to say that the fugitive, though over the briny currents, till they were quickly horror-struck at his new danger, able to espy the Gothic cliffs, familiar still by the impetus of despair borne for- headlands. The keel grated up ashore, ward had espied a cup of precious metal.'] with way on her from the wind; she There was a quantity of such things in stood on land. Quickly was the hithe- 2^ that earth-cavern, ancient acquisitions ; warden ready at the strand, he who al- just as some unknown man in days of ready for a long time expectant at the yore had in pensive thought hidden them water's edge had eyed the craft of the there, the prodigious legacy of a noble beloved men ; he bound to the shore race, treasures of worth. Death had car- the wide-bosomed ship with anchor-cables 30 ried them all off previously, and that fast, lest the violence of the waves might solitary one then of the proud company snatch the winsome craft away from who had there longest kept afoot, a them. possessor mourning lost friends, would fain survive, if only that he might for a * * * 35 little space enjoy the long-accumulated wealth. A barrow already existed on the down, XXXI nigh by the waves, sheer over the cliff, cunningly secured ; therein did the owner BEOWULF COMES TO THE THRONE. 40 of rings carry a ponderous quantity of * * * beaten gold : a few words he spake : ' Hold thou now, O earth, now that the Consequently the broad realm came to heroes could not, the possessions of the hand of Beowulf; he governed well mighty men. Lo ! in thee at first the fifty-winters — that was a venerable king, 45 brave men found it ; a violent death car- an ethel-warden — until one began in ried them away, a fearful slaughter car- dark nights, even a dragon, to have ried off every one of the men, my peers, mastery; one that on a high heath kept a who surrendered this life; they attained hoard, a steep stone-castle; a path lay be- the joy of the (supernal) hall. Not one neath, unfrequented by people. There- 5° have I to wear a sword, or furbish the within had gone some man or other, bossy tankard, the precious drink-stoup; [deftly] he took of the heathen hoard, the valiant are departed otherwhere, [took a thing] glistening with precious Now must the hard helmet, damascened metal; — that he afterwards [rued], that with gold, shed its intayled foliations; the he had tricked the horrid keeper while 55 furbishers sleep, they whose task it was to sleeping, with thievish dexterity . . . keep the masks of war; likewise the that he was infuriate. war-coat which in battle and through 990 APPENDIX the crash of shields was proof against the evening came; so enraged was the master bite of swords, shall molder like the of the barrow, the malignant one designed warrior. No longer can the ringed mail with fire to revenge the loss of the pre- along with the war-chief widely travel cious tankard. Presently the day was by the hero's side ; — no delight of harp, 5 gone, the worm had his will ; no longer no joy of gleewood, no good hawk swing- would he bide in fenced wall, but he issued ing through the hall, no swift horse forth with burning, equipped with fire, tramping in the castle-court. Destructive The commencement of it was frightful death hath sent many generations far to the people in the country; likewise it away.' Thus did he with sorrowful heart 10 speedily had a sore ending upon their lament his unhappiness, sole survivor of benefactor, all he sadly wept, by day and by night, until that death's ripple touched at his xxxiii heart. The dazzling hoard was found open 15 '^"'^ dragons devastation, the king's standing by the old pest of twilight, the mansion burnt, beowulf's proud re- flaming one that haunteth barrows, the ^olve to fight the dragon single- scaly spiteful dragon, that flieth by night, handed. surrounded with fire, whom country-folk Then the monster began to spirt fire- hold in awful dread. His portion is to 20 gleeds, to burn the cheerful farmsteads; resort to the hoard under ground, where the flame-light glared aloft, in defiance of he with winters aged shall guard heathen man ; the hostile air-flyer would leave gold ; he will be no whit the better for nothing there alive. The war-craft of the it. So had that wide-ravager for three worm was manifest in all parts; the rage hundred winters held in the earth an 25 of the deadly foe was seen far and near ; enormous treasure-house, until that one how the ravaging invader hated and angered him, a man angered his mood; ruined the Gothic people; to his hoard he — to his chieftain the man bore a tank- shot back again, to his dark mansion, ard bossed with gold, and prayed his lord before the hour of day. He had encom- for a covenant of peace. Then was the ^o passed the landfolk with flame, with fire hoard rifled, quantity of jewels carried and conflagration ; he trusted in his moun- off; the friendless man had his petition tain, his war-craft and his rampart; that granted. The lord contemplated men's confidence deceived him. ancient work for the first time. Then was the crushing news reported When the worm woke, the quarrel was 33 to Beowulf with swiftness and certainty, begun ; forthwith he sniffed the scent that his own mansion, best of buildings, along the rock; the marble-hearted one was melting away in fiery eddies, even the found the enemy's track; — he had gift-seat of the Goths. That was to the stepped forth abroad with undetected goodman a rude experience in his breast, craft, hard by the dragon's head. So may 40 hugest of heart-griefs ; the wise man felt that man who retains the fealty of the as if he should, in despite of venerable Supreme, elude death and freely escape law, break out against Providence, against, both harm and pursuit. The hoard-keeper the Eternal Lord, with bitter outrage ; his sought diligently over the ground, he breast within him surged with murky wanted to find the man, the man who had 45 thoughts, in a manner unwonted with him. wrought him mischief in his sleep; fiery The fire-drake had desolated the strong- and in raging mood he often swung hold of the nobles, the sea-board front, around the mound, all out round about; that enclosed pale, with fiery missiles. there was not any man there in that For him therefore the war-king, the lord desert waste. Nevertheless he exulted in 5° of the Storm-folk, studied revenge. He purpose of battle, of bloody work; at in- gave orders, that they should make for tervals he would dash back into the him, the shelter of warriors, the captain barrow, would seek the costly vessel; of knights, wholly of iron, a war-shield, presently he had satisfied himself of that, a master-piece; he knew assuredly, that that some one of manfolk had invaded 55 forest-timber would not serve him, linden- the gold, the mighty treasures. The wood against flame ! Destined he was, hoard-keeper waited with difficulty until the prince of proved valor, to meet the BEOWULF 991 end of his allotted days, of his worldly gold, or else war carrieth, pitiless life-bale life; — and the worm (was to die) at the carrieth away your lord! ' same time, long though he had held the Up rose then by the brink the resolute hoarded wealth. warrior, stern under his helmet, he wore Then did he, of rings the patron, think 5 battle-sark among rugged clitYs, he trusted it scorn that he should go seek the wide- the strength of his single manhood; such flyer with a band, with a large host; he is not the way of a craven. Then he be- had no fear of the encounter for him- held near the rampart — he who, excellent self, nor did the worm's war-craft at all in accomplishments, had survived a great subdue his puissance and enterprise ; for- 10 number of wars, of battle-clashes, when asmuch as he whilere. in shrewd jeopardy, armed men close — beheld where stood a had carried him safe through many a con- rocky arch, and out of it a stream break- test, many a battle-clash, since the time ing from the barrow, the surface of that that he, a victorious boy, had purged burn was steaming hot with cruel fire; Hrothgar's hall, and with battle-grip had 15 nigh to the hoard could not the hero un- done for Grendel's kinsfolk, a loathsome scorched any while survive for the flame brood. of the dragon. * * * Then did the prince of the Storm- Goths, being elate with rage, let forth XXXV 20 word out of his breast, the strong-hearted stormed; the shout penetrated within (the FURTHER DISCOURSES OF BEOWULF. HE cavern), vibrating clear as a battle-cry, GIVES A GREAT SHOUT AND THE DRAGON under the hoary rock. Fury was stirred; COMES FORTH. THE FIGHT BEGINS ; BEO- the hoard-warder recognized speech of WULF IN DISTRESS. 25 man ; opportunity was there no more, to * * * stickle for terms of peace. In advance Beowulf uttered speech, with boastful first of all there came the reeking breath words he spake, for the last time : ' I oi the monster, out from the rock, a hot hazarded many wars in youth; yet again Jet of defiance; the ground trembled, will I, the aged keeper of the folk, seek 30 The warrior under the barrow side, the strife, and do famously; if the fell rav- Gothic captain, swung his mighty shield ager out of his earthen dome will come aganist the hideous customer; therewithal forth to meet me.' Then did he address was the heart of the ringy worm incited a word of greeting to each of his men, to seek battle. Already the brave war- the keen helm-wearers, for the last time, 35 l^mg liad drawn sword, ancient heirloom his own familiar comrades. 'I would not oi speedy edge; each of the belligerents bear sword or weapon to meet the worm, had a dread of the other. Resolute in if I knew how I might otherwise main- mi"d the prince of friends took stand tain my vaunt against the monster, as I well up to his hoised shield, while the formerlv did against Grendel. But there 40 worm buckled suddenly in a bow; — he I expect fire, deadly scorching, blast and stood to his weapons, venom ; for that reason I have upon me Then did the flaming foe, curved like shield and byrnie. I will not flee away an arch, advance upon him with headlong from the keeper of the mountain, no, not shufifle. The shield effectually protected a foot space; but it shall be decided be- 45 hfe and limb a less while for the glorious tween us two on this rampart, as Wyrd chieftain than his sanguine hope ex- allots us, (and) the Governor of every pected, supposing he, that time, early in man. I am in spirit so eager for action, the morning, was to achieve glory in the that I cut short bragging against the strife; — so had Wyrd not ordained it. wingy warrior. Await ye on the moun- 50 Up swung he his hand, the Gothic captain, tain, with your byrnies about you, men- he smote the spotted horror with the at-arms, to see which of us twain may mighty heirloom, that its brown edge after deadly tussle best be able to survive turned upon the bony crust ; less effec- his hurt. That is not your mission, nor tually bit than was required by the king's any man's task save mine alone, that he 55 need, who was sorely pressed. Then was try stiength against the monster, achieve the keeper of the barrow after that heroism. I must with daring conquer shrewd assault furious with rage, cast 992 APPENDIX forth devouring fire, the deadly sparks (ioths armor untold of every sort; after sprang every way: the gold-friend of the which he departed out of life, ripe for Goths plumed him not on strokes of the parting journey. vantage; the war-bill had failed him with Now this was the first adventure for its bared edge on the foe, as it had not 5 the young champion wherein he had with been expected to do, metal of old renown. his liege lord to enterprise the risk of That was no light experience, inducing war; his courage did not melt in him, the nughty son of Ecgtheow to relinquish nor did his kinsman's heirloom prove that emprise; he must consent to inhabit weak in the conflict; a fact wliich the a dwelling otherwhere ; — so must every lo worm experienced, as soon as they had man resign allotted days. • come to close quarters. Then was it not long until the com- Wiglaf discoursed much that was fit- batants closed again. The hoard-warder ting; he said to his comrades that his rallied his courage, out of his breast shot soul was sad : — ' I recall the time, when steam, as beginning again; — direly suf- i^ we enjoyed the mead, then did we promise fering, encompassed with fire, was he who our lord in the festive hall, to him who erewhile had ruled men. Not (alas!) in gave us rings, that we would repay him a band did his life-guardsmen, sons of the war-harness, if any need of this kind ethelings, stand about him with war-cus- should befall him, would repay him for tom of comrades ; no, to the wood they 20 helmets and tempered swords. That is slunk, to shelter life. In one only of why he chose us of his host for this ad- them did his soul surge in a tumult of venture by his own preference, reminded grief; — kindred may never be diverted us of glory and promised rewards, be- from duty, for the man who is rightly cause he counted us brave warriors, keen minded. 25 he!m-wearers ; although our lord had de- signed single-handed to accomplish this XXXVI mighty work, the shepherd of his people, forasmuch as he of all men had achieved BEOWULF HAD ONE FAITHFUL FOLLOWER IN ^^qs^ of famous exploits, of desperate THE DESPERATE STRUGGLE. HIS FATAL 30 jgeds. Now is the day come, that our WOUND. liege lord behooves the strength of brave Wiglaf was his name, Weohstan's son, warriors ; let us go to him, help our war- a beloved warrior, a leed of the Scylfings, chief, while the scorching heat is on him, a kinsman of ^Ifhere: he beheld his liege- the grim fiery terror ! God knows of me, lord under helmet, distressed by the heat. 35 that I had much liever the flame should Then did he remember the (territorial) swallow my body with my gold-giver, honor which he (Beowulf) had formerly Me thinketh it indecent, that we bear our given him, the well-stocked homestead of shields back to our home, unless we can the Wsegmundings, every political pre- first quell the foe, and rescue the life of rogative which his father had enjoyed ; 40 the Storm- folk's ruler. I know well those then could he not refrain; hand grasped were not the old habits of service, that shield, yellow linden, drew the old sword, he alone of the Gothic nobles should bear known among men as the relic of Ean- the brunt, should sink in fight; our sover- mund, son of Ohthere, whom, when a eign must be requited for sword and lordless exile, Weohstan had slain, in fair 4s helm, byrnie and stately uniform, and so fight, with weapon's edge; and from his he shall by me, though a common death kindred had carried off the brown-mottled take us both.' helmet, ringed byrnie, old mysterious Then he sped through the deadly reek, sword; which Onela yielded to him, his he came with helm on head to his lord's nephew's war-harness, accoutrement com- 50 assistance ; few words spake he : ' My plete ; not a word spake he (Onela) about liege Beowulf, now make good all that the feud, although he (Weohstan) had which thou once saidst in time of youth, killed his brother's son. He (Weohstan) that thou never by thy lifetime wouldest retained the spoils many years, bill and let thy glory decline ; now must thou, byrnie, until when his boy was able to 55 glorious in deeds, etheling impetuous, claim warrior's rank, like his father be- with all thy might defend life; I shall fore him; then gave he to him before the support thee to the utmost.' BEOWULF 993 After these words were spoken, the middle. They had quelled the foe, death- worm came on in fury, the fell malignant daring prowess had executed revenc^e, monster came on for the second time, and they two together, cousin ethelings,' with fire-jets flashing, to engage his had destroyed him ; — such should a fel- enemies, hated men; with the waves of 5 low be, a thane at need. To the chieftain flame the shield was consumed all up to that was the supreme triumphal hour of the boss; the mail-coat could not render his career — by his own deeds — of his assistance to the young warrior; but the life's completed work, young stripling valorously went forward Then began the wound which the earth- under his knisman's shield when his own lo dragon had just now inflicted on him to was reduced to ashes by the gleeds. inflame and swell. That he soon disc'ov- Ihen once more the warlike king remem- ered, that in his breast fatal mischief was bered glory, remembered his forceful working, venom in the inward parts strength, so smote with battle-bill that it Then the etheling went until he sat him stood in the monster's head, desperately 15 on a stone by the mound, thoughtfully impelled. NiEgling flew in splinters, Beo- pondering ; he looked upon the cunning wulf's sword betrayed him m battle, vvork of dwarfs, how there the world-old though old and monumental gray, lo earth-dome do contain within it stone him was it not granted that edges of iron arches firmly set upon piers. Upon him should help him in fight; too strong was 20 tiien, gory from conflict, illustrious mon- the hand of the man who with his stroke arch, the thane immeasurably good, ladled overtaxed (as I have heard say) all water with hand upon his natural chief- swords whatsoever; so that when he car- tain, battle-worn ; — and unloosened his ried to conflict a weapon preternaturally helmet. Beowulf discoursed — in spite of hard, he was none the better for it. 25 his hurt he spake, his deadly exhausting Then for the third time was the mon- wound; he knew well that he had spent strous ravager, the infuriated fire-drake, his hours, his enjoyment of earth; surelv roused to vengeance; he rushed on the all was gone of the tale of his days heroic man, as he had yielded ground, death immediately nigh —' Now I would fiery and destructive, his entire neck he 30 have given my war-weeds to my son. had enclosed with lacerating teeth ; he was it so been that any heir had been given bloodied over with the vital stream; gore to come after me, born of my body I surged forth in waves. liave ruled this people fifty winters ; — there was not the king, not any king of XXXVII 35 those neighboring peoples, who dared to greet me with war-mates, to menace with THE DR.AGON SLAIN. BEOWULF IN MORTAL ^gj-ror. I in my habitation observed so- ^^^^^- cial obligations, I held my own with jus- Then I heard tell how, in the glorious tice, I have not sought insidious quarrels, king's extremity, the young noble put 40 nor have I sworn many false oaths. Con- forth exemplary prowess of force and sidering all this, I am al)le, though sick daring, as was his nature to; he regarded with deadly wounds, to have comfort; not that (formidable) head, but the forasmuch as the Ruler of men cannot valiant man's hand was scorched, while charge me with murder-bale of kinsmen, he helped his kinsman, insomuch that he 45 when my life quitteth the body, smote the fell creature a little lower down, ' Now quickly go thou, to examine the the man-at-arms did, with such effect that treasure, under the hoary rock, beloved the sword penetrated, the chased and Wiglaf, now the worm lieth dead, sleep- gilded sword, yea, with such effect that eth sore wounded, of riches bereaved, the fire began to subside from that mo- 5° Be now on the alert, that I may ascertain ment. the ancient wealth, the golden property. Then once more the beloved king re- may fully survey the brilliant, the curi- covered his senses, drew the war-knife, ous gems; that I may be al)le the more biting and battle-sharp, which he wore contentedly, after (seeing) the treasured on his mail-coat; the crowned head of the 5^ store, to resign my life, and the lordship Storm-folk gashed the worm in the which I long have held.' 994 APPENDIX XXXVIII treasures uf his breast. Beowulf dis- coursed, the old man in pain, he con- BEOWULF IS ORATiFUcu WITH SKKiNG THE templated the gold: 'I do uucr a TREASURES. HE DEMISES THE CROWN thanksgiving to the Lord of all, to tlK. AND DIES. 5 i-iijj, Qf g,^^^^ ^Q ^,^^ eternal captain, for Then I heard tell how the son of those spoils upon which I here do gaze ; Weohstan after the injunction promptly to think that I have been permitted to obeyed his wounded death-sick lord; bore acquire such for my leeds before the day his ring-mail, linked war-sark, under tlie of my death. Now I have sold my ex- roof of the barrow. Then the victorious 'o piring life-term for a hoard of treasure; youth, as he went along by the stony ye now shall provide for the requirements bench, the true and courageous thane, be- of the leeds; I cannot be any longer held many jewels of value, gold glisten- here. Order my brave warriors to erect ing, indenting the ground, wondrous a lofty cairn after the bale-fire, at the things in the barrow; — and the lair of 15 headland over the sea; it shall tower the worm, the old dawn-flyer — vases aloft on Hronesness for a memorial to standing, choice vessels of men of old, my leeds, that sea-faring men in time to with none to burnish them, — their in- come may call it Beowulf's Barrow, those crustations fallen away. There was who on distant voyages drive their foamy many a helmet, old and rusty, many a 20 barks over the scowling floods.' bracelet, with appendage of trinkets. The brave-hearted monarch took off Treasure may easily, gold in the earth, from his neck the golden collar and gave may easily make a fool of any man; it to the thane, to the young spear-fighter, heed it who will ! Likewise he saw his gold-hued helmet, coronet, and Ijyrnie ; looming above the hoard a banner all 25 bade him brook them well : ' Thou art golden, greatest marvel of handiwork, the last remnant of our stock, of the woven with arts of incantation; out of Wsegmundings ; Fate has swept all my it there stood forth a gleam of light, in- kinsmen away into eternity, princes in somuch that he was able to discern the chivalry ; I must after them.' surface of the floor, and survey the 30 That was the aged man's latest word, strange curiosities. Of the worm there from the meditations of his breast, be- was not any appearance, but the knife fore he chose the bale-fire, the hot con- had put him out of the way. suming flames; — out of his bosom the Then heard I how in the chambered soul departed, to enter into the lot of mound the old work of dwarfs was spoiled 35 the just, by a single man, how he gathered into his lap cups and platters at his own dis- xxxix cretion; the banner also he took, the most brilliant of ensigns; the sword with its ^ brief review of the situation, wig- iron edge had even now despatched the 40 laf upbraids the recreant compan- old proprietor, the one who had been the ions, he pronounces upon them and possessor of these treasures for a long their kin a sentence of degradation. while; a hot and flaming terror he had Thus had a hard experience overtaken waged for the hoard, gushing with de- the mexpenenced youth, that he saw struction at midnights; until he died the 45 upon the ground the man who was dear- ^Q^l\] est to him at his life's end in a helpless The messenger was in haste, eager to condition. His destroyer likewise lay return, fraught with spoils ; painfully he dead, the horrible earth-dragon, bereft of wondered in his brave soul whether he hfe, crushed in ruin; no longer was the should find aUve the prince of the Storm- 50 coiled worm to be lord of the jewel- folk, on the open ground where he left treasures, but they had been wrested him erst, chivalrously dying. He then from him with weapons of iron, hard bearing the treasures, found the illustri- battle-sharp relics of hammers, insomuch ous king, his captain, bleeding from his that the wide-flyer tamed by wounds had wounds, at the extremity of life; he be- 55 fallen on earth nigh to the hoard-cham- gan again to sprinkle him with water, ber ; no more through the regions of air until the point of speech forced open the did he sportively whirl at midnights, and BEOWULF 995 elate over his treasured property, dis- proof. Little protection could I afford play his presence; but on earth he col- him in the conflict, and I attempted lapsed, through mighty hand of warrior- nevertheless what was beyond my ability, prince. to help my kinsman; — ever was he (the Howbeit, that has rarely in the world 5 dragon) the feebler, when I with sword prospered with men, even men of fame, smote the destroyer, the fire less violently — by my information, — daring though a gushed from his inwards. Defenders too man might be in all deeds whatsoever; few pressed round their prince, when that he should rush against the breath the dire moment overtook him. Now of the poisonous destroyer, or with hands lo must (all) sharing of treasure, and pres- molest the ring-hall, if he found the entation of swords, all patrimonial keeper waking, at home in the barrow, wealth and estate, escheat from your Beowulf had purchased the gain of kin; every man of that family may roam princely treasures with his death ; he had destitute of land-right, as soon as ethel- howsoever reached the end of transitory 15 ings at a distance are informed of your life. desertion, your ignominious conduct. Then was it not long until the war- Death is preferable, for every warrior, laggards quitted the wood, the faint- rather than a life of infamy.' hearted traitors, ten all together, those who whilere durst not sport their lances 20 XL in the great need of their liege lord ; but they in shame bore their shields, their announcement of the event to the war-weeds, to the place where the aged ^^^^^^ "OST. the envoy adds a dis- warrior lay dead ; — they looked upon course reviewing the situation. Wiglaf! 25 Orders gave he then to announce the He sat wearied out, the active cham- issue of the conflict to the camp up over pion, nigh his lord's shoulder; was re- the seacliff, where the host of eorls, from freshing him with water; his care morning all day long, had with anxious availed nothing; he could not retain upon hearts sat by their shields, in divided earth, well as he would have wished it, 30 anticipation between a fatal day and the that chieftain's life; nor turn the Al- return of the beloved man. Little ret- mighty's will; the dispensation of God icent was he of the latest tidings, he would take effect upon men of all con- who rode up the bluff; he truthfully ditions, just as it does at present. Then spake out in the hearing of all : ' Now is had the young man a grim answer 35 the bounteous chief of the leeds of the promptly ready for such as erst had Stormfolk, the captain of the Goths, failed in courage. Wiglaf discoursed, motionless on bed of death, he dwells in Weohstan's son ; the youth with sorrow- war-like repose by the deeds of the ful heart looked upon men whom he no worm ! with him in even case lieth his longer loved : 40 mortal antagonist, smitten with dirk- ' That, look you, may a man say, a wounds : — with sword he could not upon man who is minded to speak the truth, the monster by any means effect a wound, that the chieftain who gave you those Over Beowulf sitteth Wiglaf, Weohstan's decorations, military apparel, which ye ^ boy, a living eorl over a dead ; over his there stand upright in, — when he at ale- unconscious head he holdeth guard bench often presented to inmates of his against friend and foe. hall helmet and byrnie, as a prince to ' Now the leeds may expect a time of thanes, of such make as he far or near war, as soon as the king's fall is pub- could procure most trusty — that he ^^ lished abroad among Franks and Fris- utterly threw away those war-weeds ' ians. The obstinate quarrel with the miserably. When stress of battle over- Hugas was set up when Hygelac came took him, the folk-king had by no means with embarked army upon the Frisian cause to boast of his companions-in-arms ; land, where the Hetware in battle van- nevertheless it was accorded to him by^^quished him; resolutely they struck with God, the ordainer of victories, that he overwhelming force, insomuch that the avenged himself single-handed with his mailed warrior was compelled to bow his weapon, when his valor was put to the head; he fell among the fighting men: 996 APPENDIX far was he from giving spoils as chief- leeds ; the banners of Hygclac moved tain to his veterans; — to us ever since forward over that peaceful plain, and that time has the favor of the Merwing presently the Hrethlings massed them- bccn unaccorded. selves upon the garrison. Then was ' Nor do I anywise count upon peace 5 Ongcntheow, the gray-haired, driven to or good understanding on the side of bay with sword-edges, insomuch that the Sweden ; — indccpes, shoots. yonge sonne, young sun, — • young because it had recently entered upon its an- nual course through the signs of the zodiac. 8. Hath . . . y-ronne. Ram, one of the signs of the zodiac, Aries. ' Hath run his half-course in the Ram ' means that it was past the eleventh of April. 9. fo'wlcs, birds in general, 10. y'c, eye. 11. So . . . corages, so nature excites them in their hearts (feelings). 13. palmers, jjilgrims to foreign parts. Orig- inally, a palmer was one who made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and brought home a palm-branch as a token. stroiiJcs, shores. 14. feme hulzves cuuthe, distant shrines known. 16. wende, go. 17. blisful, blessed, martir, Thomas a Becket. sike, seek. 18. That . . . scke, 'who hath helped them when they were sick.' Notice the riming, — seke . . . seke, — of identical forms that have differ- ent meanings. 19. bifel, it befell. 20. Southwerk, Southwark, on the south bank of the Thames, across from London. Tabard, an inn, of which the sign was a tabard, or sleeveless jacket. 22. corage, heart. 24. wel, full, quite. 25—26. by aventure . , . felawsliipe, hy chance fallen into association. 27. wolden ryde, wished to ride. 28. wyde, spacious. 29. esed atte beste, accommodated in the best manner. 30. to reste, gone to rest, set. 31. everichon, every one. 32. of hir felazvshipe anon, of their company im- mediately. 33. forward, agreement. 34. ther . . . devyse, to that place that I tell you of. 35. natheles, nevertheless. 37. Me . . . resotin, it seems to me reason- able. 38. condicioun, standing. 39—40. Of , . . degree. Of each of them, as it appeared to me, and of what sort they were, and of what social class. 41. eek, also, array, dress. 43. worthy, honorable. 45. chivalrye, knighthood. 46. fredom, liberality. 47. werre, war. 48. therto, besides that, ferre, farther. 49. hethenesse, heathen lands. 51. Alisaundre, Alexandria. 52-53. Ful . . , Pruce, Very many times, in Prussia, he had been placed at the head of the table, above the knights of all other nations. 54. Lettow, Lithuania, reysed, made a military expedition. Ruce, Russia. 55. degree, rank. 56. Gernade, Granada. 57. Algezir, modern Algeciras. Belmarye, a Moorish kingdom in Africa. 1023 1024 NOTES 58. Lycys, in Armenia. -Sd/ii/v.-, on tlie south coast of Asia Minor. 59. Crete See, the Mediterranean. 60. ai.V'c, landing of troops. 62. Tianiisseiie. a Moorish kingdom in Africa. 63. ]n . . . ioo, In the lists (field of combat at a tournament) tlirice, and always slain his an- tagonist. 64. like, same. 65. So;nt\mc, at one time. Palatye, in Asiatic Turkey. 66. At/eyn, against. 67. sovereyn prys, great renown. 68. wys, wise. 69. port, bearing. 70. vileinye, low speech. 71. un-to no matier whjlit, to no kind of man. 72. verray parfil 8. medlee cote, a coat of mixed stuff or color. 329. ceint, girdle, banes, ornaments, or studs, of a girdle. 330. array, costume. 331. Frankeleyn, a wealthy farmer. 332. herd, beard, daycsye, daisy. 333. ' The old school of medicine, following (ja len, supposed that there were four " humours," viz. hot, cold, moist, and dry, and four complexions o temperaments of men, viz. the sanguine, the chol eric, the phlegmatic, and the melancholy. The niai of sanguine complexion abounded in hot and moist humours (Skeat).' See note to line 421. 334. by the morwe, in the morning, a sop in wyn, wine with pieces of cake in it. 335. delyt, pleasure, wane, custom. 336. Epicurus (d. 270 B. C), a Greek philosoplier who assumed pleasure to be the highest good. i3.7- pleyn, full. 340. Seynt lulian; ' St. Julian was eminent for providing his votaries with good lodgings and ac- commodations of all sorts (Chambers).' 341. alwey after oon, always up to the standard. 342. envyned, stored with wine. 343. bake mete, meat pie. 344. plentevous, plenteous. 345. snewed, snowed. 347. after, according to. 348. soper, supper. 349. mewe, coop. 350. breem, bream, a fresh water fish, luce, pike. stewe, fishpond. 351. but-if, unless. 352. gere, utensils. 353. table dormant, a table fixed to the floor, irre- movable. The Franklin kept open house. 355. sessiouns, meetings of the justices of the peace. 357. anlas, a knife or dagger, gipser, pouch. 358. heng, hung, morne, morning. 359. shirreve, 'governor of a county (Skeat)'; our modern word sheriff, countour, accountant. 360. vavasour, a sub-vassal of a king's vassal. 362. Webbe. weaver. Tapicer, upholsterer. 363. in o liveree, in one livery. 364. solempne, dignified, fraternitee, gild. 365. hir gere apyked, their apparel trimmed. 366. y-chaped, provided with chapes, caps of metal at the end of the sheath. 368. ever yd eel, every part. 369. burgeys, burgess, citizen. 370. To . . , deys, to sit on a dais in a gild- hall. 371. Everich, each, can, knows. 372. shaply, adapted, fit. 373. catel, property, ynogh, enough, rente, in- come. 376. y-clept, called. 377. vigily'es. ' It was the manner in times past, upon festival evens, called vigiliae, for parishioners to meet in their church-houses or church-yards, and there to have a drinking-fit for the time (Speght).' al bifore, before all the others. 378. roialliche y-bore, royally borne. 379. for the nones, for the occasion. 380. mary-bones, marrow-bones. 381. poudre-marchant, a sharp flavoring powder. yaliuyale, root of sweet cyperus. 384. viortrcii.r, a kind of soup. 385. thoughtc me, seemed to me. 386. niormal, cancer, open sore. 387. blankmangcr, ' a compound made of capon minced, with rice, milk, sugar, and almonds (Skeat).' 388. zvoning . . . weste, dwelling far west- waril. 389. tvoot, know. Dertemouthe, Dartmouth, an important sea-port on the southwest coast of Eng- land. 390. rouncy, nag. couthe, knew how. 391. folding, coarse cloth. 392. laas, cord, lace. 396-7. Ful . . . sleep, Very many a draught of wine had he drawn (stolen!) from Bordeaux-way, while the merchant slept. 398. Of nyce . . . keeji. He had no regard for a fussy conscience. 400. By water . . . lond, i.e., he made them ' walk the plank.' 402. stremcs, currents, him bisydes, near him. 403. herberwe, harbor, monc, moon, lodemen- age, pilotage. 404. Hulle, Hull. Cartage, Carthage. 405. undertake, assume responsibility. 408. Gootlond, Gottland, an island in the Baltic sea. Finistere, Cape Finisterre, on the northern coast of Spain. 409. cryke, creek, inlet. 414. astronomye, astrology. 415. kepte, watched. 416. houres, astrological hours. 'A great portion of the medical science of the middle ages depended upon astrological and other superstitious observ- ances (Wright).' 417. fortunen, predict, ascendent, the point of the zodiacal circle which happens to be ascending above the horizon at a given moment. 418. images. ' It was believed that images of men and animals could be made of certain substances and at certain times, and could be so treated as to cause good or evil to a patient, by means of magical and planetary influences (Skeat).' 421. humour. The four elementary qualities, or humours, were hot, cold, dry, and moist. The ex- cess of some one humor was thought to cause dis- ease. The mixture of humors in a man determined his complexion, or temperament. The sanguine complexion was thought to be hot and moist; the phlegmatic, cold and moist; the choleric, hot and dry; the melancholy, cold and dry. 422. parfit practisour, perfect practitioner. 424. bote, remedy. 426. drogges, drugs, letuaries, electuaries, syrups. 428. Hir, their. 429. Esculapius, ^sculapius, god of medicine. 430. Deiscorides, Dioscorides, a Greek physician of the 2d century. Rufus, a Greek physician of the I St century. NOTES 1027 431. Ypocras, Hippocrates, a Greek physician (460-c. 377 B. C). Galien, Galen, a Greek physi cian of the 2d century. 431-3. Haly, Serapion, Rliazis, Avicenna, Aver roes, and John Damascene were Arabian medicai authorities. 433-4- Constantinus .'\fer, Bernardus Gordonius, John Gatisden, and Gilbertus Anglicus were Euro pcan medical authorities of the later middle ages. 435. measurable, moderate. 439. sangwin, red. pers, blue. 440. taffata, seiidal, two kindt of thin silk. 441. esy of dispence, moderate in expenditure. 443. For, since, because. 445. of bisyde Batlie, from (a place) near Bath. 446. som-del somewhat, scathe, misfortune. 447. haunt, practice, use. 448. passed, surpassed. Yprcs, Gaunt, Ypres, Ghent, cities in Flanders. 450. to the offring. The people themselves of- fered bread and wine for consecration at mass. 453. coverchiefs, coverings for the head, ground, texture. 454. zveyeden, weighed. 456. hosen, leggings. 457. streite y-tcyd, tightly fastened, moiste, soft. 460. at chirchc-dore. The marriage ceremony took place at the church-porch. 461. withoutcn, besides. 462. as nouthe, now, at present. 465. Boloigne, Boulogne. 466. In Galice at seint lame, the shrine of St. James at Compostella in Galicia. Coloigne, Cologne. The Wife of Bath had had wide experience in making pilgrimages. 467. coude, knew. 468. Gat-tothed, goat-toothed, lascivious, 469. amblere, ambling horse. 470. Y-ivimpled, provided with a wimple, 471. targe, target, shield. 472. foot-mantel, an outer skirt. 474. carpe, prate. 475. remedies of love, allusion to title and con- tent of Ovid's Remedia Amoris. 476. the olde daunce, the old game. 478. Persoun, parish priest. 482. parisshens, parishioners. 485. y-preved ofte sythes, proved oftentimes. 486. cursen for his iythcs, excommunicate for not paying the tithes that were due him. 487. yeven, out of doute, give, without doubt. 489. offring, voluntary gifts of his parishioners. substaunce, regular income derived from his benefice. 490. suffisaunce, a sufficiency. 492. ne lafte not, left not, ceased not. 493. meschief, mishap. 494. ferreste, farthest, moche and lyte, great and small. 496. ensample, example, yaf, gave. 497. wroghte, wrought, worked. 498. Out of the gospel, see Matthew V., 19. tho, the. 502. levied, ignorant. 507. He did not leave his parish duties to be per- formed by a stranger. 508. Icet, left. 509. scynt Poules, St. Paul's. 510. chaunterie, chantry; 'an endowment for the I)aynient of a priest to sing mass, agreeably to the ai)pointment of the founder (Skeat).' 511. bretherhed, brotherhood, withholde, sup- ported. 516. despitous, contemptuous. 517- daungerous, unapproachable, digne, full of dignity, repellent. 519. fairncssc, a fair life. 523. snibben, reprimand. 525. wayted after, looked for. 526. spyced, fussy. 530. y-lad, led, carried, father, load. 531. su'inkcre, worker. 534. thogh . . . smerte, though it pleased him or hurt him. 535. thanne, then. 536. dyke, make ditches, delve, dig. 540. his propre swink, his own labor, catel, projierty. 541. tabard, sleeveless jacket, mere, mare. Ter- sons of quality did not ride mares. 542. Reve, steward or bailiff of a manor. 543- Somnour, summoner for an ecclesiastical court. Pardoner, one who had the Pope's licence to sell pardons and indulgences. 544. Maunciplc, manciple, a caterer or steward for a college or inn of court. 545. carl, fellow. 546. braun, muscle. 547. over-al ther he cam, everywhere where he came. 548. ram. A ram was the usual prize at a wrest- ling-match. 549. a thikke knarre, a thick knotted fellow. 550. nolde here of harre, would not heave off its hinge. 551. renning, running. 554. cop, top. 557. nose-thirles, nostrils. 560. langlere, loud talker, goliardeys, a teller of ribald stories. 561. harlotryes, scurrility. 562. tollen thryes, a part of the corn ground was legally taken by a miller in payment for grinding. Our miller took thrice the legal allowance. 563. a thombe of gold, a common expression to describe the value of a miller's skill in testing meal or flour between the thumb and finger, pardee, a common and mild oath. 564. wered, wore. 565. soivne, sound. 567. temple, an inn of court. 568. which, whom, achatours, purchasers. 570. took by taille, took by tally, took on credit. 571. Algate . . . achat, Always he watched so in his buying. 572. ay biforn, always before. 574. swich a lewed, such an unlearned. 577. curious, careful. 581. his propre good, his own income. 582. dettelees, without debt, but he were wood, unless he were mad. 1028 NOTES 583. Or . . . dcsiic, Or live as ccouoniically as it pleased him to desire. 584. al a, a whole. 586. sette . . . ifl/'/H-, cheated them all. 587. colerik, see note to 1.4-M. 588. >i3', nigh, close. 59J. Y-lyk, like, y-sciic, visible. 593. gcnicr, garner. 595. wiste, knew, droghtc, drought, ic.vii, rain. 597. neet, cattle, dayerye, dairy. 598. hors, horses, stoor, farm stock. 599. Iioolly, wholly. 600. covenauiit, contract, yaf, gave. 602. Titer , . . arrcrage, No one could prove ftim to be in arrears. 603. licrde, herdsman. Jtyitc, hind, farm-laborer. 604. sleightc, trickery, covyne, deceit. 60s. adrad, afraid, the deeth, pestilence. 606. waning, dwelling. 609. astored, provided with stores. 611. lenc, lend. 613. mister, trade, craft. 614. wcl, very, wrightc, wright, workman. 615. stot, stallion. 616. pomely grey, gray dappled with apple-like spots. 617. surcote, upper coat, pcis, blue. 619. Northfolk, Norfolk. 621. Tukkcd he ivas, his long coat tucked up by means of a girdle. 622. hindreste, hindmost. 623. Somnour; see note to 1. 543- 624. chcrubinnes, cherub's. 625. sawceflcm, afflicted with pimples, navive, small. 627. scallcd, scabby, blake, black, piled, scanty, thin. 629. litarge, litharge, white lead. 630. boras, borax, ccruce, ceruse, cosmetic made from white lead, oille of tarire, cream of tartar. 632. whelkes, pimples. 633. knobbes, large pimples. 636. Thanne, then, wood, mad. 644. grope, test. 646. Questio quid iuris, The question is, what law (is there) ? 647. harlot, a fellow of low conduct. 651. attc fulle, fully. 653. owher, somewhere. 655. erchedeknes curs, archdeacon's curse, ex- communication. 656. But-if, unless. 661. wol slee, will slay, assoilling, absolution. 662. significavit. A writ of excommunication us- ually began with this word. 663. In daunger, within his jurisdiction, gyse, manner. 664. girles, young people of both sexes. 665. hir reed, their adviser. 666. gerland, garland. 667. ale-stake, a support for a garland in front of an ale-house. 669. Pardoner; see note to 1. 543. 670. Rouncivale, a hospital near Charing Cross, London. 673. bar . . . burdoun, sang bass to his treble. 675. hcer, hair, ivex, wax. 676. heng, hung, strike of fiex, hank of flax. 677. ounces, thin clusters. 679. colpons, portions. 680. for lolilee, for smartness, wered, wore. 681. trussed up, packed up. 682. Him thoughte, it seemed to him. let, fash- ion. 685. vcrniclc, 'a diminutive of Veronike (Ver- onica), a copy in miniature of the picture of Christ which is supposed to have been miraculously im- printed upon a handkerchief preserved in the church of St. Peter at Rome (Tyrwhitt).' 687. Bret-ful, brimful. 692. Bcriuik, Berwick, on north east coast of England. Ware, in Hertfordshire. 694. male, bag. pihve-bear, pillow-case. 695. lady, genitive singular. 696. gobet, a small piece. 697. rvcnte, walked. 698. hente, caught hold of. 699. latoun,- a. mixed metal, ful of, set with. 702. person, parson, up-on loud, in the country. 703. a, one. 704. tweye, two. 705. lapes, tricks. 706. apes, dupes. 710. alderbest, best of all. 712, affyle, make smooth. 716. Thestat, the estate, tharray, the array, ap- pearance. 719. highle, was called. Belle, probably another tavern. 721. baren us, conducted ourselves. 723. viage, journey. 726. That . . . vileinye. That you ascribe it not to my ill-breeding. 728. chere, appearance. 729. hir wordes proprcly, their words exactly. 731. shal telle, has to tell, after, according to. 732. moot, must. 733. Everich a, every single, charge, undertak- ing. 734. Al, although. rudcliche, rudely. large, freely. 736. feyne, feign, distort. 739. brode, broadly. 740. wool, know, vileinye, ill-breeding. 744. Al, although. 747. everichon, every one. 750. us lestc, it pleased us. 752. marshal. The ' marshal of the hall ' assigned guests to their seats at public festivals according to their rank. 753. stepe, bright. 754. burgeys, burgess, citizen. Chepe, Cheapside in London. 757. Eek therto, also besides. 760. our rekeninges, our bills. 765. hcrberwe, inn. 766. wiste, knew. 768. To doon yozv esc, to give you pleasure. 770. The blisful . . . mede, May the blessed martyr give you your reward. NOTES 1029 talc tell tales. if it is pleasing to deed, dead. 772. shapen yozv, intend. 775. disport, sport. 776. erst, first. 777. And . , . alle. And you all. 781. fader, genitive singular. 782. But, unless, heed, head. 784. seche, seek. 785. Us . , , xvys. It seemed to us not worth while to make it a matter of deliberation. 786. avys, consideration. 787. as him teste, as it pleased him. 788. herkneth, listen, 2d pers. plur. imperative. 791. shorte, make short. 792. viage, journey, tweye, two. 795. avcnturcs, occurrences, zvliylom, formerly. hau, have. 798. sentence, meaning, content, solas, amuse- 799. our allcr cost, the cost of us all, 805. withseye, oppose. 807. vouchc-sauf, grant. 809. shape me therfore, prepare myself for it. 810. otiies swore, oaths sworn. 816. dez'ys, direction. 819. fet, fetched. 820. echoon, each one. 823. our alter cok, cock of us all. 824. gadrede, gathered. 825. riden, rode, pas, foot-pace. 826. St. Thomas a Watering was Southwark. 828. herkneth; see note to 1. 78! if it pleases you. 829. woot, know, forward, agreement, yow re- cordc, call to your mind. 830. If , . . acorde, If evensong (vesjiers) and matins agree; i.e., if you are minded this morning as you were last night. 832. As . , , ale. As surely as I ever hope to be able to drink wine or ale. 835. draweth, draw, 2d pers. plur. imperative. fcrrcr twinne, farther depart. 83S. acord, agreement. 839. neer, nearer. 842. wight, person. 844. sort, lot, destiny. 845- A fell. 847. resoun, reasonable. 848. forxvard, agreement, composicioun, compact. 850. saugli, saw. 854, a, in. 855. riden, rode. THE nun's priest's TALE 1. 'vidwc, widow, stope, advanced. 2. whylom, formerly, narwe, narrow, small. 5. thitke, that. 6. ladde, led. 7. catel, property, rente, income. 8. housbondrye, economy. 9. fond, found, supported, doghtren, daughters. 1 1. highte, was called. 12. hour, bower, inner room. 13. sclendre meel, slender meal. miles fror if you teste. 14. Of . . . deel. Of poignant sauce she had not the slightest need. 15. tliicrgli, through. 17. Repleccioun, overeating. 19. Iicrtes suffisaunce, heart's satisfaction. JO. lette liir no-thing, prevented her not at all. J I. poplexye shcnte, apoplexy hurt. 25. Seynd, singed, ey or tweye, egg or two. 26. deye, dairy-woman. 28. dich, ditch. 30. tias, was not. 31. merier, pleasanter, sweeter. 32. messe-dayes, mass-days. 33. silierer, more certain, logge, lodging-place. 34. orlogge, clock. 35-8. The cock crew every hour, for fifteen de- grees of the equinoctial make an hour. Tlianne, then. 39. fyn, fine. 40. batailcd, indented like a battlement. 41. bile, bill. Icct, jet. 42. toon, toes. 47. paramours, lovers. 48. as of, as to. 50. cleped, called. 51. debonaire, gracious. 52. compaignable, companionable. 53. tltilke, that same. 54. in Iiotd, in possession. 55. tolieti in every lith, locked in every limb. 59. ' my lief . . . tonde,' ' my beloved has gone away.' Probably the refrain of a popular song. 61. briddes, birds. 62. bifcl, happened. 67. drccchcd, troubled. 70. eylcth, ails. 71. verray, true. 73. agricf. amiss. 74. me mette, I dreamed, mescliief, mishap. 76. my . . . aright, interpret my dream fa- vorablj'. 78. me mette, I dreamed. 79. saugh, saw. 81. deed, dead. 85. tweye, two. 86. deye, die. 88. Avoy, fie. hertetes, coward. 94. free, generous. 95. secrcc, secret, discreet. 96. tool, weapon. 97. avauntour, boaster. 99. afcrd, afraid. 101. swevenis, dreams. 103. replecciouns, gluttony. 104. fume, vapor arising from gluttony, com- plccciouns; see note to Prologue, 1. 421. 106. met, dreamed. 108. rede colera, ' red cholera caused by too much bile and blood (Skeat).' 1 10. lemes, gleams. 1 12. contclt, strife. 113. humour of malencolye, i.e., black choler. 115. boles blake, bulls black. 120. Catoun, Cato's Distichs. This collection of [030 NOTES sayings, of uncertain anlhursliip. was well known as early as the 4th century. 121. do no fois, pay no heed to. 122. flee, fly. hemes, beams, perches. 124. Up, upon. 130. prow, profit. 131. tho, the. 132. kynde, nature, 133. hinethe, beneath. 133. colerik of compleccioun; see note to 1. 104. 136. Ware, beware. 137. humours hole; see note to Prologue, 1. 421. 138. groie, groat. 139. fevcre terciane, tertian fever, a fever occur- ring every second day. 143. lauriol, laurel, centaure, the herb centaury. fumctere, the herb fumitory. 144. ellcbor, hellebore. 145. catapHce, the herb spurge, gaylres beryls, dogwood berries. 146. yve, ivy. mcry, pleasant. The herbs men- tioned are disagreeable to the taste! 148. fader kyn, father's kinsmen. 149. Dredeth, 2d pers. plur. imperative. 150. graunt mercy, great thanks. 151. daun, dan, Lord, a title given to monks, and to many other sorts of persons. 156. so moot I thee, as I may prosper. An ex- pletive phrase. 157. sentence, sense. 163. verray preve, true proof. 164. Oon . . . auctours, refers to Cicero's De Dlvlnatlone. 165. why lorn, formerly. 169. strelt of herbergage, cramped of lodging, lacking in quarters. 170. o, one. 173. depart en, separate. 17s. as . . . falle, as it chanced. 177. Fer, far. 179. aventure, chance. 180. That . . . commune. That governs us all alike. 182. metle, dreamed. 185. ther, where. 188. abrayde, started suddenly. :9o. took , . . keep, paid no heed to this. 191. Him thought e, it seemed to him. nas, was not. 194. slawe, slain. 196. morwe-tyde, morning-time. 198. donge, dung. 200. Do . . . arresten, have that cart stopped. 201. sooth to sayn, to say the truth. 2o6. in, inn. 210. agon, gone. 213. mette, dreamed. 214. lette, delay. 2i6. to donge, to put dung upon. 222. upright, lying flat on his back. 223. minlstres, officers of justice. 224. kepe and rculen, guard and rule. 225. Harrow, a cry of distress, lyth, lies. 226. IVhat, why. 227. out-sterte, started out. 23 r. biivreyest, makest known. 233. zvlatsom, loathsome. 235. it helcd be, it to be concealed. 238. mlnistres, officers of justice. 39. han hent, have seized. 40. engyned, tortured. 41. biknewe, confessed. 46. gabbe, lie, jest. 47. han, have. 48. fer, far. 51. mery, pleasant. 52. agayn, toward. pyned, punished. 253. as hem teste, as they desired. 254. lollf, cheerful, hir, their. 255. casten hem, plan. 256. 00, one. 258. mette, dreamed, agayn, toward. 259. Him thoughte, it seemed to him. 260. abyde, wait. 261. wendc, go away. 262. dreynt, drowned. 263. ivook, woke, mette, dreamed. 264. And . . . lette, And urged him to aban. don his journey. 265. abyde, stay. 268. agaste, terrify. 269. lette . . . thinges, give up doing my business. 271. swevenes, dreams. lapes, deceptions. 273. mase, maze. 274. shal, shall be. 276. for-sleuthen, lose through sloth, tyde, time. 277. God . . . me, God knows it causes me sorrow. 279. y-seyled, sailed. 280. eyled, ailed. 281. botme rente, bottom burst. 286. ensamples, examples, maistow lere, mayest thou learn. 287. recchelees, careless. 290. seinl Kenelm. ' Kenelm succeeded his fa- ther Kenulph on the throne of the Mercians in 821 at the age of seven years, and was murdered by order of his aunt, Quenedreda. He was subse- quently made a saint (Wright).' 292. Mercenrike, Mercia. mette, dreamed. 293. A lyte er, a little while before. 294. avisioun, vision, say, saw. 295. norice, nurse, del, part, bit. 296. kepe, guard. 297. For traisoun, for fear of treason, nas, was not. 298. litel . . . told, little heed hath he paid. 300. levere, rather. 301. legende, life of a saint. 302. yow, to you. 303—4. Macrobeus. Macrobius (early sth cen. tury) wrote a commentary on Cicero's Somnium Scipionis. 305. Affermeth, confirms. 307. loketh, look, 2d pers. plur. imperative. 308. Daniel. See Daniel, ii. 310—315. Joseph. See Genesis, xxxix— xli. 311. IVhcr, whether, or where. 312. falle, occur. 316. actcs, history, remcs, realms, kingdoms. 318. Cresus, Crcesus. Lyde, Lydia. NOTES 1031 319. Mette, dreamed. 321. heer, here. Andromacho- The dream of Andromache, wife of Hector, is recorded not in Homer but in the De Excidio Troiae of Dares Phrygius, a popular mediaeval authority on the Trojan war. 324. lorn, lost. 325. thilke, the same. 327. natheles, nevertheless. 330. ny, nigh. 331. as for conclusion, in conclusion. 334. That . . . store. That I have no confi- dence in laxatives. 335. woot, know. 336. defye, renounce, del, bit. 337. stinte, cease. 339. o, one. 343. siker, certain. In principio. In the begin- ning, — the opening words of the Gospel according to John in the Vulgate. 344. Mulier . . . confusio. Woman is the tindoing of man. 345. sentence, meaning. 350. solas, mirth, pleasure. 355. lay, that lay. 356. aferd, afraid. 359. leoun, lion. 365. aventure, chance, misfortune. 367. month . . . bigan. According to medi- aeval chronology, the world began at the vernal equinox. 368. highte, was called. 370. Sin March bigan, used parenthetically here. What we are really told is that all of March and 32 days more were gone, — an indirect way of indi- cating that it was May 3. 371. Bifel, it befell. 374. Taurus, the Bull, one of the signs of the zodiac, y-ronne, run. 376. kynde, nature. 3"7> pryme, prime, 9 o'clock, stcvcne, voice. 383. solas, pleasure, mirth. 384. him fil, befell him. cas, occurrence, chance. 386. woot, knows, ago, gone. 387. rethor, rhetorician, endyte, write, relate. 388. chronique, chronicle, saufly, safely. 389. a sovereyn notabilitce, a particularly worthy saying. 391. undertake, affirm. 392. book of Launcclot de Lake. The famous romance of Lancelot was full of incredible adven- tures. 394. sentence, meaning, thread of the story. 395. col-fox, a black-tipped fox. 396. waned, dwelt. 397. heigh imaginacioun, lofty calculation 398. hegges, hedges. 399. ther, where. 401. wortes, herbs. 402. undern, here, about 1 1 o'clock A. m. 407. Scariot, Judas Iscariot. Genilon, Ganelon, the traitor who betrayed Roland. See The Song of Roland. 408. dissimilour, deceiver. Sinon. the spy who persuaded the Trojans to take the wooden horse into Troy. 409. al outrely, utterly. 410. morwe, morning. 411. flough, flew. 414. forwot, foreknows, mot, must. 416. fVitnesse . . . 14, Bring to witness any one who is a perfect scholar. 418. disputisoun, dispute. 420. bultc it to the brcn, bolt it to the bran, i.e., sift the matter. 421. Augustyn. St. Augustine (d. 430), a great theologian. 422. Boece, Boethius (d. 525), wrote On the Con- sclation of Philosophy, in which, among other things, he discusses God's foreknowledge and man's free will. Bradwardyn, Thomas Bradwardine, an Oxford theologian of the early 14th century, wrote On the Cause of God, in wliich he discusses the problem of free will and predestination. 423. forwiting, foreknowledge. 424. streyneth me nedcly, constrains me neces- sarily. 428. forwot, foreknew. 429. Or . . . del. Or if his knowledge forces not at all. 430. necessitee condicionel, conditional necessity, I.e., mere foresight, on God's part, or what man is going to do voluntarily. 431. han, have, swich, such. 433. zvith sorwe, sorrow take her I 436. colde, baneful. 440. noot, know not. 442. in my game, jokingly. 447. sond, sand. 448. Lyth, lyeth. 449. Agayn, against, in. 451. Phisiologus. A book, in Latin verse, de- scribing the nature of certain animals, written by one Theobaldus, of uncertain date. 456. no-thing . . . crowe, Then it did not at all please him to crow. 457. stcrte, started. 458. affrayed, frightened. 461. erst, first. 467. vileinye, rudeness. 471. stevene, voice. 474. Boece. See note to I. 422. Boethius wrote a treatise De Musica. 477. ese, pleasure. 478. ccrtes, certainly, fayn, gladly. 480. So mote I brouke, so may I have the use of. 485. pcyne him, take pains. 486. U'inkc, close. 492. daun Burncl the Assc, a satirical poem, Biirnctlus seu Speculum Stultorum, written by Nigel Wireker in the late 12th century. 493. vers, verses. 494. yaf, gave. 495. nyce, foolish. 497. nis, is not. 500. seinte, holy. 501. countrefcte, imitate, equal. ;o2. bete, beat. 505. flatour, flatterer. 506. losengcour, liar. 508. soothfastnesse. truth. 509. Ecclcsiaste, Ecclesiasticus. in the Apocrypha; I032 NOTES not Ecclesiastes. See Ecclesiasticiis, xii, lo, ii, i6. 513. for the nones, for the occasion, 514. sterte, started. 515. gargat, throat, hcntc, seized. 516. wode, wood, beer, bore. 517. sewed, followed. 518. eschewed, avoided, escaped. 519. jleigh, flew. 520. roghte not of, paid no heed to. S22. O I'eiius. Friday was Venus' day. 522. plesauiice, pleasure. 523. servant, Venus's servant, i.e., a lover. 527. Gaufred. Geoffrey de Vinsauf wrote, about the year 1200, an art of poetry, Nova Poclna, which contains an inflated hmient against Friday, the day when Richard I was shot. 530. sentence, judgment. 533. pleyne, complain. 534. drede, fright. 537. Pirrus, Pyrrhus. streite, drawn. 538. hent, seized. 539. Eneydos; see Aencid, II, 550-553- 542. shrighte, shrieked. 543-5- Hasdrubales . . . wyf, Hasdrubal was king of Carthage when the Romans captured it, 146 B. C. 545. brend, burned. 547. sterte, started, rushed. 548. brende hir-selven, burned herself. 555. scly, simple, poor. 358. sycn. see. goon, go. 566. fercd, frightened. 568. hem . . . brckc, it seemed to them their heart would break. 570. as men, as if men. quelle, kill. 573. benedicite, an expletive. Pronounce in three syllables: ben-si-ta. 574-6. lakke Straw. It is recorded that in 1381 Jack Straw led an uprising of peasants in an at- tack upon the Flemish weavers in England. 574. meynee, company, crowd. 578. bemes, horns, bo.x, boxwood. 579. boon, bone. 588. as zvis Cod hclpe me, as surely as God may help me. 589. Turneth, turn, 2d per. plur. imperative. cherles, churls. 592. Maugree, in spite of; French malgre. 596. brak, broke, deliverly, quickly. 597. hcighe, high, jleigh, flew. 598. sough, saw. 601. aferd, afraid. 602. hente, seized. 603. wikke entente, wicked intention. 606. shrewe, curse. 610. Do, make, zvinke with, close. 612. wilfully, willingly, tliee, prosper. 614. undiscreet of governaunce, indiscreet of con- duct. 615. iangleth, babbles. 616. recchelees, reckless. 620. Takcth, take, 2d pers. plur. imperative. 621. seint Paul seith; see 2 Timothy, iii, 16. 622. doetryne, teaching, y-write, written, y-wis, certainly. 625. jny lord, the archbishoj) of Canterbury. William Courtenay, archbishop 1381-1396. 626. heighe, high. CHAUCERS WORDS UNTO ADAM HIS OWNE SCRIVEYN Written, probably, not long after 1583. 1. scriveyn, scrivener, scribe, thee bifalle, hap- pens to thee. 2. Boece, Chaucer's prose translation of the De Consolatione Philosophiae of Boethius (died c. 524). Troilus, Chaucer's Troilus and Criscydc, written about 1383. 3. lokkes, locks, senile, scab. 4. But . . . making, unless according to my composition. 5. mot, must. 7. rape, haste. LAK OF STEDFASTNESSE Addressed to King Richard II some time between the years 1393 and 1399- I. Som tyme, once, formerly. 3. deceivable, full of deceit. 5. lyk, alike, up so doun, modern English ' up- side down.' 6. mede, meed, bribe. 9. lust, pleasure. 10. unable, wanting in ability. 12. don, do. 17. mcrciable, merciful. 18. covetyse, covetousness. blent, blinded. 19. permutacioun, change. 22. Lenvoy, the envoy. An envoy is a postscript to a composition, to enforce or recommend it. 26. don, to be done. 2y, castigacioun, punishment. THE COMPLEINT OF CHAUCER TO HIS EMPTY PURSE This pleasant begging poem must have been ad- dressed to Henry IV immediately after he became king, Sept. 30, 1399, for Chaucer received an an- swer in the form of an annual grant of forty irarks, on Oct. 3 of the same year. I. wight, creature, person. 4. chere, countenance. 7. mot, must. 8. voucheth sauf, grant (imperative), or, before. 9. soun, sound. 12. stere, rudder. 19. The line means, ' I am as bare of money as a friar's tonsure is of hair.' 22. Lenvoy de, see preceding poem, 1. 22, note. 2$. conquerour, Henry IV. Brutes Albioun, Albion is the old name of England, or Britain. According to legend, Brutus, a descendant of ..-Eneas, was the first ruler of Britain. 25. verray, true. 26. mowen, can. MALORY: LE MORTE D'ARTHl.'S 19. a (col. i). 7. ensamplci, exampks. doctrine, teaching. 11. do . . . enprii t, fiail r^de and printed. NOTES 1033 12. Saiigreal, Holy Grail. 16. to-fore, before. 20. paynims, pagans. 24. Hector, son of Priam, and champion of the Trojans. 26. Alexander the Great (356-323 B. C), the fa- mous king of Macedon. b (col. 2). I. Julius Casar (100-44 B.C.), the famous Roman general, statesman, and writer. 6. Joshua, the successor of Moses as leader of the Israelites. See the Book of Joshua. 7. behest, promise. 8. David, the second king of Israel, 1055-1015 B.C. 9. Judas Maccabccus (d. 160 B.C.), a famous Jewish patriot and warrior. 13. stalled, installed, placed. x8. Charlemagne, king of the Franks and em- peror of the Romans. Crowned emperor, 800 A. D. 21. Godfrey of Boloine, Godefroy de Bouillon (1061-1100), a leader of the first Crusade. 24. King Edward the Fourth, king of England 1461-83. 25. instantly, insistently, earnestly. 20. a. 21. aretted, reckoned. 25. Glastonbury, a town in Somerset, England, seat of an abbey. 26. Polichronicon. Ranulf Higden (died c. 1363), a monk of Chester, wrote Polychronicon, a general history, in Latin. 29. translated, removed. 31. Bochas, Boccacacio (13 13— 1375), a celebrated Italian novelist and poet. De Casu Principum [On the Fall of Princes] recounts the misfortunes of fa- mous men. 33. Galfridus, Geoffrey of Monmouth (c. iioo- 1152?), whose fabulous Latin History of the Kings of Britain purported to be based largely upon a ' British book.' 40-1. Patricius . . . Impcrator, ' Noble Ar- thur, Emperor of Britain, Gaul, Germany and Da- cia.' b. I. Camelot, a legendary spot in England where Arthur was said to have had his court. 23. conning, knowledge, skill. 25. etnprised, undertaken. 21. a. 28. gat, begot. 36. assotted, infatuated, besotted. b. 43. did do make, had made. 47. made a parliament, called a council. 57. prefixed, set, decided upon. 22. a. 6. longed, belonged. 12. garnished, furnished, supplied. 14. ivist, heard, learned. 21. prevail, avail. 29. sithen, afterward. 37. book and bell and candle, a reference to for- mal ecclesiastical curses. 49. orgulist, most arrogant, insolent. b. 1. sonds, messages. 12. made write, had written. 18. depraved, calumniated, vilified. 34. term, length of time. 46. newfaugle, fickle. 58. carracks, large, round-built vessels. 23. a. I. let, prevent. 12. maugre, in spite of. power, army. 31. affiance, trust, confidence. 44. cankered, inveterate. 45. danger, subjection, control. 51. cedle, scliedule, note. 56. French book. As Caxton explains in his preface, Malory's sources are chiefly French. b. 27. straitly bestead, hard pressed. 29. let . . . king, had him crowned king. 24. a. 2. pight a nezv field, prepared for another battle. Barham Down, a short distance south of Canterbury. 31. Trinity Sunday, the eighth Sunday after Eas- ter. 45. chaflct. platform. b. 9. ivccncd, thought. 23. an, if. 27. parties, sides. 33. as to-morn, to-morrow. 34-5. proffer you largely, make liberal offers. 38. worshipfully, honorably, respectfully. 44. wight ly, swiftly, strongly. 46. avision, vision. 25. a. 16. evcrych, each, every one. 43. beams, horns. 51. foining, thrusting. b. I. devoir, duty, service. 3. stinted, ceased. 7. ivood, mad. 41. Tide, befall. 54. foin, thrust. 58. bur, an iron ring, to prevent the hand from slipping. 26. a. 17. wit, know. 20. yede, went. 22. pillcrs, pillagers. 31. rede, advice. 53. brast, burst. b. 19. lightly, quickly. 46. wap, ripple, wan, grow wan. 27. a. 39. Avilion, or Avalon, the Land of the Blessed in Celtic mythology. 48. holt, a hill with a grove on it. b. 3. graven, dug. 6. flemed, put to flight. 10. deeming, judging. 15. besant, a gold coin, first coined at Byzantium. 20. still, always. 39. read, tell. 28. a. 55. let, prevent. b, 10. hard bestead, hard pressed. 2 1. unliap, misfortune. 35. will my worship, wish my honor. 43. spered, asked, inquired. 29. a. 4. dole, alms, 14. Requiem, the mass for the dead, the iir.-i words of the Introit being Requiem aeternam duna 19. dured, lasted. 29. sithen, since. 32. disease, trouble. 50. still, always, constantly. 53. boot, use, advantage. b. 30. wrack, ruin. 30. a. 4. perfection, the religious or monastic life. I034 NOTl'.S 21-2. gray or u'ltitc, rcferriiiR to the habit, or costume. $2. assoil, absolve. b. 10-11. ovcrthwart and cndlomj, across and up and down. 28. still, continually. 30. lust, desire. 43. took no force, paid no heed. 50, by then, when. S3, purvey, provide. 53. horse bier, bier drawn by horses. 31. a. 12. yede, went. 35. Dirige. An antiphon in the office for the dead begins with the word Dirige ('direct'). 37. brcnning, burning. 53. cercd cloth of Raines, waxed cloth of Raines (in Brittany). b. 13. careful, troubled. 15. orgulity, arrogance, pride. 32. dwined, dwindled. 48. Steven, voice. 49. longeth, belong. 50. need you, be necessary to you. 55-6. will into, wills to go into. 58. houseled, given the Eucharist. 32. a. 1. anealed, anointed. 30. dretching of swevens, tormenting of dreams. S3, quire, choir. 58. worship, honor, dignity. b. 45. rest, a loop or hook attached to the armor, to steady the spear in a charge. 33. a. 18. favor of makers, fabrication of poets. 22. quick, alive. b. 32. Caxton . . . fecit, ' Caxton caused me to be made.' THE NUT-BROWN MAID It is to be observed that this poem is a dialogue in stanzas, between a lover and his lass. The man speaks the first stanza. 34. 3. dele, bit. agayne, in return. II. mone, moan. 20. use, practice. 27. ton, one. 29. red, advice, course, can, know. 33. departe, separate. 37. distrayne, distress. 35. 45. leve, stay, remain. 47. anoon, at once. 49. rede, advise. 58. parte, share. 59. thoo, those. 64. lyeve, live. 65. than, then. 71. ony, any. 75. rescous, rescue. 82. greeve, grieve, hurt, wound. 88. rove, roof. 89. than, then. 91. Syth, since. 93. 00, one. 36. 94. perde, French par dieu, less strong than * by God.' 97. lust, desire, wish. 103. dere, animals. 104. vitayle, victuals, food. 106. hcle, health. I 10. here, hair, ere, ear. 127. bee, by, concerning. 131. dey, die. 13S- power, poor, ycde, should go. 136. be, by. 137. red, advice, can, know. 146. purveid me, provided myself. 37. 153. curtcis, courteous, our, hour. 165. on the splene. The meaning of this ex- pression is uncertain. 172. be, by. 179. echeon, each one. ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE Although tradition has peristently maintained that Robin Hood was actually a historical character of the early 14th century, the early historians seem to have had no information concerning him except what they found in the ballads themselves. In any case, whatever his origin, Robin Hood was the hero of ballads of outlawry as early as 1377. His generosity, fair-dealing, tenderness, and wil subsequently established him as a true English hero. 38. I. shawes, groves, sheene, beautifuL shradds, coppices. 5. woodweele, woodlark. 6. a lyne, of linden. 7. wight, stout. 10. froe, from. 12. wrocken, avenged, towe, two. 13. Sweavens, dreams. 17. Buske, dress, prepare, boivne, prepare. 39. 29. capull-hyde, horse-hide. 36. ffarley, strange. 39. ken, know. 40. And, if. 43. bale, evil. 50. slade, valley. 52. stockes, wooden blocks, stutnps. 56, Crist his, Christ's, mayne, strength. 58. ffaine, glad. 59. veizve, yew. 60. ffetteled, prepared. 63. Woe worth thee, woe be to thee. 66. boote, help. •jj. tone, taken. 88. lyne, linden. 95. wilfull, astray. 96. tydc, time. 103. tow, two. whether, which of the two. 40. 107. masterycs, trials of skill, no. Steven, hour. III. shroggs, wands. 113. in twinn, apart. 114. prickes, targets, bull's eyes. 122. cold, could. 124. garlande, ' the ring within which the prick (or bull's eye) was set.' 126. prickcwande. pole, stick. 150. ffcttled, made ready. 151. rcacheles, careless. 156. may, maiden. NOTES 1035 i6i. awkuiarde, back handed. 86. ivynne, joy. 177. capull-hyde, horse-hide. 91. brede, broad. 41. 186. lowe, hill. 9-^ haylle, hale, strong. 192. tyde, time. 96. garre, make, cause. 208. Steven, voice. 98. and . . . lesse, if it were a lie. 209. loset, loosed. 100. peysse, peace. 212. belive, quickly. loi. yerlc of Mentaye, Earl of Menteith. erne. 222. boote, help. uncle. 224. rawstye, rusty. 102. forwarde, van. 234. in twinn, in twain. 103. cau'te and kene, wary and bold. 105. Botvghan, Buchan. ROBIN hood's death AND BURIAL no. boxven, ready. 3. broom, a kind of shrub. 44. 115. can, gan, did. 12. win, go. 116. hyght, promised. 42. 48. dree, endure, hold out. 121. agayne, back. S3, boon, favor. 122. upon hye, in a loud voice. 128. schoote, sent. THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN 130. ryall, royal, rowght, rout, company. During the reign of Richard II (1377 -1399), 132. rowyndc, round. the Scots frequently harried in the northern part of 138. layne, lie. England. In 1388 an army of Scots, under James, 140. agayne, against. Earl of Douglas, besieged Newcastle for three 155. ll'ende, go. days. At this time Douglas met Harry Percy. 156. yec, eye. ' Hotspur,' in single combat, captured his lance aiil 161. weynde . . . growende, go from this banner, and boasted that he would raise the banner ground. on the Scottish castle at Dalkeith. Percy collected 162. onfowghten, not fought, without fight. a force, pursued the Scots, and attacked t lem at 165. rynde, flayed. night in a hand to hand fight, at Otterburn, near 166. mykkel maye, powerful maid. the frontier. Although Douglas was killed, the Eng- 168. Wyth, by. lish were defeated and Percy was taken prisoner. 171. ivaryson, reward. I. Lamasse, Lammas, August ist. 174. 'And cross himself in the name of the Trin- 2. Wynnes, dry. ity.' 3. bowynd, prepared. 181. perte, part, side. 4. praye, prey. 183. hiccttes, pikes (fish). 5. yerlle of Fyffe. The Earl of Fife, son of the 199. swapped, smote, whyll that the, until they. Scottish king, was ravaging in the northwest of 200. collayne, Cologne steel. England, about Carlisle. He passed over the Sol- 45. 201. bassonnettes, steel caps, helmets. way Firth. 202. roke, reek, steam. 7. wolde, would. 210. rede, guessed. 8. raysse, raid. 215. thee, they, beette, beat. 9-1 1. The places mentioned are in old Northum- 218. stoundc, hour, time. berland. 225. eke a, every. 12. Styrande, stirring. 229. freke, man. 13. brente, burned. 230. stowre, battle. 16. bowyn, prepared. 231. drye, endure. 17. berne, man. bent, field. 238. Grysely, fearfully. 43. 31. march-man, warrior of the border. 263. Seyng, seeing. 32. kepte Barwyke guarded Berwick upon Tweed. 268. makes, mates, husband, fette, fetched. 34. on hyght, aloud. 276. boro'wed, ransomed. 35. and thow byste, if thou art. 39. syne, since, logeyng, lodging. CAPTAIN CAR OR EDOM GORDON 46. envye, injury. Adam Gordon was deputy, in 1571, for Queen 48. tone, one. Mary in the north of Scotland, where he encoun- 52. logced, lodged. tered the hostility of the Forbeses, who supported 53. roo, roe. rinnes, runs. the king's party. On one occasion he sent his sol- 59. the tyll, to thee. diers to take the castle of Towie in the queen's 65. pype, pipe, a measure for wine, — i2t wine- name. After the lady of the house had refused, the gallons. eager soldiers were commanded by their leader, 73- Pygf^t. fixed. Captain Ker, to set fire to the castle. Tradition 74. gettyng, booty. has it that the lady and twenty-seven others were 75. syne, afterwards. burned to death. 76. gresse, grass. I. Martynmas, Nov. nth. 77. hoved, tarried, bent, field. 4. hotde, castle. 78. wache, watch, sentinel. 46. 5. Syck, sike, sick, to-towe, too-too. 79. ware on, aware of. 9. wether, whither. 81. pry eked, rode. 17. lend, leaned. 1036 NOTES 34. bande, bond, agreement. 36. ere, possess. 38. wliitt and redda, white and red. 45. pestilelt, pistol. 50. pellettes, bullets. 54. lowne, servant, worthless person. 60. eare, heir. 64. waraii, protection, surety. 70. k)iet, knotted. 80. smoldereth, smothers. 82. ffee, property. 86. the, thee. 47. loi. busk, prepare, bowne, make ready. 104. or, before. 108. dele, deal, bit. 121. ought, had. THE WIFE OF USHER's WELL 7. carline wife, old woman, or perhaps, wealthy woman, low-born woman. 8. gaiie, gone. 14. fashes, troubles. 17. Martinmass, Nov. nth. 20. birk, birch. 21. syke, ditch, trench. 22. sheugh, ditch, furrow. 27. a', all. 41. daw, dawn. 42. channerin, fretting. 43. Gin, if. 44. sair, sore, maun, must. 46. byre, cow-house. KEMP OWYNE Kemp Owyne is Owain, one of King Arthur's knights. The adventure here ascribed to him is that of disenchantment through kisses. 6. dee, do. 48. 12. borrow, set free, ransom. 34. wi, with. THE D^MON LOVER 20. kend, knew. 30. baith, both. 31. ain, own. 49. 35. taffetie, fine silk. 41. drumlie, gloomy, frightened, ee, eye. S3, win, arrive. 58. strack, struck. LORD RANDALL vald, would. broo, water which something has been boiled. SIR PATRICK SPENS 3. guid, good. 9. braid, broad. 14. lauch, laugh. ^)0. 29. laith, loth. 31. owre a', ere all. 32. aboone, above. 38. kerns, combs. 39. ain, own. 41. oivre, over. THOMAS RVMEK There is considerable evidence that Thomas the Rimer was one Thomas of Krceldoune, who lived in southern Scotland in the 13th century. Tradi- tion has it that he was a proi)het, as well as a poet, and that he was frequently visited by fairies. 4. fernic brae, ferny hill. 7. ilka tett, every lock. 10. till, to. 17. maun, must. 20. wae, woe. 44. fairlies, wonders. 49. braid, broad. 50. lillie leven, pleasant lawn. 56. gae, go. 59. gin ae, if one. 61. even, smooth. BONNY BARBARA ALLAN 51. I. Martinmass, Nov. nth. 8. Gin, if. 9. hooly, slowly. 17. dinna, do not. 19. gae, go. 28. reft, deprived. 31. jow, stroke, gcid, gave. THE TWA SISTERS I. bowr, bower. 10. brotch, brooch. 1 2. sair, sore. 15. brast, burst. 22. stane, stone. 25. jaw, wave, current. 27. Ise, I shall, mack, make, land. 29. goud, gold. 32. fa, fall, han, hand. 33. ' It separated me and my world's mate.' 35. Gars, makes, gae, go. 52. 46. sma, small. 47. braw, fine, handsome. 49. sae gryte, so great. 58. nexiin, next, syne, afterwards. THE CRUEL BROTHER I. ba, ball. 5. baith, both. 18. maun, must, frae a', from all. 31. doss, court-yard. 46. pall, cloak. 48. gowden, golden, 53. 57. sair, sore. 58. rive, tear. EDWARD 1. dais, does, brand, sword, knife. my Ian, all my 4- gang. go. 7. gtiid. good. 8. mair. more. 13 reid roan steid. red-roan steed. 16 frie. good. 20 dule ye drie, sorrow ye suffer 25 drie suffer. 35 ha, lall. NOTES [037 37- I'd, till, /u, fall. 45. tlirae, through. 53. sail, shall, beir, bear. WYATT: A RENOUNCING OF LOVE 65. 3. Scncc, Lucius Annseus Seneca (4 B. C- 65 A. D.), a lamous Roman Stoic philosopher and wiiter of tragedies. Plato (429 or 427-347 B. C), a famous Greek philosopher. 8. lever, dearer. AN EARNEST SUIT 4. grame, sorrow. THE LOVER COMPLAINETH 7. grave, make an impression upon, engrave. 56. 24. playn, to complain. OF THE MEAN AND SURE ESTATE John Pains (died 1558), an intimate friend of Wyatt, lived chiefly at the English court. 6. souse, drench. 10. dight, put in order. 14. store, supply, abundance, stroycd, destroyed. 26. cater, caterer. 28. charge, care, burden. 31. jape, jest. 53. steaming, gleaming. 61. tho, then. 57. 88. hay, snare, conies, rabbits. 105. dome, judgment. HENRY HOWARD: DESCRIPTION OF SPRING 58. 1. soote, sweet. 2. eke, also. 4. turtle, turtle-dove, make, mate. 5. spray, branch, stem, springs, sprouts. 8. fiete, float. II. mings, mixes. DESCRIPTION AND PRAISE OF HIS LOVE GERALDINE I. Tuscan, Tuscany. J. her, their. 3. Western isle. See line 5. 4. Camber's cliffs, the cliffs of Wales. 59. 9. Hunsdon. in Hertfordshire, some 30 miles north of London. II. Hampton, Hampton Court, a royal palace near London. 12. Windsor, Windsor Castle. 13. kind, nature. COMPLAINT OF THE LOVER DISDAINED I. Cyprus. The island of Cyprus was the espe- cial home of Venus. COMPLAINT OF THE ABSENCE OF HER LOVER 4. eke, also. 5. wonted, was accustomed. 14. avail, profit, advantage. 60. 33. drencheth, drowns. 38. doubtful, full of fear. A PRAISE OF HIS LO\E 4. sayn, say. 7. troth, fidelity. 8. Penelope, the proverbially faithful wife of Odysseus. II. mo, more. 21. kind, nature. 25. sith, since. DESCRIPTIO.N' OF THE RESTLESS STATE OF A LOVER 19. list, please. 24. use, practice. 31. plain, complain. 61. 44. agaccd, wrapt, amazed. 51. teen, sorrow. THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE I. Martial (43-104 A. D.), a Latin poet. Wrote chiefly epigrams. 5. egalt, equal. 9. mean, moderate. 13. debate, dispute, quarrel. OF THE DEATH OF SIR THOMAS WYATT 7. stithe, anvil. 14. reft, bereft. 17. served in foreign realms. See p. 54 above. 21. none affect, no aff'ection. VIRGIL'S ^NEID I. whist ed, became silent. 6. Phrygian, of Phrygia, that country or divi- sion of Asia Minor in which Troy was situated. wailful, lamentable. 10. Myrmidon. The Myrmidons were led to the Trojan War by Achilles. Dolopes. The Dolopes came from Thessaly to fight on the Greek side be- fore Troy. 62. 17. plaint eschews, avoids complaint. 3S. fet, fetched, reached. 40. Pyrrhus, a famous Greek hero of the Trojan War. pight, campecf. 42. scathful, harmful. 43. Bchight, promised. SACKVILLE: THE INDUCTION 63. 2. treen, trees. 3. Saturnus, Saturn, one of the planets, of un- propitious influence. 7. tapets, tapestries, figuratively used for foliage. bloom, flower. 10. soote, sweet. II. Boreas, the north wind. 21. whereas, where. 24. Venus, goddess of love. Hermes, Mercury, messenger of Jupiter. 25. Mars, god of war. -ti7/, desire, urge. 27. yirgo, the Virgin, one of the constellations, and a sign of the zodiac. 28. Thetis, goddess of the sea. 2y. Scorpio, Sagittarius, Scorpion and Archer, signs of the zodiac. 30. prest. ready. 32. Bear, a constellation. 1 038 NOTES 26. Phaeton, son of the sungod. 38. prest, ready. 40. stent, end. 42. Titan, the sun personified. 43. Cynthca, the mocn. 64. 48. chare, car, chariot. 51. lusty, pleasant. 53. fade, faded. 57. learns, flames, rays. 60. Phahus, the sun-god. 68. peers, noblemen of especial dignity. 69. descrive, describe. 74. wight, creature, person, forewaste, com- pletely wasted. 75. brast, burst. 76. fold, folded. 77. ruth, pity. 80. welkcd, withered, pale, besprent, sprinkled. 90. doom, judgment. 93. distrained, pained, torn. 96. apart, set aside. 97. deu'le, lamentation, sorrow. 100. stint, cease, spill, destroy, kill. 102. dure, last, endure, attaint, tainted, afflicted. 103. forefaint, very faint. 106. distrained, distressed. 109. Furies, the Eumenides: Alecto, Megsra, and Tisiphone. 111. Lethe, the river of oblivion, in Hades. 112. reave, take away. 65. 119. dure, last, endure. 120. brayed, started. 122. shright, shrieked. 123. to-dashcd, dashed to pieces. 125. eft, again. 131. avale, abate. 134. sith, since. 141, stike, stich, verse, stanza. 143. JEblus, god of the winds. 145. bedrent, drenched. 161. won, dwelling. 166. silly, simple, innocent, 175. shright, shrieked. 176. grisly, dreadful. 179. whilom, formerly, once, bare swing, bore sway. 191. unmeet, unseemly, unusual. 66. 202. Astoined, astounded. 208. yeding, going. 210. cleped, called. Azcrn, a small lake near modern Naples, anciently believed to be the en- trance to the infernal regions. 212. swelth, overflow. 219. besprent, sprinkled. 221. stent, cease. 223. thoughtful, sorrowful. 233. proffered, put forth. 236. staring of his hair, hair standing on end. 237. 'Stained, astounded. 243. far forth, extremely, excessively. 250. fet, fetched. 253. somedeal, somewhat. 257. clouts, tatters, rags. 258. scrip, wallet. 260. for most, chiefly. 262. wot, knows. 67. 268. ruth, pity. 271. breres, briars, 284. keep, heed. 291. Reaver, robber, one who deprives. 292, tide, happen, 294. Cra:sus, the fabulously wealthy king of Lydia, who came to the throne in 560 B. C. Irus, in Homeric legend, a beggar of gigantic stature. 297. cheer, countenance, still, ever, always. 299. the sisters, the fates: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. 306. forewaste, wasted away. 308. beseech, beseech. 309. But and, although, 313, eld, old age. 328. fain, eagerly. 333. pilled, bare, with eld forlore, wasted with age. 68. 336. For brief, in brief. 340. brook, use, endure, enjoy. 342. recure, recovery. 346. grisly, terrible. 361. maw, stomach. 371. Enthrilling, forcing in. reave, deprive. 374. daunts, subdues (by fear). 376. peers, noblemen. 381. eftsoons, forthwith, immediately. 382. affraycd, frightened. 383. dight, provided, parde, French par Dieu. 389. imbrued, covered. 393. whilom, formerly, once. 398. forehewed, hewed to pieces. 399. targe, shield, 401. Debate, dispute, contest, war. 402. fillet, a band for tying about the hair. 405. Darius, king of Persia 521-486 B. C, power, army. 407. Macedo, Alexander the great (356-323 B. C), king of Macedonia. 69. 409. daunted, subdued. 410-418. Ha;niiba/ (247-183 B.C.), a famous Carthaginian general, among whose victories against the Romans are those of the Trebia, of Lake Trasi- mene, and of Cannx. At Cannae the Roman con- sul Paulus was killed. Hannibal was finally de- feated by Scipio Africanus Major, at Zama, in 202 B.C. 419. CcEsar , . , Pompey. The civil war be- tween Julius Csesar and Pompey was ended by the total defeat of Pompey at Pharsalia in 48 B. C. 423. Sulla and Marius. The civil war between the Romans Marius and Sulla began in 88 B. C. 425. Cyrus, the Great (d. 529 B.C.), founded the Persian empire. 428. Xerxes (c. 519—464 B.C.), king of Persia. 432. Thebes, a city in Boeotia, Greece, destroyed by Alexander the Great. 433- Tyrus, Tyre, despoiled by Alexander the Great. 440. Priam, king of Troy. 441. lin, restrain myself. 442. sith, since. 445. quail, fall. 449. Hector, son of Priam. NOTES [039 451. boot, reward, outcome. 452. hugy horse, the wooden horse by means of which the Greeks gained entrance into Troy. 463. Cassandra, a prophetess, daughter of Priam. By command of Apollo, her prophecies, though true, were always discredited. 464. Pallas' house, temple of Pallas, spercled, disheveled. 465. rout, mob. empaled, pierced. 469. Pyrrhus, the Greek who slew Priam. 468. baign, bath. 475. Ilium, the citadel of Troy, gledes, flames. 476. Neptunus, god of the sea. 480. Acheron, a river in Hades. 70. 482. grisly, terrible. Charon, the ferryman who transported the souls of the dead over the rivers of the underworld. 486. rout, crowd. 491. fraughted, freighted, laden. 494. hoise, hoist. 499. Cerberus, the three-headed watch-dog at the entrance to the infernal regions. 501. Foredinning, filling with a din. 504. peased, held his peace, became silent. 512. puled, whined. 517. yfear, together. 527. whilom, formerly, once. 530. erewhile, a while ago. 532. kesar, emperor, peer, nobleman. ROGER ASCHAM: THE SCHOOLMASTER 71. a. 6. Circe's Court. In Greek mythology Circe was an enchantress who, attended by four nymphs, feasted all persons who approached her dwelling. Anyone, however, who tasted the con- tents of her magic cup was turned into a beast. 32. Inglese . . . incarnato, ' An Englishman Italianate is a devil incarnate.' b, 19. policy, cunning. 24. discoursing, reasoning, argumentative. 32. fond, foolish. 35. honest, virtuous. 72. a. 2. charge, duty, office. S. Paul's Cross, a cross situated near the north- east angle of old St. Paul's, in the churchyard. From it great public assemblies were addressed and sermons preached. The ' Paul's Cross Sermons ' are still preached on Sunday morning. 13. Louvain, a city in the province of Brabant, Belgium. Religious books were often printed here. 14. wink, close the eyes. 25. St. Paul saith, Galatians, v. i9ff, 57. canons, ecclesiastics retained for the perform- ance of divine service in a cathedral or collegiate church. Morte Arthur, a compilation of prose ro- mances on the life and death of King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table, translated largely from French romances by Sir Thomas Malory and printed by Caxton in 1485. See p. 19. b. 6. shifts, tricks. Sir Launcelot, ' Launcelot of the Lake,' one of the most famous of the knights of the Round Table, who guiltily loved Arthur's queen, Guinevere. 6-7. IVife of King Arthur, Guinevere. 7. 5iV Tristram, of Lyonesse, another famous Knight of the Round Table. His love for Isolde, wife of King Mark of Cornwall, forms the subject of many romances. .9. Sir Lamerock, a knight of the Round Table. wife of King Lot. King Lot in Malory's Morte d'Arthur was a King of Orkney who married Margawse, sister of Arthur. 23. fond, foolish. 73. a. 6. lewd, unlearned, vulgar. 16. Plato (429 or 427-547 B.C.), a famous Greek philosopher, disciple of Socrates and teacher of Aristotle. 18. abominabiles . . . suis, 'made destestable in their studies.' 20. Dixit insipiens in corde suo no est Deus, ' The fool hath said in his heart there is no God,' Psalm, xiv, i. 29. Triumphs of Petrarch, an allegorical work by the celebrated Italian poet Petrarch (1304-1374). 31. Tully's Offices. Marcus Tullius Cicero (106- 43 B. C.) was a famous Roman orator, statesman, and philosopher. The work here referred to is his iJc Officiis (On Duties). 32. Boccaccio (1313-1375), eminent Italian writer, author of The Decameron, a collection of 100 tales. 45. Whether, which. 50. general councils, composed of bishops and theologians from different nations, convened to consider questions of church doctrine, discipline, and the like. 53. Luther, Martin Luther (1483-1546), leader of the Protestant Reformation in Germany. b. 2. epicures, those who held the opinions of the Greek philosopher Epicurus (342-270 B. C), who taught that pleasure is the only possible end of rational action and that ultimate pleasure is freedom. 22. list, like, choose. 23. Mysteries of Moses, the rites of the Jewish religion instituted by Moses. See the Book of Leviticus. Law and ceremonies. See Deuteron- omy. 29. Horace, Roman poet (65-8 B. C). Quotation from Satires, i, 5, 100. 51. Pygius, Pighius (1490-1542), a theologian whose writings were opposed by Calvin. Machi- avelli (1469-1527), celebrated Italian statesman and author. He was imprisoned and put to the torture on suspicion of conspiring against Giovanni de Medici, but was released and after retiring to his country estate wrote The Prince. His name is synonymous with all that is cunning and un- scrupulous in diplomacy. 74. a. 3-6. where Christ's doctrine . . . special regard, Germany. 16. lust, desire. 17. pantocle, a slipper. 34. bent enemy, cf. ' bent on mischief.' 50. Bridewell, a celebrated London prison or house of detention. The name has become a ge- neric term for a house of correction or lock-up. 55. present Pope, Pius V (i 566-1 572). 57. meed, a reward, gift. b. 57. lust, desire. 1 040 NOTES 75. a. 2. Guelph, Ihe papal and popular party in Italy during the struggle between the pajiacy and the Empire in the Middle Ages. Ghibelin, the imperial and aristocratic party in the same struggle. 10. let, hindrance; archaic except in the com- mon phrase ' without let or hindrance.' JOHN LYLY: EUPHUES AND HIS ENGLAND 76. a. 4. This queen. Mary was queen from 1553 to i5£8. 5. age of twenty-two years. At her accession to the throne, in 1558, Elizabeth (born 1533) was actu- ally twenty-five years of age. 8. a prisoner. Queen Mary had imprisoned Eliz- abeth in the Tower of London. Prince, used prop- erly, by extension of meaning, to designate a royal personage of either sex. 28. Zeuo, a philosopher of Elea (born c. 488 B. C), was mentioned in classical times as an ex- ample of patience. 29. Eretricus, apparently Lyly's own invention. 30. Lycurgus, either the Spartan legislator (9th century B. C), or the Athenian orator (c. 396-c. 323 B.C.). b. 9. spill, destroy. 10. proffer, offer. 14. Aristides (d. 468 B.C.?), an Athenian gen- eral and politician, was exiled through the influ- ence of his great rival, Themistocles. 16. Alexander. Lyly's reference is uncertain. 21. bills, requests. 23. resembling Julius Casar. There is no author- ity for this comparison. 33. government, reign. 35. racking, stretching. 77. a. 2. Antoninus (emperor of Rome 1 38-1 61 A. D.), surnamed 'Pius.' 12-13. gun that was shot off. This was, for Lyly, a recent occurrence, of the summer of 1579. 24. close, secret. 29. in the whale's belly. An allusion to the story of Jonah. See Jonah i-ii. 31. in the hot oven. An allusion to the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. See Daniel iii. 40. list, please. 43. Theodosius, an allusion, perhaps, to the re- pentance of Theodosius I (c. 346-395). Emperor of the East, after his massacre of the rebels of Thessalonica in 390. 45-8. Augustus . . . write. This anecdote is recounted not of Augustus, but of Nero, emperor of Rome 54-68. 47. we, royal use of plural for singular. b. 18. Praxitiles, born at Athens near the end of the 5th century B. C. A famous sculptor. His statues of Venus and Cupid are known, but not his paintings. 19. her son, Cupid. 28. Zeuxis, a famous Greek painter who flour- ished at the end of the 5th century B. C. 36. table, probably a slab, or tablet. 39. Apelles, a famous Greek painter who flour- ished in the early part of the 4tU century B. C. 54. narrowly, closely. 78. a. 6. mold, pattern, model. 16. forty years, actually forty-seven yearsl -■6. tickle, uncertain. 27. twist, thread. 36. the bird Ibis. There is a slender tradition that this bird was distinguished for sweetness of odor. 52-3. Nicaulia the queen of Saba. A Nicaulis is mentioned in Josephus' Antiquities of the Jews, V,k. viii, Ch. 6. 54. Nicostrata, a legendary or mythological (ueek prophetess. 58. Amatasunta, ruled at Ravenna as queen of the Ostrogoths 5J2-530 A. D. Tradition ascribes to her numerous literary accomplishments. 58. b. I. Aspasia ... Pericles. Aspasia was an accomplished woman to whom the famous Athe- nian statesman, Pericles (c. 495-429 B. C), was notoriously attached. 2. Thcmistoclea . . . Pythagoras. Pythagoras (c. 582-c. 500 B. C), a famous Greek philosopher and mathematician, is said to have received instruc- tion from one Aristocleia, a priestess. 7. escapes, mistakes. 23. twice . . . universities. Queen Elizabeth visited Cambridge for a few days in 1564, and Ox- ford for a few days in 1566. In both places she attended disputations, and made speeches in Greek and Latin. 39. Sybarites, inhabitants of Sybaris in southern Italy, who were noted for luxurious living. 49. withal, with. 58. whenas, since. 79. a. 4. gallery of Olympia. Reference to a fa- mous echoing gallery at Olympia, in Greece. 34. curses of the Pope. Pope Pius V directed a bull of excommunication and deposition against Elizabeth in 1570. b. 17. Alexander, 'the Great' (356-323 B.C.), king of Macedon. Galba (3 B. C.-69 A. D.), a Roman emperor. 20. queen of Navarre, Margaret d' Angouleme (1492-1549), queen of Henry II of Navarre. Elizabeth, while princess, translated a small book of religious meditations from the French of Mar- garet. 25-6. bound , . . palm tree, i.e., was vic- torious in Egypt. 42. silly, innocent. 46. whist, silent. 47. bird Attagen. The habits of this bird here recounted are vouched for by Pliny (23-79 '"^' D.), the celebrated Roman naturalist. 50. wade, go. 80. a. 21. weams, blemishes, scars. SONG (FROM GALLATHEA) 1. O yes, O yes! A development from French oie~, ' hear ye,' a summons to court. SIDNEY: AN APOLOGY FOR POETRY 81. a. 3. so long a career. Up to this point, Sid- ney has considered at length the nature and value of poetry, its superiority to history, and the kinds of poetry. 15. Musa . . . laeso, Virgil, Aen, i. 8. NOTES 1 041 22. David. See, for example, 2 Samuel xxii. 23. Adrian, the emperor Hadrian (117-13S A. D.), who wrote both prose and verse. Sofyhoclcs, the Greek tragic poet (495?-4o6 B.C.). German- icus ds B. C.-19 A. D.), nephew of the Emperor Tiberius, took his name from Germany (Germania), where he distinguished himself in military service. He wrote prose and poetry. 26. Robert, King of Sicily, king of Naples, 1309- 1343. He wrote prose and poetry. 27. King Francis, Francis I (15 15-1547). a gen- erous patron of letters. b. I. King James of Scotland, James I of Scot- land (1405-1436). His King's Quair is a pleasant poem in the Chaucerian style. ;. Beinbus, Pietro Bembo (1470-1547), a cardinal and papal secretary, wrote poetry and prose in both Latin and Italian. Bibiena, Bernardo da Bibbiena (1470—1520), one of the tutors of Pope Leo X. 3. Beca, Theodore Beza (1519-1605), a French ("alvinistic controversialist, composed numerous Latin poems. 4. Mclanchthon, Philip Melanchthon (i 497-1 560), a German supporter of Luther, and a Latin poet. 5. Fracastorius, Hieronymus Fracastorius (1483— 1553), an Italian poet, philosopher, and scientist. Scaliger, Julius Caesar Scaliger (1484— 1558) was an Italian literary critic. Sidney appears to have studied diligently his treatise on poetry. 6. Pontanus, Johannes Jovius Pontanus (1420— 1503), an Italian, wrote both prose and distinguished poetry in Latin. Muretus, Marc Antoine Muret (1526— 1585), a French orator, jurist, and poet. 7. George Buchanan (i 506-1 582), a distinguished Scotch Latinist. 9. Hosl'itai of France, Michael de I'Hospital (1505— 1573), a distinguished French lawyer and statesman, wrote numerous Latin poems. 22. ■when . . . loudest. Chaucer, for exam- ple, served in the English army under Edward III (13-^7-1377). 24. over-faint quietness. Under Queen Elizabeth England had been at peace for some 25 years. 25. strezv the house, a figure derived from the practice of strewing rushes on the floor. 2y. mountebanks at Venice, peddlers of quack medicines, notorious at Venice. 82. a. 3. troubled . . . Mars. Vulcan, jealous over his wife, forged a net for her. 6. a piece of a reason, a considerable reason. 12. Epaminondas (418-362 B.C.), a Theban gen- I ral and statesman, who began his career modestly l)ut effectively as a sort of commissioner of sew- ers. . 22. Helicon, a mountain in Boeotia haunted by the Muses. 27. Quels . . . Titan, Juvenal, Sat. xiv. 36. 40. Pallas, Minerva, goddess of wisdom and war. b. 9. Dccdalus, invented wings for himself and for his son Icarus. 15. withal, with. 27. Ovid's verse. Ct. Ovid, Tristia, iv. 10. 26. 36. Troilus and Criseyde. See p. 4. 43. Mirror for Magistrates. See p. 63. 44. Earl of Surrey's lyrics. See p. 58. 66 47. Shepherd's Calendar. See p. 104. 48. eclogues, pastoral poems. 52. Theocritus, a Greek idyllic poet of the 3d cen- tury n. C. 53. Sannazaro (1458-1530), a famous Italian poet. 83. a. II. Gorboduc, or Ferrex and Porrcx, a trag- edy by Thomas Sackville (see p. 63) and Thomas Norton, was first acted in 1561. 15. Seneca's style. Lucius Annseus Seneca (c. 4 B. C.-65 A. D.), a Koman philosopher and writer of tragedies. 22. faulty both in place and time, i.e., a violation of the ' unity of place,' which required that all the action of a play occur in one place, and of the ' unity of time,' which required that the time rep- resented by the action should not exceed one revo- lution of the sun. 27. Aristotle's precept. Aristotle (384-322 B. C.) was the most influential of Greek philosophers. The principles of dramatic writing are discussed in his Poetics. 53. traverses, difficulties. b. 5. Eunuch in Terence. Terence (c. 185-c. 159 B. C), a Roman comic poet. The Eunuchus is not the only play of Terence that violates the ' unity of time.' 10. Plautiis . . . amiss. Plautus (died 184 B. C), a Roman writer of comedies. We cannot be certain as to the particular play here referred to. 26. Calicut, the capital of Malabar, India. 27. Pacolct's horse, the magic horse of Pacolet, a dwarf in the French romance, I'alentine et Orson. By turning a pin in the horse's head, the rider could convey himself instantly to any part of the world. 29. Nuntius. In Greek and Roman tragedy the catastrophe was not usually presented on the stage, but was reported by a messenger. 33. Horace, a Roman poet (65-8 B. C), wrote a work called. The Art of Poetry. 34. Ab ovo means, ' from the remotest origin.' 38-53. Polydorus . . . Euripides. Polydorus was the youngest son of Priam, king of Troy. The story is told in the Hecuba of Euripides, a Greek tragic poet (480-406 B. C). 45. Hecuba, second wife of Priam, and mother of Polydorus. 46. sleight, trick. 84. a. 10. Apuleius (born c. 125 A. D.), a Roman philosopher and rhetorician, best known for his romance The Golden Ass. The exact significance of Sidney's reference is not clear. 15. Amphitrud. This is pure comedy, except for the introduction of gods and heroes. 17. daintily, with discrimination 25. tract, course. 38. convenieucy, suitability. 55. <7o . . . bias, take an unexpected turn. The figure is taken from the game of bowls. Bias means ' slope.' b. 8-9. Spinning , . . commandment. Her- cules, in his infatuation for Omphale, queen of Lydia, allowed himself to be dressed as a female slave, and spun wool. 20. forbidden plainly by Aristotle, in his Poetics. I042 NOTES 31. Nil . . . facit, Juvenal, Sat. iii. 152-3- The tianslation is that of Samuel Johnson. 37. Thraso, a bragging, swaggering captain. See the Eunuchus of Terence, referred to above. 38-39. a wry-transformed traveler, a traveler who unwisely affects foreign manners. 43. Buchanan. See 81. b. 7, note. S4-S. lyrical . . . sonnets, a reference to such miscellanies as Tottel's Miscellany. See p. 54. 85. a. 33. coursing of a letter, such devices as the acrostic, in which the first letters of the several lines spell a word. 35-6. with figures and flowers, the printing of the lines in such a way as to form geometrical figures, flowers, and the like. 45. Tully, Marcus Tullius Cicero (106—43 B. C), the Roman orator, philosopher, and statesman. Demosthenes (384?-322 B.C.), the greatest of the Greek orators. 47. Nizolian paper-hooks, note-books containing collections of phrases, such as the Ciceronian Thesaurus of Marius Nizolius, an Italian professor (born 1498). 58. Catiline, the Roman conspirator against whom Cicero directed certain of his most famous orations. b. 3. Vivit . . . venit, from Cicero's first oration against Catiline. 9. choler, anger. 14. ' similiter cadences,' ' endings of similar sound or arrangement,' such as rime in poetry, or repetition. 17. daintiness, discrimination. 19. sophist cr, a university term for students qual- ified for disputations. 29. stories . . . fishes. Notice the use of curious illustrations from natural history in Lyly's Euphues on p. 79, col. 2. 43. Antonius and Crassus. Marcus Antonius (145-87 B.C.), grandfather of the famous Antony of the Triumvirate, was a distinguished Roman or- ator, and was so honored by Cicero. Publius Li- cinius Crassus (175—131 B.C.) was a celebrated orator and lawyer. 45. As Cicero testifieth, in his dialogue On Ora- tory. 47. not to set by it, not to value it. 53. knacks, tricks, ornaments. 86. a. 13. pounded, put in a ' pound,' or enclosure. 23. awry, out of a straight line, wrong. 38. Tower of Babylon. See Genesis, Chap. xi. 45. compositions . . . together, compound words. 56. Whether, which. b. 25. Now for rime. Rime is here used in the sense of rhythm. 38. sdrucciola, means ' slippery,' ' sliding.* This is the regular Italian term for trisyllabic rime. 87. a. 2. toy, trifle. 10. Bembus. See 81. b. 2, note. 12. Scaliger. See 81. b. 5, note. 15—16. Clauserus . . . Cornutus. Lucius An- naeus Cornutus (fl. 1st century A. D.) wrote a treatise in Greek On the Nature of the Gods, which was translated into Latin by one Clauserus and published about the middle of the i6th century. Sidney is drawing from the preface of this work. 17. llcsiod, a Greek poet assigned to the 8th cen- tury B. C. 25. Landin, Cristofero Landino (1424— 1504), an Italian poet and critic, is here referred to for the critical precepts of his Disputations. 36. Libertino patre natus, Horace, Satires, i. 6. 45. 37-8. Herciilca proles, descendant of Hercules, i.e., royal, noble. 40. Si . . . possunt, Virgil, Aeneid, ix. 446. 44. with Dante's Beatrice, or Virgil's Anchises, that is, in heaven, or in the Elysian fields. 46. dull-making, deafening. Nilus, the River Nile. 47. planet-like music, the music of the spheres produced by the rotation of the planets. 52. Mome, stupid person. Momus, the son of Night, used as a personification of the critical spirit. 54. Midas, king of Phrygia. Having been chosen to judge between the musical abilities of Apollo and Marsyas, he awarded the prize to Marsyas. Apollo changed his ears into those of an ass. 55. Bubonax. The story goes that Hipponax, an Ephesian poet (c. 500 B. C.) so savagely satirized the sculptor Bupalus that he hanged himself. The spelling Bubona.x is the error either of Sidney or of his printer. 57. done in Ireland. It is said that the Irish peasants had a superstitious fear of the bards. ASTROPHEL AND STELLA 88. a. XV, 2. Parnassus, a mountain-ridge in Greece near ancient Delphi, frequented by Apollo, the muses, and the nymphs, and hence the seat of music and poetry. 7. Petrarch's long-deceased woes. The celebrated Italian poet Petrarch (1304—1374) wrote sonnets to his Laura which later set the fashion for Eliza- bethan sonneteers. 8. denisened, made a citizen, naturalized, adopted. 9. far-fet, far-fetched. 10. bewray, reveal. 14. endite, compose. XXI, I. caustics, medical substances which burn animal tissue. 2. windlass, bewilder. 5. Plato, Athenian philosopher (429?— 347 B.C.). but-if, unless. 89. a. LXiv, 9. Aristotle's wit. Aristotle (384-322 B. C), the most famous of Greek philosophers. 10. Casar's bleeding fame. Julius Ca;sar 102-44 B. C), assassinated by Brutus, Cassius, and others in the senate-house at Rome. ELEVENTH SONG 90. a. 42. Argus' eyes. In Greek legend, Argus is famed to have had 100 eyes. SONG: THE NIGHTINGALE 8. Tereus. Tereus abandoned his wife Procne in order to dishonor her sister Philomela. 9. Philomela. After having been dishonored by Tereus, Philomela was metamorphosed into a nightingale. LOVE IS DEAD 8. francie, frenzy. NOTES 1043 DORUS TO PAMELA 3. sterve, die. 6. weeds, clothes. HAKLUYT'S VOYAGES DEDICATORY EPISTLE Francis Walsingham (i 536-1 590) was a noted English statesman and patron of learning. He served his government as member of parliament, as ambassador to France, as secretary of state, and as special ambassador to several Continental courts. 91. a. 8. Westminster, Westminster School, estab- lished in Westminster Abbey by Henry VIII, and reestablished by Elizabeth. II. Middle Temple, one of the legal societies in London which provide instruction and examinations for admitting candidates to the bar. 25. commodities, articles of merchandise. b. 15. Christ Church, one of the largest and most fashionable of the Oxford colleges. 92. a. 3-4. Sir Edward Stafford (i3S2?-i6o5), a dis- tinguished English diplomatist, much in favor with Queen Elizabeth. S. Ligier (spelled also lieger, leger, ledger), an ordinary or resident ambassador. 7. chargeable, weighty, onerous. b. 22. Aleppo, in Asiatic Turkey. 23. Balsara, Balsar, or Bulsar, a town of British India, on the Gulf of Cambray. 24. Goa, on the western coast of India. 26. river of Plate, the Rio de la Plata, between Uruguay and the Argentine Republic. 30. Nova Hispania, Mexico. 32. South Sea, the Pacific Ocean. 33. Lusones, islands in the Malay Archipelago in the South Pacific. THE LAST FIGHT OF THE REVENGE 51. armada, a fleet of war-vessels. 53. Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618), an English courtier, soldier, colonizer, and writer. After a short residence at Oxford, he took up military serv- ice. He became a favorite of Elizabeth. In 1584 he began his efforts towards colonizing Virginia. In 1588 he took an active part against the Armada. In 1595 he explored the Orinoco. In 1596 and 1597 he took part in the naval expeditions against the Spanish. Charged with plotting to put Arabella Stuart on the throne, Raleigh was imprisoned in 1603. In 1616 he was released to command an ex- pedition to Guiana and the Orinoco. The expedi- tion failed, and on his return he was condemned and executed. 54. Lord Thomas Howard (1561—1626), a distin- guished naval officer and statesman. 57. pinnaces, large ship's boats. 93. a. 17. pestered, crowded, rummaging, making a disturbance. 29. recovered, regained, returned to. 43. shrouded, covered, concealed. 48. Sir Richard Grenville (c. 1541-1591), a Brit- ish naval hero, cousin of Sir Walter Raleigh. In 1585 he commanded a fleet of seven vessels which shared in the colonization of Virginia. In 1591 he served as vice-admiral in the fleet of 16 vessels un- der Lord Thomas Howard which sailed to Azores to intercept the Spanish treasure-ships. He died a few days after the battle recounted in the present text. 36. Bona Speranza, Cape of Good Hope. 37- St. Helena, an island off the west coast of Africa. b. 9-10. sprang their luff, sailed nearer to the wind. 22. charged. The sense of this word is unknown. It may mean ' timbered.' 28. admiral, the ship that carries the commander- in-chief. Biscayans, inhabitants of Biscay, a prov- ince of northern Spain. 33. right out of her chase, directly 3head from her bow. 94. a. 16. galleons, large unwieldy ships, usually having three or four decks. 24. Lima, a city of Peru, in South America. 47. armadas, single war-vessels. 95. a. 36. galley, i.e., service as prisoner on a gal- ley. LINSCHOTEN'S TESTIMONY Jean-Hugues van Linschoten (i 563-161 1), was a Dutch voyager who cruised widely in the Pacific, in the Indian Ocean, and in the northern seas. 50. Corvo, the most northerly of the Azores. 57. Lord Thomas Howard, see 92. b. 2, note. b. 4. Sir Richard Grenville, see 93. a. 48, note. THE LOSS OF SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT Sir Humphrey Gilbert (c. 1535^-1583) was an English navigator and soldier, a stepbrother of Sir Walter Raleigh. After military services in Ireland and the Netherlands, he began (1578) his voyages of exploration and discovery. On June 11, 1583, he set out for North America, and on Aug. 5 landed at St. John's, where he established the first English colony in North America. On the return voyage his vessel, the Squirrel, foundered in a storm. 96. a. 52. large, fair, favorable. 57. Cape Race, the southeastern extremity of Newfoundland. 97. a. 7. St. John's, a town on the island of Newfoundland. b. 2. fights, screens designed for the protection of men during a battle. 48. Castor and Pollux, a name given to the elec- tiic phenomenon known as St. Elmo's Fire. The phenomenon consists of the appearance, especially in southern climates, during thunder storms, of a brush or star of light. 98. - livious, making forgetful. 268. mansion, abiding place. 248. 281. amased, confounded. 282. pernicious, destructive, dreadful. 288. optic glass, the telescope, developed by the Florentine astronomer Galileo, whom Miitim saw during his Italian tour (1638-9). 289—290. Fcsole, Valdarno, near Florence. 296. marl, soil. 299. Nathles, nevertheless. 303. Vallombrosa, eighteen miles from Morcnce in Tuscany, anciently named Etruria. 305. Orion armed. The rising and setting of the constellation Orion the Hunter were traditionally attended with storms. 306. Red Sea, called by the Hebrews the Sea nf Sedge, on account of the quantity of seaweed in it. 307. Busiris, Pharaoh. See Exodus xiv, 5-J9- Memphian, Egyptian. 309. Goshen. See Genesis xlvii, 27. 313. Under amazement of, utterly confounded by. 317. //, dependent on lost. 320. virtue, valor. Latin virtus. 335. not perceive, failed to perceive. 338-343. See Exodus x, 12-15. 339. Amram's son, Aaron. See Exodus vi, 20. 341. warping, advancing with an undulating mo- tion. 351—5. The northern tribes which invaded the Roman empire from the third century onwards crossed from Spain into Africa and captured Carthage 439 A. D. 355. beneath, south of. 249. 360. erst, formerly. 363. books. Milton probably dictated * Book ' anil was misunderstood by his amanuensis. See Revela- tions iii, 5. 372. religions, religious ceremonies. 392. Moloch. See i Kings xi, 7; 2 Kings xxiii. 10; Psalm cvi, 37, 38. Sandys, whose book of trav- els in Palestine was known to Milton, describes the idol as ' hollow within, filled with fire,' the children offered for sacrifice being placed in his arms. ' And lest their lamentable shrieks should sadden the hearts of their parents, the priests of Moloch did deafen their ears with the continual clang of trum- pets and timbrels.' 397. Rabba, capital of Ammon, ' the city of waters.' 398-9. Argob, Basan, Arnon, east of the river Jordan. 401. Solomon. See i Kings .\i, 5-7; 2 Kings xxiii, 13. 403. opprobrious hill. The Mount of Olives, where Solomon established the worship of Moloch, was later called the ' Mount of Corruption ' and ' Mount of Offence.' 404. Hinnom, south of Olivet. 405. Gehenna, the Greek form of the Hebrew Ce Hinnom, valley of Hinnom. 406. Chemos, the god of Moab, the neighbors of .'\mmon. 409. Seon, king of the Amoriles. .See Numbers xxi, 26. 410. Sibma. See Isaiah xvi, 8. 411. the asphaitic pool, the Dead Sea. 413. Sittim. See Numbers xxv. 416. scandal, offence. 418. good Josiah. See Kings xxiii, 10. 420. the brook, Besor, ' the river of Egypt.' 4-'j. Baalim and /Ishtaroth, the collective names of the various manifestations of the deities of the sun and moon respectively. 438. Astorcth, the same as the Assyrian Istar, the Greek Aphrodite, and the Latin Venus. 4^1. Sidon was the oldest city of Phenicia. 250. 444. uxorious king, Solomon. 446. Thammus, ' Sun of Life,' the Greek .Adonis, god of the solar year. 450. Adonis, the name of a river flowing from the heights of Lebanon, and colored in spring by the red mud gathered there. 455. Ecekiel. See Ezekiel viii, 14. 457. came one. Dagon, god of the Philistines. See I Samuel v, 4. 460. grunsel, threshold. 464-6. Azotus . . . Gazar, the five ctief cities of the Philistines. 467. Rimmon, god of Damascus. 471. leper, Naaman. See 2 Kings v. 472. Ahaz. See 2 Kings xvi. sottish, foolish. 478. Osiris, Isis, Orus, Egyptian deities, wor- shipped under the shape of the bull, cow, and sun. 479. abused, deceived. 483. borrowed, from the Egyptians. See Exodus xii, 35-6. 484. calf in Oreb. See Exodus xxxii. rebel king, Jeroboam, i Kings xii, 20, 28, 29. 487. he, Israel. See Exodus xii. 495. Eli's sons. See i Samuel ii, 12-17. 498. luxurious, lustful. 50J. flown, flushed. 503-4. Sodom, Gibeah. Genesis xix. Judges xix. 506. prime, leaders. 508. Ionian, Greek. Javan, son of Japhet. Gen- esis X, 2. 509. Heaven and Earth, Uranus and Ge, whose 12 giant children were Titans. One of them, Cronos (Saturn in Roman mythology), deposed Uranus, and was in turn deposed by his own son Zeus (Jove), whose mother was Rhea. 515-6. Ida in Crete was the birthplace of Zeus, Olympus, north of Thessaly, his abode, according to Greek mythology. 517. Delphian cliff, Apollo's oracle on Mt. Par- nassus. 518. Dodona, an oracle of Zeus, in Epirus. 519. Doric, Greek. 520. Adria, the Adriatic. Hesperian, western, i.*., Italy. 521. Celtic, France and Spain, utmost isles, of Britain. 523. damp, depressed. 528. recollecting, recovering. io62 NOTES 251. 534. Acaael. Leviticus xvi, 8. 536. advanced, raised. 538, emblazed, emblazoned. 546. orient, bright. 547. helms, helmets. 548. serried, locked together. 550. Dorian mood, the kind of Greek music adapted to military exercises. 551. recorder, a kind of flute. 556. 'suage, assuage. 563. horrid, bristling with spears. Latin hor- ridus. 568. traverse, across. 573. since created man, after the creation of man. 574. embodied, assembled in a body, named, compared. 575. small infantry, the Pygmies. Homer's Iliad "i, S. 577. Phlegra, in Macedonia where the Gods tie- feated the Giants. See 1. 509. 578. Thebes and Ilium, the chief battle grounds of Greek tradition. 580. fable, Geoffrey of Monmouth's History of the Britons, romance, Malory's Morte D'Arihur. 581. Armoric, Breton. 583-6. The references are to scenes famous in medieval romances. 586. peerage, the twelve peers of the Chanson dc Roland. 588. observed, obeyed. 596—9. Curiously enough, this was the only passage in the poem objected to by the official Li- censer for the Press (chaplain to the Archbishop of Canterbury), when the book was first printed. Either he did not like the suggestion of a ' change ' of government, or he would not admit that Charles II could be ' perplexed ' even by an eclipse. 597. disastrous, threatening disaster. 603. considerate, thoughtful, reflective. 605. remorse and passion, pity and suffering. 609. amerced, condemned to loss. 613. scathed, injured. 252. 615. blasted, withered. 624. event, outcome. 632. exile. Accent on second syllable. 646. work, accomplish. 656. eruption, expedition, sortie. 662. understood, agreed on secretly. 670. grisly, horrible. 675. brigade. Pronounce brigad. 678. Mammon, riches (Syriac). See Matthew vi, 24. 686. ransacked the center, dug into the earth. 690. ribs, bars, admire, wonder. 253. 694. Babel. See Genesis xi, 1-9. Memphian, Egyptian, i.e., the Pyramids. 703. founded, melted. 704. severing, separating. 713. pilasters, pillars set in a wall and lightly projecting from it. overlaid, surmounted. 715. architrave, the main beam. 716. cornice, frie::e, adornments of the architrave. bossy, in relief, projecting. 717. fretted, worked in designs. 720. Bchts, the Assyrian god Bel or Baal. Scrapis, an Egyptian deity. 728. cresset, an iron lantern. 738. his name, Hephaistos or X'ulcan. 739. Ausonian land, Italy. 740. Mulciber, the welder of metals. 746. Lemnos, sacred to Hephaistos. The story of his fall is told in Homer's Iliad i, 591. 750. engines, machines, contrivances. 756. Pandemonium, the place of all the demons. 764. wont, were wont to. soldan, sultan. 765. paynim, pagan. 769. The sun is in Taurus (one of the signs of the zodiac) April 19-May 20. 254. 774. expatiate, walk abroad. Latin use. con- fer, discuss. 780-1. Pliny placed the Pygmies beyond the source of the Ganges. 781-5. Reminiscent of A Midsummer Night's Dream and the Alneid. 785. arbitress, witness. The moon was supposed to be influenced by fairy incantations. 795. recess, retirement. conclave, the name given to a meeting of Cardinals in the Roman Church. 797. frequent, crowded. Latin use. 798. consult, consultation. BOOK II 2. Ormus, Persia. 9. success, result, experience. 16. from no fall, if they had not fallen. 27. whom, him whom. 29. Your bulwark, as your defense. 50. recked, cared. 255. 52. unexpcrt, inexperienced. 59. of, imposed by. 60. By, in consequence of. 63. our tortures, what tortures us. 69. Tartarean, infernal. 73. such, those who think so. 74. forgetful, making forgetful. 75. proper, natural. 77. who but felt, who did not feel? 82. event, outcome. 83. stronger, superior in strength. 89. exercise, harass, torment. Latin usage. 97. essential, substance. 100. at worst, as badly off as we can be short of annihilation. loi. proof, experience. 104. fatal, established by fate. 106. denounced, betokened, threatened. 113. manna. See Exodus xvi, 31. 124. fact, deed. 127. scope, mark, aim, its original meaning in the Greek. 130. watch, watchmen; hence the plural verb. 132. obscure. Accent on first syllable. 133. Scout, act as scouts, reconnoiter. 256. 139. mold, substance. Milton imagines the angels as made of fire (see Psalm civ, 4) and the argument is that the fiery substance of the angels would expel the baser fire of hell. •NOTES 1063 143. flat, absolute. 156. Belike, probably. Used ironically, impo- tence, lack of self-restraint. Latin use. 165. amain, with all speed. 175. Her, of hell. 176. cataracts, torrents, floods. 203. fall, befall, happen. 210. supreme. Accent on first syllable. 216. inured, accustomed to it. 257. 224. For happy, in point of happiness. 231—2. then — when, i.e., never. 234. former, ' to disenthrone.' argues, proves. 235, latter, ' to regain.' 245. Ambrosial, divinely excellent. 249. pursue, seek to regain. 251. unacceptable. Accent on second syllable. 263—5. See Psalms xvii, 11, 13; xcvii, 2. 277, needs, of necessity. 278. sensible, sense; adj. for noun. 281. Compose, arrange, adjust. 288. o'er watched, worn out with watching. 294. Michael, the leading archangel, whose dis- comfiture of Satan and his followers is described later: vi, 320—327. 258. 301. aspect. Accent on second syllable. 303. public care, care for the common weal. 305. Majestic qualifies face. 306. Atlantean, worthy of Atlas, a Titan con- demned by Zeus to bear the skies on his shoulders. 324. first and last. See Revelation i, 11. 330. determined, made an end of. 336. to, to the extent of. 337. Untamed reluctance, invincible resistance. 341. want, be wanting. 346. fame, report. Latin fama. 367. puny, literally, later born; hence, weaker. 375. original, origin, or perhaps originator. 376. Advise, consider. 380. By Satan. See I, 650-654. 259. 382. confound, utterly destroy. 387. states, authorities, or bodies of representa- tives, as in the phrase, ' the three estates of the realm,' meaning the King, Lords, and Commons in Great Britain. 39:. Synod, assembly, meeting. 404. tempt, try, 406. obscure, obscurity. Adj. for noun. 407. uncouth, unknown, 409. abrupt, abyss, i.e., between hell and the world, arrive, reach. 410. isle, the World, hung like a globe in Chaos from the floor of Heaven. 413. had need, would have need of. 415. Choice, careful selection. 418. suspense, in suspense. Latin form. 423. Astonished, astounded. 425. hardy, bold, courageous. 429. unmoved. Contrasted with Astonished, 1. 424. 431. demur, hesitation. 434. convex, circle. 441. abortive, monstrous. 443. remains, awaits. 452. Refusing, if I refuse. 457. intend, consider, devise. 461. deceive, beguile. Latin use. slack, mitigate. 462. mansion, abode. 467. prevented, forestalled. 468. raised, encouraged. Refers to Others. 260. 470. erst, before. 471. opinion, reputation. 478. awful, full of awe. 485. close, concealed, varnished o'er, speciously covered with. 490. louring element, dark and threatening sky. 491. Scozvls, covers the face of nature with a dark cloud of rain or sno.w. 49J. // chance, if it chances that. 503. accord, agreement. AREOPAGITICA In November, 1644, when this pamphlet was pub- lished, the parliamentary cause was triumphant in the field, and high hopes were entertained for its fu- ture success in the promotion of ' real and sub- stantial liberty — whose existence depends not so much on the terror of the sword as on sobriety of conduct and integrity of life.' But Parliament was already showing an inclination to adopt the intoler- ant and tyrannical measures which it had condemned in its adversaries, and it was against one of these — an order that books should not be printed without license — that Milton was here directing his efforts. His object was to secure the free publication of thought, — ' that the power of determining what was true and what was false; what ought to be pub- lished and what to be suppressed, might no longer be entrusted to a few illiterate and illiberal indi- viduals, who refused their sanction to any work which contained views or sentiments at all above the level of the vulgar superstition.' Beside Mil- ton's general devotion to the cause of liberty, he had a special incentive in the attempt which was being made by the Stationers Company to suppress his divorce pamphlets, which had aroused a good deal of hostile feeling. 260. b. 15. Julius Agricola, governor of Britain 78— 8s A. D. 16. Ccesar, a general name for the Roman Em- peror, preferred — French. This statement is made on the authority of Tacitus. 22. Hercynian, a name given by the Romans to the mountainous and wooded region in the south and center of Germany; the country beyond it, 7 ransylvania, which became part of the Austrian Empire in 1689, had during the Commonwealth friendly relations with England. 28. propcnding, inclining. 31. aj out of Sion. See Joel ii, i. 36. H'yclif, the English ecclesiastical reformer of the fourteenth century. 38. Huss, Jerome (of Prague), Luther, Calvin, leaders of the Protestant Reformation on the Con- tinent. 44. demeaned, conducted, managed. 46. of whom, of those of whom. 261. a. 2. mansion house, abiding place, manorial seat. 5. plates, armor, instruments, weapons. 14. trying, testing. 26. white already. See John iv, 35. 1004 NOTES 31. fantastic, fancied, imaginary. 38. ill-deputed, i.e., to the clergy. 56. Pyrrhus, after fighting against the Romans at Heraclea (280 li. C.) is said to have exclaimed: ' How easy it would be for me to conciner the world if I had Roman soldiers.' b. 10. schisms, dissections, literally, cuttings. j8. Moses. See Numbers xii, 29. 35. Joshua. See Numbers xii, 28. 46. maniple, a company in the Roman army, con- sisting of about 60 men serving under the same en- sign. 5 J. vex, worry. 58. besieged. Two years before the publication of Milton's pamphlet the Royalists had advanced al- most to the gates of London. See Milton's first sonnet printed on p. 242. 262. a. 4. suburb trenches. The suburbs were de- fended by trenches made by the loyal citizens, even women and children helping. 10. to a rarity, to an extraordinary extent or de- gree. 12. argues, proves. 16. derives itself to, develops into. 20. nigh, closely. The incident here referred to is recounted by Livy xxvi, 11. 28. to, as to. 30. pertest, sprightliest. 34. sprightly up, lively and excited. 41. old and wrinkled skin. Like a snake. 48. strong man. Samson. See Judges xvi, 13, 14. 50. mewing, renewing; originally used of a hawk molting. 54. noise, noisy crew. 55. flocking, not daring to act independently. b. I. prognosticate, foretell, like the astrol- ogers and almanac makers. 7. engrossers, merchants who dealt in large quan- tities, and often made a corner to raise prices. Milton compares to these the Licensers of Printing, who will set up a monopoly in knowledge. 21. purchased, obtained. 24. influence, mystic power; the original refer- ence is to astrology. 43. law. The Roman law gave fathers power of life and death over children. 44. despatch, slay. 45. stick closest, be most faithful. See Proverbs xviii, 24. 47. for coat — dangelt, merely to resist illegal taxation, the former part of the phrase referring to the clothing and conveyance of troops, the latter to ship-money. Milton is arguing for a nobler free- dom than that of not paying unjust taxes. 51, utter, publish. 55. unequal, unjust. 263. a. 13. vote, solemn wish. 18. last testament. See John xiv, 27. 27. dis-conformity, dissent. 38. controversal, opposite. The temple was open in war, closed in peace. 46. Her confuting, confutation by her. 51. the discipline of Geneva, the form of faith and of church government accepted as perfect by the Presbyterians. 52. fabricked, fabricated, manufactured. 56. casements, windows, collusion, deception. 58. wise man, Solomon. See also Matthew xiii, 44. b. 6. equipage, equipment. 8. battle, army. 22. shifts, sleights, contrivance 31. Micaiah. See 1 Kings xxii, 1-2 40. nailed to the cross. See Colossians ii, 14. purchase, boon, achievement. 42. His doctrine. Romans xiv, 5-9. 50. outward conformity, under royal and episco- pal government. 52. linen decency, the outward conformity of a white surplice is abolished, but the spirit remains. 264. a. I. care not, do not take care, trutl^ sep- arated from truth, i.e., essentials from nonessen- tials. 8. 7vood, and hay, and stubble. See i Corinthians II. subdichotomies, sub-divisions. 16. wheat from the tares. See Matthew xiii, .24- 43- 17- /O', small fish; properly, spawn. 27. extirpate, extirpated. 38. unity of Spirit. Ephesians iv, 3. 45. bejesuited, made into Jesuits. 53. unplausible, unappreciated. 56. see to, look upon, b. 30. Convocation House, where the govern- ing body of the Church of England met. 31. Chapel. The Puritan Assembly of Divine;> met in Henry VII's Chapel at Westminster in 1643, and drew up a Confession of Faith and two Catechisms. 33. canonized, embodied in canons or rules. 34. convincement, argvmient and conviction. 35. supple, cure. 36. edify, build up, establish. 41. liege tombs. Henry VII's Chapel contains several royal tombs beside his own. 47. that we do not give, from giving. Latin con- struction. 56. manage, handle. 265. a. 8. Priests, Pliarisees. See Matthew v, 20. 9. precipitant, precipitate. 18. the beginning of this Parliament. Nov. 3, 1640. 20. Imprimatur. The Licenser's stamp or in- scription, ' Let it be printed.' 27. Moses. See Numbers xi, 28—29. 29. young John. See Luke ix, 50. 32. elders, the leaders of the Presbyterians. 36. let, hindrance. 40. Inquisition. One of the duties of the In- quisition was the prohibition of heretical books. The Dominican Order was especially active in the campaign' against heresy. Both the Inquisition and the Dominicans were especially unpopular as Ro- man Catholic institutions to the Puritan readers to whom Milton was appealing. 52. next before this. The earlier order was passed on Jan. 29, 1642. 57. fire — executioner. Seditious books were burnt in public by the hangman. NOTES 1065 b. 3. authentic, genuine, so-called and really so. 7. Star Chamber, abolished by the Puritans in 1641 owing to its unjust exactions. It had charge, among other things, of licensing. 12. Lucifer. See Isaiah xiv, 12. 17. bind, by recognizances, as people enter into bonds for their good behavior in the English courts. 19. precedent, of Jan. _'9, 1642. 22. doubted, suspected. 24. tnoiiopolizers. The order of 1643 recognized the monopoly of the Stationers' Company, who ap- plied the fees for licensing in part to the ' relief and maintenance of their poor.' 29. divers glossing colors, various specious mis- representations. 32. exercise a superiority, exert authority, have an advantage. 33. neighbors, fellow booksellers. 34—5. therefore — that, to the end that. 36. vassals, subjects. 40. malignant, seditious, royalist. 42. sophisms and elenchs of merchandise, trade sophistries and fallacies. 43. skill not, am not versed in or concerned about. 45. incident, inevitable. 49. what hath been erred, the mistakes that have been made. Latin construction. 50. in, for those in. 51. advertisement, warning. DRYDEN: HEROIC STANZAS Cromwell died on September 3, 1658, and was buried on November 23. When this poem was pub- lished in 1659, there was every appearance that Richard Cromwell was firmly established as his fa- ther's successor. Dryden's family was Puritan, and his admiration of the great Protector was no doubt sincere, though his expression of it is conventional and exaggerated. 266. 1-4. And now 'tis time. At the end of a Roman emperor's funeral ceremonials, they let fly the sacred eagle which was supposed to carry his soul to heaven. 8. authentic, authoritative, beyond dispute. 15. prevent, anticipate. 18. circular, perfectly rounded. 267. 25. bays, garlands. 32. Pompey, who acquired the title of ' Great ' before he was thirty, and brought his career to a culminating point on his forty-fifth birthday B. C. 6i in a great trimphal procession, after that de- clined before the growing influence of Julius Cssar. Cromwell came into public notice at 45, became Protector at 54, and died at the height of his fame at 59 — about the same age as Pompey when he was assassinated. 41. Our former chiefs, the parliamentary gen- erals at the beginning of the war did not press the campaign against the king with vigor, sticklers, umpires, not combatants. 42. poise, balance. 45. consumption, destruction. 48. breathing, letting. When Dryden became a royalist poet, his enemies interpreted this line as a condonation of the execution of Charles I. 49. Kent, became. 51. prevent, anticipate. 56. the vestal. Tarpeia was crushed to death by the shields of the Sabines to whom she betrayed the citadel of Rome on the promise of the shields as reward. 58. That giant-prince. Blake, the great Puritan admiral, died and was buried in Westminster Ab- bey about a year before Cromwell. 64. halcyons, kingfishers. It was an ancient myth that the sea was calm during their breeding season sea, correctly rimed with obey, according to the IMonunciation of the time. ASTR.EA REDUX Immediately after the Restoration Dryden wel- comed that event as a return of the golden age of Justice, this being the significance of the title of his poem. The contrast witli the political senti- ments of the previous poem is as marked as it was sudden. 5. the zvhite (cliffs of Dover). 10. ravish, take away. 13-16. Moses — name. See Exodus xxxiii, 20; xxxiv, 6. 268. 33. Preventing, running before. 36. May. Charles II entered London in 1660 on May 29, his birthday. 39. That star, Venus, which on the day of Charles II's birth shone brightly at noon. 43. whiter, more fortunate. A Latinism. 45. morn, youth. 53. Cronos (later identified with Chronos, Time) in Greek mythology, was said to devour his own offspring. 58. Holland, at this time England's great rival in the eastern trade. Each nation accused the other of misdoings in its foreign possessions, and denied the accusation when leveled against itself. 61. France had reluctantly been Charles II's host during part of his exile. 72. Augustus, the first Roman emperor, whose reign was marked by peace, prosperity, and progress in the arts. ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL This satirical poem, written, it is said, at the suggestion of Charles II, was directed against Shaftesbury, the minister whom Charles had dis- missed, and who had retaliated by arousing public alarm in connection with the Popish Plot and by furthering the claims of the Duke of Monmouth, the king's illegitimate son, to the throne, in opposi- tion to the lawful heir, Charles's brother, the Duke of York, who later succeeded as James II. In November, :68i, when the poem was published, Shaftesbury was a prisoner in the Tower on a charge of high treason, and Dryden's attack was no doubt meant to influence public feeling (and the jury) against him. In this respect it failed, for Shaftesbury was acquitted; but it made a great sensation and remains the most remarkable exam- ple of political satire in the English language. 'The io66 NOTES scriptural allegory is not closely adhered to and serves as a trans])arent veil for personal vitupera- tim. I. Jci usalem, London. 9. David, Charles II. 14. heathen, Roman Catholic. _'o. Jewish rabbins, leading clergy of the Church of England. 269. 24. Plot, the Popish Plot, a Jesuit conspiracy, wliich if it ever existed, was greatly exaggerated for l)oliticaI purposes. 34. Egyptian, French. 35—37. This blaspliemous sneer at the Roman Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation must have been regretted by Dryden after his conversion. 43. court and stews. The king was (justly) sus- pected of being a Roman Catholic; his mistresses were known to be; so was the Duke of York, his brother. 44. Hebrew priests. Church of England clergy- men. 46. God's anointed, the king. One of the re- ports circulated about the Popish Plot was that the conspirators had planned the assassination of Charles II and the placing of his brother, who was a Roman Catholic, on the throne. 57. threat, threaten. 66. Achitophel, Anthony Ashley Cooper, Earl of Shaftesbury, formerly Lord Chancellor, at this time the leader of the party in favor of making the Duke of Monmouth the next heir to the throne and excluding the Duke of York as a Roman Catholic. 68. close, secret. 73- P'g>"y body. Shaftesbury was of small stature and his frame was enfeebled by disease. 78. boast his wit, show off his skill. 86. unfeathered two-lcggcd thing. A humorous description of man ascribed to Plato. Shaftes- bury's heir was a man of ' no ability and insig- nificant character.' 87. huddled, confused. 91. the triple bond, the Triple Alliance of Eng- land, Holland, and Sweden against France, made in 1668 and exceedingly popular in England. It was broken in 1670 without Shaftesbury's knowledge by Charles II, who made a secret treaty with the French king. 96-107. Added in the second edition, after Shaftesbury's acquittal. 104. abbethdin, president of the Jewish judica- ture. Shaftesbury was Lord Chancellor 1672—3. 270. III. cockle, weed. 113. wanted, lacked. Dryden's compliment to himself as David, the sweet singer of Israel, is shameless, but true. His poem has proved ' im- mortal.' ijo. manifest, convicted. A Latinism. 125. more he makes. The charge that Shaftes- bury invented the Plot is absurd; but he undoubt- edly used it for political purposes by fomenting pub- lic agitation. 129. Jebusite. One of the stories current at the time was that the king himself had become a Ro- man Catholic. It is now known that it was true. 135. instinct. Accent on second syllable. 137. warlike Absalom, the favorite son of the Biblical David, here signifying the Duke of Mon- mouth, Charles II's favorite son, though illegiti- mate. He had commanded an expedition sent to suppress a Scottish rising. 140. title not allowed. Monmouth's claim to the succession was barred by his illegitimacy. 143. democracy, then a form of government in disfavor. Dryden was so fond of this line that he repeated it in The Hind and the Panther (p. 273, 1. 211). THE HIND AND THE PANTHER In this religious and satirical allegory, which appeared two years after James II's accession and about a year after Dryden's conversion to Roman Catholicism, the ' milk-white Hind ' stands for the Church of Rome; the Panther, fair but spotted, for the Church of England; and the less attractive beasts for the Puritan sects which were most bit- terly opposed to Romanism. 6. Scythians, famous archers of antiquity. 8. doomed, sentenced, condemned. II. obnoxious, liable to injury from. 13-16. The Roman martyrs in Great Britain since the Reformation. 35. Bear, the Independent, or modern Congrega- tionalist. 37. Hare, Quaker. 39. Ape, Freethinker. 41. Lion, King of England. 271. 43. Boar, Anabaptist. The following lines re- fer to the excesses committed in connection with the Anabaptist rising in Germany in the sixteenth century. 53. Reynard, the Arian. Arius, one of the early heretics of the Christian Church, held that God the Son was not co-existent or co-equal with God the Father; this doctrine was combated by Athanasius and condemned at the Council of Nice. 55. Socinus, an Italian nobleman who revived Arian beliefs in the sixteenth century. 70. her, the Roman Church. 79. Three in One, the doctrine of the Trinity. 93. host, the consecrated wafer of the Eucharist. 95. Impassible, incapable of suffering. 96-9. See John xx, 19—26. 104. quarry, game, object of pursuit. 121. proponent, proposing, putting forth. 272. 128. bilanders, a Dutch word for small coast- ing vessels. 135. A reference to the Roman doctrine of tran- substantiation. 139. His clearest words. 'This is my body.' See Luke xxii, 19. 144. compound, compromise. 152. Polonian, Polish. The Polish Protestants adopted Socinianism. See 11. 54-55. 153. Wolf, Presbyterian. 165. An allusion at once to the Presbyterian doc- trine of predestination and the Puritan habit of cropping the hair close, which made the ears pro- ject. 168. ruled a while. During the Commonwealth. 171. Cambria, Wales. The wolf was exterminated in Wales by the exaction of wolves' heads as NOTES [067 173. Geneva — France. Calvin, originally a Frenchman, was appointed in 1536 Professor of Divinity at Geneva, where he drew up the system of faith and church government afterwards adopted by the French and other Protestants. 176. IVyclif, the English reformer of the four- teenth century. 178. Helvetian, Swiss. 179. Leman, Geneva. 180. Zwinglius, a Swiss Reformer a little earlier than Calvin. 183. sanhedrim, Parliament. 185. Corah. See Numbers xvi. 187. ephod, priestly garment. 189. class, a term in the Presbyterian system of church government. 190. Fox, Reynard, the Arian. 205. a puddle and a wall, the Lake of Geneva and the Alps. 273. 211. See Absalom and Achitophel, p. 270, 1. 143- 2j8. teemless, unproductive. 232. Colchos, the home of the sorceress Medea. 234. common-tvcal, republic. 236. Adam was supposed to have given the beasts their names in the Garden of Eden. 247. allay, alloy. 248. shards, dung, which, it was thought, pro- duced beetles. 262. Lion, the King. 267. commits (sin). 27i. 297. Levees and couchees, early and late en- tertainments at court. 312. James II's Declaration of Indulgence to all dissenters from the Church of England was issued just before the poem was published. The royal favor and protection for Romanism had, of course, been shown before. 333. It was a classical tradition — reversed here by Dryden on his own authority — that the wolf had power to take away the voice of a man it saw first. ALEXANDER'S FEAST This ode was written for a London musical so- ciety, which held an annual festival on Nov. 22, the day of St. Cecilia, reputed the inventor of the organ and the patron saint of music. 1. for Persia won, for the winning of Persia. 2. By Philip's warlike son, Alexander, son of Philip of Macedon, and the conqueror of Persia. 9. Thais, a famous Athenian courtesan who ac- companied Alexander into Asia, and, according to the tradition which Dryden makes use of in this poem, induced him to fire the palace of Persepolis. 17. Timothcus, Alexander's favorite musician. 22. from, with. 275. 64. Darius, the Persian king whom Alexander had conquered. 83. Lydian, soft, sensuous. 113—4. >'^cf — hair. Correctly rimed according to the pronunciation of the time. 276. 139. vocal frame, organ. 147. The tradition was that Cecilia, owing to her virtue and piety, was visited by an angel. ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY a. I. that memorable day, June 3, 1665. b. I. conduct, leadership. 2. /ii.f royal highness, the Duke of York, after- wards James IL 16. Eugenius, Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, who later became Earl of Dorset. Crites, Sir Robert Howard, Dryden's brother-in-law. Lisideius. Sir Charles Sedley. Meander, Dryden himself. 26. the bridge, London bridge. 278. 2. Sir John Suckling. See p. 179. 4. Mr. Waller. See p. 178. 5. Sir John Denham. See p. 181. 7. Mr. Cowley. See p. 183. 57. a genere et fine, a definition of class and ob- ject. b. 16. Thespis (c. 540 B. C), the somewhat fabulous inventor of Greek drama. ■17. Aristophanes (448-c. 388 B.C.), the great Greek comic writer. 30. viituosi, those skilled in the fine arts. 45. pretend, lay claim. 279. a. 25. want, lack. 37. remember, remind. b. II. fable, plot. 280. a. 33. Corneille (1606-84), the great French dramatist, contemporary with Dryden. b. 7. intended, aimed at. 36. wanted, fell short. 281. a. I. Macrobius, c. beginning of fifth century A. D. 7. Tully, Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 B. C). 282. o. 25. lively, lifelike. 283. o. 35. Scaliger (Julius C?esar), 1484-1558. b. 33. inartificial, inartistic. 284. a. 15. shadow, palliate. 28. sock and buskin, the stage shoe of comedy and tragedy respectively. 57. the author, Ben Jonson. b. 28. clenches, playing upon words. 41. Mr. Hales (1584-1656), Greek Professor at Oxford and Fellow of Eton College. 58. precedent, predecessor, model. 285. a. 4. censure, opinion. 27. apt, inclined. b. 20. taxed, accused. 37. comply with, observe. DEFOE: THE TRUE BORN ENGLISHMAN This poem was a reply to an attack on William 111 and the Dutch nation, entitled 77!^ Foreigners. It was so successful in turning popular opinion in the king's favor that he had Defoe sent for to ex- press his obligations to the writer. 286. 11-14. See Matthew xxviii, 19. THE SHORTEST WAY WITH THE DIS- SENTERS The succession of Queen Anne in 1702 disap- pointed Defoe and his nonconformist friends, while it correspondingly encouraged the tory and high church party. The latter pressed for severe meas- ures against the dissenters, who had been tolerated io68 NOTES under William III, and allowed to compromise by ' occasional conformity,' i.e., by going to church on official occasions and attending their own place of worship at other times. Defoe in his pamphlet en- deavored to show the absurdity of the high church position by making extravagant claims on their be- half, although he took occasion to aim a blow now and then at the inconsistency of his own side. The result was that he offended both parties, althougli for a while the high church clergy were so deceived that, according to Defoe, one of them wrote to him that next to the Holy Bible and Sacred Comments he held The Shortest Way with the Dissenters ' as the most valuable thing I can have. I look upon it as the Only Method! and I pray God to put it into the heart of our most gracious Queen, to put what is there proposed in execution.' 287. b. 10. Sir Roger L' Estrange, a prolific pam- phleteer, the founder in 1665 of the Gasctte, the first English newspaper which has continued to appear regularly ever since. It is the official organ of the British Government. 22. some people, the Nonconformists. 33. fourteen years, from the Revolution of 1688 to 1702. 35. church, the Church of England. Z7. sort, set, lot. 41. reproach of the wicked. Writing in the char- acter of a high church clergyman, Defoe imitates Scripture phraseology. 288. a. 8. Act of Toleration (1689), relieving the nonconformists from penalties for not attending the services of the Church of England. 15. abjurations. The clergy were required to take an oath of fidelity to William III and abjure their allegiance to James. Many refused and were deprived of their livings. 28. a war. William engaged, with varying suc- cess, in a prolonged struggle against Louis XIV of France. 34. in France. After the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685, the Huguenots were forced to conform or leave the country. 38—40. one king — another , , . a third. Charles I, James II, William III. 42. the fourth, Anne. b, 40. a sordid impostor, Oliver Cromwell. 289. a. 23-4. Just such measure — again. See Mat- thew vii, 2. 41. regicides, the judges who condemned Charles I. 52. Rye House Plot (1682-3), a conspiracy to as- sassinate Charles II and his brother James. 55. unusual favor. James was in favor of toler- ation to both Puritan and Roman Catholic dissent- eis; but the Puritans, suspecting that his designs were really directed to Roman Catholic supremacy, joined in the movement against him. b. 20. a king of their own, William III. 31. Scotland. The Church of Scotland, with the consent of William III, abolished episcopacy, and has ever since been presbyterian in its form of gov- ernment. 290. a. 32. the right heir. The high church Tories who had remained loyal to James II looked forward to putting his son on the throne at the death of Anne. The Elector of Hanover, who became George I> was not in the direct line of succession. 34. ridiculous settlements. The act of Settlement, passed by Parliament in 1701, vested the succession in the House of Hanover. 48. French king. Louis XIV expelled 400,000 Huguenots. h. 2. some animals, rats. 22. the common enemy, France. 291. a. 17. Monmouth, beheaded after the rebellion of 1685. 18. Shaftesbury, died in exile 1683. Argyle, head of a Scottish rising against James; executed 1685. 28. experimentally, as a result of experience. 56. impossible (if the dissenters are tolerated). b. 18-19. What will — spoken fort See Song (if Solomon viii, 8. jj. enthusiasm was associated with dissenters, and generally regarded with disfavor in the eighteenth century. 45. sensitive, of the senses, physical, these, the dissenters. 292. a. 24. Amalekitc race. The enemies of Israel in Canaan. See i Samuel xv. 42. Moses — Israelites. See Exodus xxxii, 28 The number given there is, however, three thousand. 57. gallows instead of the counter, hanging in- stead of imprisonment. 58. coJtntcr, a city prison, galleys, enslavement to the oar in a galley. b. I. conventicle, a gathering of dissenters for worship. 5 sheriffs and mayors. It was the custom of dis- senters to go to Church on 'their appointment to of- ficial positions, in accordance with the law. 34. hang men for trifles. Hanging was the pun- ishment for stealing in England up to 1823. 293. b. 53. humor, spirit, influence. 294. a. 39. religious houses, convents, which were at this time illegal. 40. meeting houses, for nonconformist worship. PREFACE TO THE REVIEW The Review, begun on Feb. 19, 1704, and pub- lished first once, then twice a week, for nine years gave Defoe scope for his talents as a journalist. The original title was A Review of the Affairs of France and of all Europe, as influenced by that Na- tion, France being at that time the center of Eu- ropean politics. Defoe discussed not only politics but trade and current gossip; he invented not only editorial comment, which was before unknown, but personal interviews, scandalous personalities, answers to correspondents, and many other features of the modern newspaper. The numbers of the Review were issued afterwards in annual volumes, and in this preface to Vol. I Defoe sets forth his motives and aims in the undertaking. 29-1. b. 42. the M'ise Man, Solomon. 47. first design. See the original title, as given above. 295. a. 15. Marlborough, the great English general who defeated the French at Blenlieim, Aug. 13, 1704. The war continued for several years. b. 24. negoce, commerce. NOTES 1069 296. b. 2. its birth. The design of the Review was conceived by Defoe in prison. 297. a. 10. D. F. Daniel Foe. The name Defoe was adopted by the author a year later. THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN The Essay upon Projects, from which this paper is taken, was written in 1692, but first printed in 1697. 297. a. 27. convcrsibte, fit for human intercourse. b. 13. zvit, intellectual ability. 32. more tongues than one. Milton is reported to have said that one tongue was enough for any woman. 43. genius, natural ability. 298. a. 17. female government, government by women. SWIFT: A TALE OF A TUB 299. A Tale of a Tub. ' Seamen have a custom, when they meet a whale, to fling him out an empty tub by way of amuse- ment, to divert him from laying violent hands upon the ship . . . the whale was interpreted to be Hobbes's Leviathan , . , whence' the wits of our age are said to borrow their weapons . . . and it was decreed, that, in order to prevent these Leviathans from tossing and sporting with the Com- monwealth . . . they should be diverted from that game by a Tale of a Tub.' (Swift's Preface.) 300. a. 32. d'Argent, of wealth, de Grands Titrcs, of distinguished titles. 33. d'Orgueil, of pride. 49. Locket's, a famous ordinary, or tavern, at Charing Cross. Will's coffee-house. See below, 325. a. 34, note. b. 24. grande monde, world of fashion. 37. Jupiter Capitolinus. From his temple on the Capitoline Hill, Rome. 301. a. 12. They held the universe to be a large suit of clothes, etc. Compare Carlyle's Sartor Re- sartus. 16. primum mobile. In the Ptolemaic cosmogony, the outer or tenth revolving sphere. b. 21. ex traduce. From the root; from the original stock. 302. a. 32. shoulder-knots. This fashion had been introduced from France in the reign of Charles II. See Taller, No. 82. 35. ruelles, private gatherings. 303. a. 38. nuncupatory and scriptory, verbal and written. b. 23. >«.v lord C — and Sir J. W. have not been identified. 305. a. 41. fonde, fund, stock, capital. 307. a. 1-3. Varias inducere . . . piscem. Hor- ace, Ars Poetica, 11. 2 and 4. 312. b. 49. Newgate. The London prison for debt- ors and malefactors. 52. Exchange women. Women who kept shops in the piazzas of the Royal Exchange. For Steele's description, see p. 333. 54. the mobile, the mob. Latin, mobile vulgus. 314. a. 58. The philosopher's stone and the uni- versal medicine. Sought by medieval alchemists and mystics. 315. b. I. the giant Laurcalco. Inaccurate allusion to the passage {Don Quixote, Bk. I, Chap. XVIII) in which Don Quixote mistakes a flock of sheep for an army. ' That knight — is the valorous Laur- calco, Lord of the Silver Bridge.' b. 16—17. "" ancient temple . . . upon Salis- bury plain. Probably Stonehenge. 316. a. 4. a disease . . . the stinging of the tarantula. Taranlism, or dancing mania, was sup- posed to be so caused, and curable only by music or dancing. a. 9. Westminster-hall, etc. Places noteworthy for their noises; Westminster Hall frequented by lawyers; Billingsgate famous for the bad language of its fish-wives; the Royal Exchange a center for brokers and merchants of all nations. b. 7. janizary, a mercenary soldier in the bodyguard of the Sultan, in the middle ages. 318. b. 10. a spunging house. A tavern for the temporary detention of persons arrested for debt. A MEDITATION UPON A BROOMSTICK Hon. Robert Boyle (1627-1691). A celebrated scientist, ' The father of chemistry and brother to the Earl of Cork.' One of the original members of the Royal Society. Swift's essay travesties the platitudinous moralizing of his religious meditations. A MODEST PROPOSAL 321. b. 25. the famous Psalmanazar. George Psalmanazar, a notorious impostor, pretended to be a native of Formosa, of which he published a De- scription in 1705. 323. a. 16. Topinamboo. A district of Brazil. STEELE: THE TATLER 325. a. 33. White's Chocolate-house. In St. James's Street. Famous for gambling. 34. Will's Coffee-house. No. i, Bow Street, Covent Garden. Originally kept by William Ur- win. Pepy's Diary mentions it, Feb. 3, 1663, as a resort of Dryden and notable for ' very witty and pleasant discourse.' 35. Grecian. Coffee-house in the Strand, orig- inally kept by a Greek named Constantine, had been a resort of Newton, other members of the Royal Society, and Templars. 36. Saint James's Coffee-house. Near St. James's Palace. A resort of Whig statesmen, military men, and men of fashion. 45. plain Spanish. A simple wine. 48. kidney, temper, humor. A pun on the name of one of the waiters. b. I. casting a figure. Determining the horo- scope. THE SPECTATOR 326. a. 39. Lord Rochester. John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-80), a fashionable rake and poet of the Restoration period. Sir George Etherege (1639-94). The Restoration dramatist. Like Rochester, a courtly rake. 41. Bully Dawson, d. 1699. A notorious swag- gerer and gamester. 1 070 NOTES b. 15. Inner Temple. One of tlie Inns of Court. 24. Aristotle, etc. The reference is to his Poetics. 25. Longinus. Greek Philosopher, third century A. D., to whom the essay. On Sublnnity, is doubt- fully ascribed. 26. Littleton or Coke. Sir Thomas Littleton (1402-1481) and Sir Edward Coke (1552-1634) were members of the Inner Temple (above, b. 15). A work of the first with commentary by the second used to be the English authority on the law of real property. 36. Demosthenes. The greatest Greek Orator (384-322 B. C). Tully. Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 B.C.), Roman orator and philosopher. 5-8. The Rose. A tavern adjoining Drury Lane Theater. 327. a. 6. the city of London. The central or busi- ness district is so called. Again below, 334. b. 11. 328. a. 10. Duke of Monmouth. The Absolom of Uryden's Absolom and Achitophel. See above, 268 329. a. 43. Sir Richard Blockmore (c. i6so-i7-'9). Physician to William III, and a poet of repute in his day. 332. a. 29. Martial (Bk. I, 69), Latin poet, first century A. D. b. 55. Strand Bridge. A landing pier at the foot of Strand Lane, giving access to the Strand. 333. a. 19. The I'ainlovcs. Vainlove is 'a ca- pricious lover ' in Congreve's comedy. The Old Bachelor, 334. b. 1. Robin's. A coffee-house in Exchange Al- ley, frequented by brokers. II. the city. See 327. a. 6, note. ADDISON: THE SPECTATOR 336 b. 22 Child's. Cofifee-house in St. Paul's Churchyard. 30. the Cocoa-tree. A chocolate-house frequented by tories as St. James's by whigs. The Spectator pretends to patronize both. 31-2. Drury Lane and the Haymarket. The two principal theaters of London. The Theater Royal in Drury Lane, designed by Sir Christopher Wren, had been opened in 1674. The Haymarket Opera House, designed and built by Sir John Van Brugh, had been opened in 1705. 36. Jonathan's. Coffee-house in Cornhill. ' The general mart for stock-jobbers.' {Tatler, No. 38.) 337. b. 8. Mr. Buckley's. Buckley was the pub- lisher. 9. Little Britain. A street in London. 341. a. 25. Moll White The witch described in Spectator, No. 117 342. a. II. The Committee (1665). Comedy by Sir Robert Howard. 15. Distressed Mother. Adaptation, by Ambrose I'hilips, of Racine's Andromaque. Produced 171 2. 24. The Mohocks. Some ruffianly carousers of the upper classes assumed this name. They com- mitted a series of outrages in 1712. 345. b. 49. Mr. Cowley, etc. See Cowley's Davideis iii, 403—4. 26. Callus, Caius Cornelius (c. 69-26). Roman poet and general. Propertius, Scxtus (c. 50-16 B.C.), poet. 27. Horace. Ouinlus Horatius Flaccus (65-8 B. C.)., the Roman poet. I'arius. Lucius Varius Rufus, ist century B.C. Tucca, Plotius Tucta and Lucius Varius were Virgil's literary executors. Ovid. Publius Ovidius Naso (43 B. C.-c. 17 A. D.). 28. Bavius and Maevius. Inferior Ronian poets mentioned by Virgil (Eel. iii) and Horace {Epode x). 347. a. 40. Sir John Denham. See p. 181. 56. The Art of Criticism. Pope's Essay on Criticism. See p. 350. b. 18. Boileau (1636-1711). French critic and poet. 48. Petronius .irbitcr. Roman satirical author. Died c 66 A. D. Quintilian. Marcus Fabius Quintilianus (c 35— c. 95 A. D.), Roman rhetorician. 49. Longinus. See 326. b. 25, note. 348. b. 1-2. Essay on Translated Verse. By Went- worth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon (1634-85). 2-3. Essay on the Art of Poetry. By John Shef- field, Duke of Buckinghamshire (i 649-1 721). 47. The path of an arrow.' Wisdom of Solomon, v, 12-13. The quotation is inaccurate. 349. a. 47. Sir Cloudesley Shovel. Commander of the British fleets from 1705. Drowned 1707. POPE: AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM 351. 34. Mavius. See Addison's comment, p. 347. 352. 129—30. the Mantuan Muse , . . young Maro. Virgil. See 783. 19, note, 138. the Stajirite. Aristotle. 353. 180. Homer nods. Allusion to Horace, Ars Poctica, 359. 216. the Pierian Spring. Pieria in Thessaly was the reputed birthplace of the Muses. 354 248. E'en thine, O Rome. St. Peter's. 267. La Mancha's Knight. Don Quixote. 270. Dennis — stage. John Dennis, the critic and playwright, made sententious references to the dra- niatic precepts of Aristotle. This allusion and an- other, lines 585-591, initiated Pope's quarrel with him. 328. Fungoso. A character in Ben Jonson's Every Man Out of His Humour, who tries, with- out success, to keep up with court fashions. 355. 356. Alexandrine. The succeeding line is an example. 361. Denham. See p. 181 Waller. See p. 178. 372. Camilla. In Virgil's Aeneid vii, 808—11. 374-383- Compare Dryden's Alexander's Feast, p. 274. 376. Son of Libyan Jove. Alexander the Great. 391. Approve, test, put to the proof. 356. 441. Sentences. The Sententiae of Peter Lom- bard, 12th century. 444. Scotists and Thomists. Followers of the thirteenth century schoolmen, Duns Scotus and Thomas Aquinas. 463. Blackmorcs. See 329. a. 43, note. B. at- tacked Dryden in A Satire on Wit.' NOTES 1071 Milbourns. Luke Milboiirn, a clergyman, at- tacked Dryden's translation of Virgil. 465. Zoilus. Greek critic of the 4th century B. C, said to have been put to death for criticiz- ing Homer. 357. 483. Such as Cliaucer is. Pope and his gener- ation regarded Chaucer as obsolete. 527. Spleen, anger, ill-temper. 556. love was all an easy Monarch's care. The reign of Charles II is referred to. 544. a foreign reign. That of William III. 545. Socinus, Italian unitarian of the sixteenth century. THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 358. 3. Caryl. John Caryl, a friend and corre- spondent of Pope. 4. Belinda. Miss Arabella Fermor, a belle of the period from whom the lock celebrated in the poem was stolen. 8. a well-bred lord. Lord Petre, who had stolen the curl. 17. the slipper knocked the ground. Rapping for the servant. 56. ombre. See 362. 27, note. 73. Spark. A beau, a lady-killer. CANTO II 360. 25. springes. Snares, of. Hamlet, I. iii, 115. 361. 113. drops, earrings. 133, Ixion. For an offense to Zeus, fastened to an eternally revolving wheel in Hades. CANTO III 3. a structure of majestic frame. Hampton Court, one of the royal residences. 27. ombre. A game of cards, of Spanish origin, usually played by three persons. 362. 47. Matadores. The three highest cards at ombre. 49. Spadillio. Ace of Spades. 51. Manillio. The two of a black, the seven of a red, trump. 53. Basto. Ace of clubs. 61. Pam. Knave of clubs, the highest card in the game of loo. 9^. codille. Failure to get the requisite tricks. 363. 122-24. Scylla's fate . . . Nisiis' injured hair. Pope's note refers to Ovid, Meiam. viii. 151. cut the sylph in twain. Compare Par. Lost vi, 330. 165. Alalantis. A book of contemporary scandal by Mrs. Manley, The New Atalantis (1709). CANTO IV 364. 16. Spleen. See 357. 5-'7. note. 24. Megrim. Tired feeling, the blues. 89. Thalestris. One Mrs. Morley. 365. 118. the sound of Bow. St. Mary Le Bow, in Cheapside, the heart of the city, was famous for its peal of bells. 121. Sir Plume. Sir George Brown. He threat- ened Pope with violence for this delightfully ma- licious caricature. 156. bohca. \ kind of tea, from the Chinese province whence it was first imported in 1666. CANTO V 366. 5. The Trojan. /Eneas. See JEneid iv, 296 ff. 62. Dappcrwit. ' A brisk, conceited, half-witted fellow of the town ' bears this name in Wycher- ley's Love in a Wood. 367. 63. Sir Fopling. Suggested, perhaps, by Sir Fopling Flutter in Etherege's The Man of Mode. 65. Meander. A river of Asia Minor frequently mentioned in classical poetry. Celebrated for its windings. 125. Rome's great founder. Romulus. 126. Proculus. The legend is given in Livy I, 6. 136. Rosamonda's lake. A pond in St. James's Park. 137. Partridge. An astrologer and almanac maker ridiculed by Swift in his Bickerstaff papers. 138. Galileo's eyes. The telescope. 368. 140. Louis. Louis XI\', King of France. Rome. The Papacy. EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT Dr. John Arbuthnot was Pope's friend and phy- sician, a wit and a man of letters. 13. gentle Fanny's. John, Lord Hervey, a friend of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, was frequently lampooned by Pope, under this name. 15. Gildon, Charles (1665-1724). A hack writer. Pope pretended to believe that Addison had paid Gildon to defame him; hence, 'venal.' 20. Bedlam. Bethlehem hospital for the insane. the Mint. A part of Southwark London, in which criminals and debtors could take refuge from ar- rest. 29. The bard . . . renown. Ambrose Philips, whose pastorals had excited Pope's jealousy. 40. Tate, Nahum, a poetaster of the Restoration period, celebrated for his atrocious adaptations of Shakspere's plays. 59. Cato. An allusion to Addison's drama. THOMSON: SUMMER 370. 50. Stygian, dark. From Styx, one of the riv- ers of Hades. THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE 374. 32. Philomel, the nightingale. 375. 75. the rural poets. Those who treated pas- toral subjects. 76. Arcadian. See Life of Sidney, p. 81. Sicilian. Sicily was the home of a group of pas- toral poets of whom the chief was Theocritus. 98. Lorraine. Claude Lorrain (1600-82), French landscape painter. 99. Rosa, Salvator (c. 1615-1673). Neapolitan painter noted for his battle pieces. Poussin. Doubtless Nicholas Poussin (1594- 1665). French landscape and historical painter. 131. mell, mingle, mix. 1072 NOTES MINOR POETS — YOUNG TO CIIATTERTON JOHN gay: the shepherd's week 379. 67. Jack Pudding. A popular nickname for a clown or mountebank's assistant. 68. Toffs, doffs, draws off. There is an old popu- lar amusement called ' draw the glove.' See Brand's Popular Antiquities. 69. raree-shows, peep-shows. 71. ' the children in the wood.' This famous old ballad is in Percy's Reliques. 74. fauchion, falchion. See 404. 62, note. 79-80. For buxom Joan . . . the maid a wife. The words and music of this song are in D'Urfrey's Pills to Purge Melancholy, Vol. Ill, pp. 220-221. 82. Chevy-Chace. For this ballad, see p. 42. 91. He sung of Taffy Welch, and Satvney Scot. Taffy (Davy) is the regular nickname for a Welsh- man, Saivney (Sandy) for a Scotchman. The refer- ence may be to The National Quarrel, D'Urfey's Pills to Purge Melancholy, Vol. II, p. 76. 92. Lilly-bullero. A political ballad which was popular during the Protestant Revolution of 1688. The refrain is drawn from an old Irish song. The Irish Trot. Possibly tlie ribald old song, called The Irish Jigg, which is given in D'Urfey's collection, v, 108. 93. Bateman. The reference is to Bateman's Tragedy, preserved in Ritson's Ancient Songs, etc. (ed. Hazlitt), p. 231. Shore. Jane Shore, the mistress of King Edward IV, was a celebrated character in ballad and drama. See Percy, Reliques, and D'Urfey's Pills to Purge Melancholy, iv, 273. 94. Wantley's Dragon . . . Moore. The air and words are in D'Urfrey's collection. Vol. Ill, p. 10. 95. the bower of Rosamond. Rosamond Clifford, the mistress of King Henry II, was the subject of many popular legends, among which was that of the subterranean labyrinth known as Rosamond's bower. Fair Rosamond is the title of a ballad in Percy's Reliques. Robin Hood. For examples of the Robin Hood ballads, see pp. 38-42. 96. And how the grass, etc. The ballad of Troy town is in Percy's Reliques. In D'Urfrey's Pills to Purge Melancholy, iv, 266, we meet with a ballad called The Wandering Prince of Troy, which con- tains the line, ' And corn now grows where Troy town stood.' JOHN dyer: grongar hill 381. 23. Towy's flood. The river Towy. in Wales, flows south into Caermarthen Bay. WILLIAM shenstone: the schoolmistress 383. 15. Tway, two. 56. Sternhold, Thomas (c. 1500-1549), with John Hopkins wrote a metrical version of the Psalms. 60—64. How Israel's sons . . . sing. Psalm 137- ' By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept,' etc. 384. 73. like that of Scottish stem. A stone of supposed miraculous properties formed a part of the Scottish coronation chair at Scone. Edward I car- ried it off to Westminster in token of the subju- gation of Scotland in 1297. It has since been a part of the chair in which all English sovereigns are crowned. 102. Mulla's silver stream. The river Mulla flowed near Kilcolman Castle, Spenser's home in Ireland. See Life of Spenser, p. 104. 108. ermilin, ermine. WILLIAM COLLINS! ODE TO SIMPLICITY 387. 14. Hybla's thymy shore. Mount llybia in Sicily is celebrated in classical poetry for the sweet- ness of its honey. 16-18. By her . . . Electro's pocfs car. 'The nightingale for which Sophocles seems to have en- tertained a peculiar fondness.' (Collins.) 19. Cephisus. A river of Attica. 35. One distinguished throne. Augustus Caesar. 52. reed. The symbol of pastoral poetry. 388. 75. their chaste-cy'd queen. Diana. 86. Tempe. A valley adjacent to Olympus in Thessaly. See, also, 636. 11, note. 389. 104. Devote, devoted. 114. Cecilia's mingled ivorld of sound. Compare Dryden, Alexander's Feast, 276. 138. THOMAS WARTON : THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR 4. Cilgarran's castle hall. There are ruins of a thirteenth century castle at Kilgerran, in Southern Wales. 6. Henry. King Henry II, on his expedition for the conquest of Wales and Ireland. 8. Shannon's lakes. Shannon, the principal river of Ireland, flows through a chain of lakes. 12. metheglin, mead, liquor. A Celtic beverage. 20. Mono, Anglesea, an island and county of North Wales. 21. Teivi, the river Teifi, which flows westward into Cardigan Bay. 22. Elvy's vale. Valley of the river Elwy, in Northwestern Wales. Coder's crown. Cader Idris, a mountain in Northwestern Wales. 24. I erne's hoarse abyss. The Irish Sea. 26. Radnor's . . . mountains. Radnor is a county in the interior of Wales. 33. Tintagell. A village on the coast of Corn- wall, the reputed birthplace of King Arthur. 40. Canilan's crimson' d banks. According to legend Arthur perished in the battle of Camlan (c. 542). 41. Mordred. See Malory's Morte d'Arthur, p. :9 ff. 50. Merlin's agate-axled car. An invention of the n)agician Merlin. SONNETS: DUGDALe's MONASTICON A huge compilation of English monastic history by Sir William Dugdale (1605-1686) is ordinarily known as Dugdale's Monasticon. 390. 5. Henry's fiercer rage. Henry VIII's disrup tion of the monasteries. NOTES 1073 WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE Warton here summarizes the various legends known to him concerning the origin and meaning of the celebrated pre-historic ruin in Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire. 2. Scythia's shore. An indefinite term fur nurtli- east Europe and adjacent parts of Asia, employed with varying meaning by the ancients. 3. Amber. Tlie Islands in the North Sea were vaguely known to the Greeks as the Amber Islamls. Pendragon, Uther. The father of King Arthur. THOMAS CHATTERTON : BRISTOWE TRAGEUIE This poem is probably based on the story of Sir Baldwin Fulford, who was executed at Bristol in 1461. With many others who fought on the Lan- castrian side he was a victim of an act of attainder which followed the accession of Edward IV. William Canynge, who figures in this and other poems of Chatterton, is a historical personage, and was mayor of Bristol at the time of Fulford's exe- cution. 13. nappy, sparkling. 391. 58. rewyn'd, ruined. 73. reines, reins, kidneys. 392. 141. goddelyke Henry. King Henvy VI, lived in captivity for ten years after the accession of Edward. 183. Richard's sonnes. Richard, Duke of York, v/as father of Edward IV and Richard III. 393. 263. enshone, showed. 271. russet weedes, Homespun clothes. 272. plyghte, weave, texture. 276. bataunt, Chatterton's invention; no such in- strument is known. 288. route, troop, company. 394. 306. mycle, much. 335. Gloucester. Afterward King Richard III. 347. glysterr, glisten. MYNSTRELLES SONGE 895. 3. hallie, holy. 10. Rodde, red. 11. cale, cold. 15. Swote, sweet. 25. heie, they. 38. Seyncte, Saint. 39. celness, coldness. 43. dente, fasten. 44. gre, grow. 45. Ouphante, elfin. 46. bee, bow. 58. leathalle, lethal, deadly. THOMAS GRAY: SONNET ON THE DEATH OF MR. RICHARD WEST Richard West, son of the Lord Chancellor of Ire- land, had been Gray's most intimate friend at Eton and his constant correspondent while they were at Oxford and Cambridge respectively. See also the sketch of Gray, p. 396. AN ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE 396. 4. Her Henry's holy Shade. Eton College was founded by King Henry VI in 1440. See, also, 392. a. 141, note. 397. 6. Windsor's heights, etc. Windsor Castle, overlooking Eton, is one of the royal residences. HYMN TO ADVERSITY 398. 35. Gorgon, the terror-inspiring image on the shield of Pallas .\lliene, goddess of wisdom. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- YARD 399. 57. Hampden (John 1594-1643). One of the chief heroes of the Puritan revolt. Resisted the collection of ship-money, 1637-38. THE PROGRESS OF POESY 400. I. JEolian lyre. The lyre of Pindar who be- luuged to the .-Eolian division of the Greek race. See, also, p. 163, A Pindaric Ode, note. 3. Helicon. See 244. 15. note. 9. Ceres' golden reign. Fields ruled by Ceres, goddess of grain and harvest. 17. On Thracia's hills, etc. Thrace was thought to be a favorite haunt of Mars. 21. the feathered king. Jove's eagle, symbolical of the thunderbolt. 27. Idalia. An ancient town in Cyprus conse- crated to Venus. 29. Cytherea's Day. The day for the worship of Venus. 401. 53. Hyperion's 66. Delphi's steep. See 450. 517, note. 68. llisstis. A small Athens. 69. Mceander. The river Maeander in .As 83—94. Shakspere. 95—102. Milton. 112. what daring spirit, etc. Gray himself. 115. the Theban Eagle. ' Pindar compares him- self to that bird, and his enemies to ravens that croak and clamor in vain below, while it pursues its flight, regardless of their noise.' (Gray.) THE BARD ' The following ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when In- completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the bards that fell into his hands to be put to death.' (Gray.) ' The massacre of the bards is a mere fable.' (J. R. Green.) 402. a. 5. Hauberk's twisted mail. A close-titting shirt of steel ringlets. 8. Cambria. Wales. II. Snowdon-. The highest mountain in England or Wales. The name applies also to the mountain- ous tract of which this peak is a part. 13. Closter. 'Gilbert de Clare, surnamed the Red, Earl of Gloucester and Hertford, son-in-law to King Edward.' (Gray.) 14. Mortimer. ' Edmond de Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore. A Lord Marcher.' (Gray.) larcli. The sunrise. The seat of the (ireek oracle. stream flowing through Minor. I074 NOTES 28. high-born Hod. Son of Prince Owain Uwyneild of north Wales. A warrior and poet. Llewellyn, possibly Llewellyn ap Jorwerth, the Welsh leader, is meant. 29. Ctnlwallo. A common Welsh bardic name. 31. Uricn. A Welsh warrior and bard of the sixth century. 33. Modrcd. No bard of this name is known. 34. Plinlimmon. A mountain on the border of Cardigan and Montgomery, in Wales. 35. Arvon's shore. The shores of Caernarvon shire opposite Anglesey. (Gray.) 54-56. When Severn ... an agonizing King. Edward II was murdered in Berkeley castle in Sep- tember, 1327. 57. She-lVolf of France, etc. Isabel of France, Edward the Second's adulterous queen. 59-66. King Edward III. 67. the sable Warrior. The Rlack Prince. 71-82. Reign of Richard II. 403. 85. Long years of havoc. Wars of the Roses. 87. Towers of Julius. The Tower of London, ac- cording to tradition, built by Julius Caesar. See Shakspere's Richard HI, iii, i. There is no author- ity to confirm the trad'tion. (Wheatley and Cun- ningham: London Past and Present.) 89. his Consort's faith. Margaret of Anjou. his father's fame. The military glory of Henry V. 90. the meek Usnrl^cr's holy head. Henry VI was noted for his piety. 93. The bristled Boar. The insignia of Richard III. infant gore. Of the murdered princes. 110. ye genuine Kings. The Tudor line, begin- ning with Henry VII. Ill— 124. The reign of Queen Elisabeth. 121. Taliessin. Cymric bard of the sixth cen- tury. 125-27. Spenser. 128-30. Shakspere. 131-34. Milton and succeeding poets. THE FATAL SISTERS Written in 1761. The text of the poem from which Gray derived these stanzas may be found, with a prose translation, in Corpus Poeticuni Boreale, Vol. I, pp. 281-83. It is an Icelandic poem of the eleventh century celebrating an invasion of Ireland by a Norse hero, Sictrygg, who was as- sisted by Sigurd, Earl of the Orkneys. Sigurd and Brian, the Irish king, fall in the battle. The Valkries are imagined weaving the web of battle. The title of the original is Darradar-Liod [Lay of Ihe Darts]. 404. 8. Orkney's woe. The woe of Sigurd, Earl of Orkney. Randver's bane. Direct from the original. Rand- ver's destruction. 17-31. Mista . . . Sangrida . . . Hilda Gondula . . . Geira. The names of the Valkyries in the original are Hilda, Hiorthrimol, Sangrida, and Swipol. 44. Soon a King, etc. Brian, King of Dublin. 45. Eirin. Ireland. 62. falchion. A short sword, bellied near tlic tip. JOHNSON: TIIK LIFE OF ADDISON 406. (I. 25. the Cliarticux. Originally a Carthusian monastery iu l.diid.in. Endowed in 1611 as a hos- pital and boys' school. Usually known as the Char- terhouse. b. 36. Boilcau. See 347. b. 18, note. :i7. says Tickcll. Thomas Tickell (]6S6-i74o). Addison's friend and elegist, contributed a bio- giai)hical preface to the collective edition of Addi- son's works published by Jacob Tonson in 1721. 411. a. 44. Cihber. In his .-Ifologv for the Life of .Mr. Collcy Cibbcr (1740). /'. 40. ' heavily in clouds . . . day.' Ouoted from the opening lines of Cato. 48. The Distressed Mother. See 342. a. 16. note. 412. a. I. Bolingbrokc. Henry St. John, N'iscount Bolingbroke, the Tory leader. 2. Booth. Barton Booth (1681-1733), who played Cato. 13. Mrs. Porter. An excellent actress who played the [lart of Lucia. 414. a. 54. Milton against King Charles IL De- fense of England against Satmasius, Chap. viii. b. I. Oldmixon, John (1653-1742), has a prominent place in Pope's Dunciad. 417. a. 38. Chesterfield. Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield (1694-1773). For Johnson's relations with him, see p. 420 and note. b. 13. Terence. Publius Terentius Afer, Ro- man comic poet of the second century B. C. Catullus, Caius X'alerius. Brilliant Roman poet, contemporary with Julius Caesar. 418. b. 23. Mandcville, Bernard (1670-1733), au- thor of Fable of the Bees. 419. a. 35. ' above all Greek . . . fame.' Pope, To .4ugustus, 26. 44-5. ' turned many to righteousness.' Dan. 1.2, 3- b. 24. Mitle . . . habet. Tibullus 14. LETTERS "( To the . . . Earl of Chesterfield. Of the oc- casion of this famous letter Johnson said to Boswell: ' Sir, after making great professions, he had, for many years, taken no notice of me; but when my Dictionary was coming out, he fell a scribbling in The World about it. L'pon which, I wrote him a letter expressed in civil terms, but such as might shew him that I did not mind what he said or wrote, and that I had done with him.' (Hill's Bos- well, I, 301.) 420. a. 8. the proprietor of The World. Edward Moore, an old acquaintance of Johnson's. 46. The shepherd in Virgil. Eclogue viii, 43, ff. 58. till I am solitary. Johnson's wife had died three years before. b. 22. Mr. James Macpherson. Johnson had publicly declared that the poems of Ossian which Macpherson claimed to have translated from the Gaelic were forgeries. Macpherson threatened phys- ical vengeance and this celebrated letter, Johnson said, ' put an end to our correspondence.' NOTES 1075 THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES 421. n. Wolsey. This passage is largely based on the picture of Cardinal Wolsey in Shakspere and I'letcher's Henry VIII. 422. 68. Swedish Charles. Charles XII (1682- 171 8), defeated by Peter the Great, at Pultowa, July 8, 1709. Killed at Frederikshald, Norway. JAMES BOSWELL: THE LIFE OF JOHNSON 423. a, 38. The accession of George the Third. October 25, 1760. b. 56. Mr. Thomas Sheridan. The father of the dramatist, Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 425. a. 39. Collins. See p. 386. 428. a. 7-8. Messieurs Thornton, Wilkes. Churchill, and Lloyd. Wits of the time all of whom except Wilkes had been members, with William Cowper, of the Nonsense Club. 430. a. 57. Colley Cibber. Poet laureate, 1730-57. b. 24. Whitehead, William (1715—85). He suc- ceeded Cibber as poet laureate. 41-2. His Ode which begins, etc. The Bard. See p. 402. 432. a. 33. Dr. Goldsmith. See below, p. 463. b. 51. Mr. Burke. See below, p. 443. 54. Mr. Malone. Edmond Malone (1741— 181-'), the great Shakspere scholar, assisted Boswell in pre- paring the Life of Johnson for the press. 433. a. 35. A^i7ij7 quod tctigit, etc. Inaccurate and often quoted in this form. Johnson wrote Qui nullum fere scribendi genus non tetigit, nullum quod tetigit non ornavit. [Who left hardly any species of writing untouched and touched none that he did not adorn it.] 54. un etourdi, a rattle-head. b. 15. Fantoccini, puppets. 434. a. 3. Mrs. Piozzi. Formerly the wife of Henry Thrale (d. 1781), one of Johnson's most inti- mate friends. She published Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson (1786), Letters to and from Dr. Johnson (1788). Sir John Hawkins. A member of Johnson's Club, published a Life in 1787. b, 24. Miss Williams. One of the many re- cipients of Johnson's eccentric charity. 436. b. 42. Dr. Adam Smith (1723-1790). Author of The Wealth of Nations. 438. b. 5. The Old Swan, Swan Stairs. The landing here and the walk to Billingsgate beyond London Bridge were made in order to avoid the risk of ' shooting the bridge.' 439. b. 27. Turk's Head coffee-house. In the Strand. Johnson said, on an earlier occasion, ' I encourage this house, for the mistress of it is a good civil woman and has not much business.' See be- low, p. 440. 442. b. 18. Bishop Berkeley's ingenious sophistry. In his Principles of Human Knowledge (1710), BURKE: SPEECH FOR CONCILIATION 444. a. 14. Sensible, concrete, such as the senses can perceive. 445. b. 7. Gothic, We should say Teutonic. 34. Blackstone's Commentaties. The great law treatise published (i 765-1 769) by Sir William Blackstone. 35. General Gage. Governor of Massachusetts, 1774. 446. a. I. Abeunt studia, etc. Compare Bacon, 199. b. 36, and note. with all its imperfections on its head. Hamlet I, V. 79. 447. a. 25. Lord Dunmore. Governor of New York, and later of Virginia. 448. b. 10-11. 'Increase and multiply.' Inaccurate. See Gen. i, 22 and 28. 449. a. II. Spoliatis arma supersunt. Juvenal, Sat. viii, 124. 55. advocates and panegyrists. For example, Dr. Johnson in Ta.vation no Tyranny. b. 39-41. ye gods annihilate, etc. This piece of bombast has never been traced beyond The Art of Sinking Poetry, by Arbuthnot, Swift, and Pope, where it is ostensibly quoted. 450. a. 18. Sir Edward Coke. Public prosecutor in 1603, when Raleigh was tried. See, also, 326, b. 26, note, the very same title. Popular election. 451. a. 19. juridical, abstractly legal. b. 37-39- Serbonian bog, etc. Milton, Para- dise Lost II, 592—4. 41. such respectable company. Ironical equivoke, in allusion to Milton's Satan. 452. b. 12. the repeal of a Revenue Act. The Stamp Act, repealed 1766. GIBBON: THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE The extract is from Chapter Ixviii of the De- cline and Fall. It presents the first grand culmina- tion of Gibbon's massive study, the fall of the east- ern empire. The remaining three chapters of the last volume deal with the disintegration of the em- pire in Italy from the eleventh to the fifteenth cen- tury. Other striking passages are the accounts of Petrarch and of Rienzi, Chapter Ixx, and the ' Prospect of the Ruins of Rome in the Fifteenth Century,' Chapter Ix.xi. 453. b. 3. Phranza. The minister and friend of the Emperor Constantine. 454. a. 57. seven times in one day. Near an hun- dred years after the siege of Constantinople, the French and English fleets in the Channel were proud of firing 300 shot in an engagement of two hours. (Gibbon.) b. 18. fascines, bundles of sticks. 455. a. 14. Justiniani. John Justiniani, 'a noble Genoese,' was in command of 2,000 ' strangers.' 30. generosity, spirit. 455. b. 54. The passions of his soul, etc. I must confess that I have before my eyes the living pic- ture which Thucydides (i. vii. c. 71) has drawn of the passions and gestures of the Athenians in a naval engagement in the great harbor of Syracuse. (Gibbon.) 456. b. I. the divan. The Turkish council of state. 457. a. 10-12. the boasted miracle . . . our own times. I particularly allude to our own em- 1076 NOTES barkatioiis 011 the lakes of Canada, in the years 1776 and 1777, so great in the labor, so fruitless in the event. (Gibbon.) 457. b. 18. Gabours. Unbelievers. 51. bashaws, dignitaries, here probably generals. 52. Janizaries. Members of the central standing army of the Sultan. 57. oda, the unit of janizary organization. 459. a. 22. sanjaks were, formerly, bashaws of the rank entitled to wear one horse-tail. 47. attaballs, oriental tambours. 460. a. 20. Cantacticeiic. Myzantine emperors of the fourteenth century. 50. Chosrocs. Khusrau I, a powerful Persian king of the sixth century. the Chagan, the Khan. The Tartar regal title. The reference here is to Jenghiz Khan, who con- quered central Asia and threatened Europe early in the thirteenth century. the caliphs. Successors of Mohammed. b. 48. Ducas. A Byzantine historian who was an eye witness of the first siege of Constantinople. His history was first printed at Paris in 1649. 461. b. 40. ducats. The ducat, as a money of ac- count, was about two dollars and thirty cents. 462. b. 35. imam. The officiating priest in Mo- hammedan worship. 36. nomas. The canonical prayer of the Mos- lems. 4J. the great Constantinc. Constantine I (272- 337) transferred the seat of the Roman Empire in the year 330 to Byzantium, which was thereafter known as Constantinople. GOLDSMITH: THE DESERTED VILLAGE The system of en- Altamaha 464. 39. One only master, etc. closures is referred to. 468. 344. wild Altama. The river Georgia, U. S. A. 469. 418. Torno's cliffs. Lake Tornea in northern Sweden. Pambamarca's side. A mountain in Ecuador. THE RETALIATION I. Edmund. Edmund Burke. See p. 445. 6. Tommy Townshend. ' Thomas Townshend, Vis- count Sidney (i 733-1 780), a prominent whig states- man. 15. David Garrick, the actor. See Boswell's Johnson, p. 427. COWPER: THE TASK 472. 112. The Sabine bard. Horace, Sat. ii, 6, 65. O nodes coenaeque Deum [O nights and suppers of the gods]. 475. 354. Indian fume. Tobacco smoke. 356. Lethean, oblivious. From Lethe, the river of oblivion. 388. Midas, etc. According to the Greek myth, by a grant of Dionysus, whatever he touched turned to gold. 476. 396. Arcadian . . . Maro sings. Virgil in his Eclogues. 397. Sidney. See p. 81. 453- Tiiyrus. A shepherd in the first Eclogue of Virgil. 469. Coxvley. See p. 183. 474. Chcrtsey's silent bowers. A village in Surrey not far from London. Here Cowley spent his last years. 477. 511. The Frenchman's darling. Mignonette. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PIC- TURE Written in 1788. Cowper's mother died in 1737, when he was little more than six years of age; yet fifty years afterward he wrote, ' Not a week passes (perhaps I might with equal veracity say a day) in which I do not think of her. The picture which suggested this poem was sent to him ' out of Nor- folk,' by his cousin Anne Bodham. ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE The Royal George was the flagship of Rear-Ad- miral Kempenfelt. While being refitted, off Spit- head, she heeled and went down with crew and ad- miral aboard, Aug. 29, 1782. Tlie poem was prob- ably written the same year, though not published un- til after Cowper's death. The meter was determined by a tune which Cowper had in mind and the poem, therefore, must be regarded as a ballad. GEORGE CRABBE: THE VILLAGE 480. 12. Corydons. Conventional shepherds of pas- toral poetry, from a character of this name in Virgil's Eclogues. 15. Mincio's banks. See below, 18. Cccsar's bounteous reign. The reign of Augustus. 16. // Tityrus found the Golden Age again. Virgil, in his Eclogues, particularly Eclogue 11'. 18. Mantuan song. Mantua, situated on an island in the river Mincio, was the home of \'irgil. 481. 27. honest Duck. Possibly Stephen Duck, a poor thresher who was patronized by Queen Caro- line, wife of George II. He is mentioned by John- son in his Life of Savage (Lives, London, i8ji. Vol. II, p. 149). 97. Ajax. Homer's ' strong man.' 484. 303. ' passing rich with forty pounds a year.' Goldsmith's Deserted I'illage, 142. See p. 463. 330. the moping ozvl. Compare Gray's Elegy, 10, p. 398. ROBERT BURNS: MARY MORISON The subject of this song (written in 1781) was Ellison Begbie. Burns proposed marriage to her and was refused. 490. 5. bide, await, endure, stoure, dust, struggle. 13. braw, fine, handsome. SONG: MY NANIE, O Written in 1782. 491. I. Lugar, fanciful for Stinchar. 5. shill, shrill, keen. 7. plaid, highland shawl or wrap. 15. gowan, daisy. 21. penny-fee, wages paid in money. 23. gear, stuff, wealth. 25. guidman, master. NOTES 1077 SONC: GREEN GROW THE RASHKS Written in 1783. I, rashes, rushes. 13. cannie, well considered, clever. 17. douce, solemn. 19. The wisest vian, etc. Solomon. LINES TO JOHN LAPR.MK Written in 1785. The recipient of the verses was a rustic wit and poet of local reputation. When they were written Burns was still unknown to the world and ([uite unaware urns ami Allan Masterton celebrated the occasion by composing this song, Masterton contributing the music. 8. tree, brew. 14. lift, sky. A WINTER NIGHT Written in 1786. I. Boreas, the north wind, doure, grim, 501. 4. lift, see above, 14. 9. burns, brooks. II. backed, poured with a rush. 13. winnocks, windows. 14. ourie, drooping. 15. brattle, clamor. Compare 492. 4, note. 17. deep-lairing, foundering. S prattle, sprawl. 18. scaur, scar, jutting rock. 23. chittering, shivering. HIGHLAND MARY Written in 1792. See To Mary in Heaven, 498. note. • I. braes. See note to Auld Lang Syne, 497. 13. 9. birk, birch. BONIE DOON Written in 1791. There are three versions of this poem, of which this is the second and best. 1. bonie, see 497. 3, note. Doon, see 498. 30, note. 6. bough, pronounced in Scotch fashion this rimes perfectly with ' true,' below. 12. wist, Imew. 19. sraw, stole. DUNCAN GRAY Written in 1792. Like many of Burns's songs of this period it is an old Scotch ditty completely trans- formed by his rehandling. Of its tune, he wrote, ' Duncan Gray is a light-horse gallop of an air which precludes sentiment.' 2. o't, of it. 5. hiegh, high. 6. asklent, askance, skeigh, skittish. 7. Gart, made, abiegh, aside, aloof. 9. fieech'd, flattered. II. Ailsa Craig, a small rocky island in the Firth of Clyde. 502. 14. Grat his e'en, etc. Wept his eyes both bleared and blind. 15. lowpin. leaping. Linn, waterfall. 17. but a tide. That is, they ebb and flow. 19. sair, sore, hard, bide, bear, endure. 31. sic, such. 38. smoor'd, smothered. 39. crousc, brisk, ccnilic, cheerful. SCOTS VVUA HAE Written in 1793. In 1314, 100,000 Englishmen under Edward II were met on the field of Ban- nockburn by Robert Bruce with 30,000 Scots. Hruce's force was overwhelmingly victorious. Burns ' threw into a kind of Scotch ode ' what Bruce might be supposed to have said ' on that eventful morning.' I. Wallace. See 495. 182, note. 22. Liberty 's in every blow. By this victory the Scotch achieved their independence. A MAN 'S A MAN FOR A' THAT Written in 1795. Burns was strongly republican in his sentiments. His burning sense of personal worth as opposed to the privileges of station are best expressed in this piece which he called ' no song, but . . two or three pretty good prose thoughts put into rime.' 7. guinea's stamp. That is, merely the statement of its value which is intrinsic. 8. gowd, gold. 10. hodden-gray, coarse woollen cloth, undyed. 17. birkie, fine fellow. 20. coof, stupid lout. 28. mauna fa' that. Cannot accomplish that. 36. gree, prize. WORDSWORTH: PREFACE TO LYRICAL BALLADS This preface, in which Wordsworth sets forth his theory of poetry, was prefixed to the second edi- tion of Lyrical Ballads in 1800, and enlarged and modified in subsequent issues to the shape in which it is here given. 504. b. 27-9. Catullus (87-47 B.C.), Terence (c. 195-158 B.C.) and Lucretius (95-55 B.C.) belong to the earlier or classical period of Roman poetry; Statins (61-96 A. D.) and Claudian (fl. c. 400 A. D.) to the later or ' Silver Age.' 510. b. 26. Shakspere hath said. Hamlet IV, iv, 37. 513. a. 5. Clarissa Harlowe (1748), Richardson's novel. 6. The Gamester (1753). A tragedy by Edward Moore portraying the horrors of gambling. THE PRELUDE This poem is so called because it was intended to be introductory to a great philosophical poem Wordsworth planned on retiring to the Lake Dis- trict in 1799, 'with the hope of being enabled to construct a literary work that might live.' As a preliminary it seemed to him a reasonable thing ■ that he should take a review of his own mind, and examine how far Nature and education had qualified him for such an employment. The philosophical poem was to be divided into three parts, and only one of these, The Excursion, was ever finished. But the introductory work, in which Wordsworth ' un- dertook to record, in verse, the origin and progress of his own powers, as far as he was acquainted with io8o NOTES tlieni," was completed in 1805, although it was not published till 1850, after the poet's death, when it was given the title, The Prelude, or Groivth of a Poet's Miinl; an Autobiographical Poem. Our ex- tract is taken from Book I, which was begun at Goslar, in Germany, and finished in the first year or two of Wordsworth's settlement at Grasinere. Lines 101-163 were published in 1809 in Coleridge's periodical The Friend. The whole poem was ad- dressed to Coleridge as a dear friend, most dis- tinguished for his knowledge an3-'7. 166. Sprung forth a Pallas. According to the Greek myth, the goddess of wisdom sprang, full- armed, from the brain of Jove. 596. 173. Saturnalia. A Roman feast in honor of Saturn in which great license was customary. 211. Cornelia's, etc. Celebrated Roman matron, daughter of Scipio Africaiuis the Elder. 212. Egypt's graceful queen. Cleopatra. 597. 252. 'J here woos no home. Allusion to his separation from his wife and exile from England. 258. the Palatine. One of the ' seven hills ' of Rome. It is adjacent to the site of the Forum. and was a favorite place of residence with the Ku- inan emperors. 268. All that learning, etc. There have been great additions to the knowledge of Roman antiquities since Byron's day. 294. Titus or Trajan's. It is now believed to have been erected by Trajan, 113 A. D. 304. .1 mere Alexander. A mere military con- queror. 598. 337. Ruins of years, though few. Byron was thirty. 347. Orestes, the son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra and brother of Electra. After the re- turn of Agamemnon from the Trojan Wars he was murdered by Clytemnestra and her paramour, Aegisthus. They were in turn slain by Orestes and he tormented by the Furies for the killing of his mother. The Agamemnon and J he Furies of Aeschylus, the Electra and the Orestes of Euripides, and the Electra of Sophocles, are based upon this legend. 353. For my ancestral faults. The parallel with Orestes is here continued. 384. Janus. The Roman guardian of doors and gateways was represented with two faces. Compare our epithet, ' two-faced.' 599. 415. the Gladiator. The statue in the Museum of the Capitol upon which this passage is based is now usually called " The Dying Gaul,' not as formerly, ' The Dying Gladiator,' and is believed to represent a warrior wounded in battle. 429. their Dacian mother. The region north of the Lower Danube was conquered by Trajan and made into the Roman province of Dacia, 101 B.C. Ten thousand captives were carried to Rome and exhibited in combats for the amusement of the Roman populace. 432. Arise! ye Goths, etc. Alludes to the taking of Rome by the Barbarians, in 410 A. D. 456. the bald first Caesar's head. ' Suetonius in- forms us that Julius C.x-sar was particularly gratified by that decree of the senate which enabled him to wear a wreath of laurel on nil occasions. He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror of 1094 NOTES the world, but to hide that he was bald.' (Byron.) This stroke of bold bathos is very characteristic of Byron and anticii)ates his manner in Don Juan. 600. 463. Thus spake the piUjiiins. Byron refers in his note on this passage to Cibhon's Decline and I- all. His familiarity wilh Cibbon is conspicuous Ihroughout this caulo. Till-: VISION OF JUDGMENT This poem is an indignant parody upon a poem of the same title in which Robert Southey, poet laureate, had celebrated the passing of George III. Byron's anger was augmented by the fact that Southey had arraigned him in his preface as the chief of a ' Satanic School ' of English poetry. Southey had been a strong radical in his earlier years, but had now become a complacent servant of the government. The situation is tersely stated in a sentence of Byron's Preface: 'These apostate Jacobins furnish rich rejoinders.' 36. A German zcill. Probably this means only ob- scure, difficult. Byron's jibes at Germans were fre- quent. 37. his son, George IV. 602. 160. Captain Parry's crew. A narrative of Parry's arctic expedition had appeared in 1821. 168. Johanna Southcote. A fanatical English- woman of low birth who created a popular religious sensation at the beginning of the century. Died 1814. 200. champ clos, closed field, lists. 604. 281. He came to his scepter young; he leaves it old. George III reigned from 1760 to 1S20. 308. Apicius' board. Marcus Gabius Apicius, the most celebrated Roman epicure, flourished in the time of Augustus and Tiberius. 327. The foe to Catholic participation. The po- litical disability of Catholics was not removed until 1829. 355. Guelph. The House of Hanover was de- scended from Guelph stock. The allusion seems inappropriate here, inasmuch as the Guelphs were friends of the Papacy. 357. Cerberus. The watchdog at the entrance of the infernal regions. See 237. 2, note. 359. Bedlam. Bethlehem hospital for the insane, in London; hence, proverbially, the madhouse. DON JUAN, CANTO III 605. 2. Sappho. Greek poetess (c. 600 B. C). 4. Delos. An island of the Cyclades, Apollo's birthplace, hence Apollo. 4. Phoebus. One of the epithets of Apollo, god of poetry. 7. Scian. The island of Scio was a home of epic poetry and laid claim to Homer. the Teian muse. Anacreon. See below, 63-64. 13. Marathon. See 587. 48, note. 20. Salamis. An island off Attica, near which the Greeks won their decisive naval victory over the fleet of Xerxes, 480 B. C. 55. Pyrrhic dance. An ancient martial dance in quick time. 63-64. Anacreon's song . . . Polycrates. From his birthplace, Teos in .Asia Minor, Anacreon went to tlie court of the tyrant, Polycrates (d. 522 B. C). in the island of Samos. His poetry celebrates the pleasures of love and wine. 67-69. Chersonese . . . Miltiades. Miltiades whom Peisistratus had appointed master of the Chersonesus in Crete was the leader to whom the (ireeks owed much of their success in Marathon. 74. .Suit's rock. Suli, a mountain district in Al- bania, European Turkey, was the home of a war- like race, Suliotes. Tliey |)layed an important part in the Greek rebellion with which Byron was later associated. Parga's shore. Parga was an Albanian sea-port. 76. Doric. One of the divisions of the Greek race. Here, Siiarian. 78. HeracU'idan blood. Race of Hercules, Spar- tans. 79. Franks. Western Europeans generally. 606. 91. Siiniiim's marbled steep. Cape Colonna with its ruins of a temple of Athene. 99. Orpheus. The earliest poet in Greek legend. See 238. 145, note. 127. the great Marlborough's skill. He won the battle of Blenheim, 1704. 128. Life by Archdeacon Coxe. Like many of Byron's allusions, this one is strictly ' up-to-date.' The Memoirs of Marlborough appeared in 1718— 19. 133. his life . . . Johnson's way, etc. Dr. Joluison's life of Milton in his Lives of the English Poets (1779-80). 138. Bacon's bribes. See p. 187. 139. Titus' Youth. The reign of Titus Vespa- sianus (A. D. 79-81) was popular; but his youth, though brilliant, had been marked by luxury and indiscretion. Casar's earliest acts. The youth of Julius Caesar is said to have been voluptuous. 140. Doctor Currie. James Currie (1756-1805), a Scottish physician, edited the first collective edi- tion of Burns's works (1800). 146. Pantisocracy. See the sketch of Coleridge, p. 542- 148. peddler poems. A hit at the humbleness of Wordsworth's characters. 152. Milliners of Bath. The implication is false. The Misses Fricker were respectable young women of Bristol, although they had lived for a time at Bath. 154. Botany Bay. An inlet near Sydney, Aus- tralia, the seat of a colony of transported criminals. 607. 198. Boccaccio's lore. The reference is to the eighth tale of the fifth day of the Decameron. 199. Dryden's lay. Dryden's Theodore and Honoria, is an adaptation of the above-mentioned tale by Boccaccio. 205. Onesti's line. Boccaccio's Nastagio degli Onesti is Dryden's Theodore. 608. 238. Cantabs. Those associated with the Uni- versity of Cambridge. DON JUAN, CANTO IV 21. 'falls into the vcllozv leaf.' From Macbeth V, 3. 23. 55. Apollo plucks me by the ear. Compare Lycidas, ' and touched my trembling ears,' 240. 77. 611. 417. Cognac. .\ French brandy. 418. Naiad. .\ water nymph. NOTES 1095 418. Phlegethontic rill. Playful allusion to Phlegethon, the river of fire in Hades. 431. Fez. A province of Morocco. 612. 456. the Simoom. A hot wind of the desert much dreaded in the Mediterranean countries. 484. the fair Venus. The statue described by Byron in Childe Harold, Canto IV, St. xlix, is the Venus de Medici. 485. Laocoon's . . . throes. An antique group in the Vatican, Rome. It is described by Byron, Childe Harold, Canto IV, St. clx. 486. ever-dying Gladiator's air. See 599. 415, and note. SHELLEY: PROMETHEUS UNBOUND, ACT IV The conception of Prometheus Unbound was sug- gested to Shelley by the Prometheus Bound of yEschylus. The Titan, Prometheus, having of- fended Zeus by his gift to man of fire and the arts, is bound to a rocky mountain-side and subjected to appalling tortures. Nothing can subdue his will and he disappears at the end in a tremendous storm. Shelley represents Prometheus, after the lapse of ages, adding love to power and endurance; where- upon he is released by Hercules and united with Asia, who typifies the generative principle in na- ture. Act IV is purely lyrical and portrays the ele- ments rejoicing in the overthrow of Jupiter, the evil potency which has hitherto ruled the universe and the bulk of humanity. 619. 197. JEolian, wind-born. From yEolus, god of winds. 620. 291. valueless, priceless, beyond valuation. 621. 348. Sceptered curse. Jupiter. 622. 427. Dadal, cunningly contriving or creative. 623. 484. Mcenad, Bacchante. 485. Agave, the daughter of Cadmus. 486. Cadmeian, Theban ; from Cadmus, the myth- ical founder of Thebes. A world of oriental mys- tery envelops the Cadmeian legend. 5J2. A mighty Pozcer. Demogorgon, who seems to represent, in Shelley's mythology, the ultimate force which presides over the destinies of the uni- verse. ODE TO THE WEST WIND 625. 21. Manad. See 623. 484, note. 32. pumice, a light, porous, volcanic substance. 32. Baiec's bay. Modern Baja, in Campania, Italy. Baiae was a favorite resort of the luxurious in the (lays of the Early Empire. THE INDIAN SERENADE 626. II. Champak. An Indian tree, planted about temples. The perfume of its flowers is often cele- brated in Hindu poetry. THE CLOUD 627. 81. cenotaph. An honorary tomb to a person whose remains are lost, or who is buried elsewhere. ADONAIS 629. This elegy was written in memory of John Kpn\s, for whom, see p. 639. 12. Urania. The celestial Muse. She is the Heavenly Muse of Milton's Paradise Lost. Shel- ley's conception has been influenced by that of Mil- 630. 55. that high Capital. Rome. 631. 127-35. i-ost Echo, etc. Narcissus, insensible to love, was caused to fall in love with his own image and pined away until he was turned into a flower. The nymph Echo, disappointed of his love, died from grief. 140. to Pha:bus 7vas not Hyacinth. Apollo fell in love with a beautiful youth, Hyacinthus, who died and was turned into a Hower. Sec 241. 106, note. 141. Narcissus. See above, 127-35, note. 160. brere, brier. 632. J38. the unpastured dragon. The selfish and greedy world. 244. The herded wolves. The banded critics who execute the will of successful politicians. 250. The Pythian of the age. Lord Byron in his English Bards and Scotch Revieuers, by allu- sion to the Pythian Apollo, slayer of the Python. 633. 264. The Pilgrim of Eternity. The author of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Byron. 268. lerne, Ireland. Thomas Moore is meant. 271. Midst others of less note, etc. Shelley tiiin- self. 276. Actceon-like. According to a Greek myth the hunter Actjeon, having seen Diana bathing, was changed into a stag and destroyed by his own hounds. 280. pardlike, leopardlike. 307-15. What softer voice, etc. Keats's nearest friend among literary men, Leigh Hunt. 634. 325. Live thou, whose infamy, etc. The un- known critic who had assailed Keats in the Quar- terly Review. 635. 399. Chatterton. See p. 377. 401. Sidney. Sir Philip Sidney (iS54— 86). See p. 81. 404. Lucan. Marcus Annaeus Lucanus (39-65 A. D.), Roman poet. He committed suicide to pre- vent his execution for joining a conspiracy against Nero. 439. A slope of green access. The protestant burial ground at Rome, where Keats was buried, and where Shelley's ashes were placed a few months after these lines were written. FINAL CHORUS FROM HELLAS 636. The conception of this poem and many of the details are adapted from \'irgil's fourth Eclogue. 9. Pencus. The principal river in Thessaly. 11. Tempcs. The vale of Tempe. in Thessaly, be- tween Olympus and Ossa and traversed by the river Pencus, is celebrated for its beauty. 12. Cyclads. The islands known as the Cyclades are in the .Cgean Sea, about Delos. Among those frequently mentioned in Greek history are Ceos, Naxos, and Paros. 13. Argo. The ship in which Jason and the Argonauts sought the golden fleece. 15. Orpheus. See 238. 145. note. 18. Calypso. At the opening of the Odyssey, Llysses is being detained by the nymph Calypso 1096 NOTES upon her island, where he has been for seven years. 21. Laian. As of Laius, king of Thebes and fa- ther to CEdipus, whose family was pursued by Grange misfortunes. 23. A subtler S/'hiux, etc. (Kdipus solved the riddle of the Sphinx; whereupon she slew herself. 637. 31. Saturn and Love. The age of gold, sup- Itosed to have existed before Saturn was overthrown by Jupiter, was thought of as one of perfect happi- ness and love. WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE I. Ariel to Miranda. The reference is, of course, to the characters in Shakspere's Tcni/^csl. Ariel is Shelley, and Miranda is Mrs. Williams. 10. Prince Ferdinand. Edward Williams, a young English officer with whom Shelley was intimate to- wards the end of his life. He and Shelley were drowned together. See Life, p. 614. KEATS: KEEN, FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHIS- PERING HERE AND THERE 639. 10. a little cottage. Leigh Hunt's home at Hampstead Heath. Hunt was deeply interested in Italian poetry. 12. gentle Lycid drozvncd. For Milton's Lycidas, see p. 240. 13. Laura. The lady to whom Petrarch ad- dressed his sonnets. According to one theory she was the wife of Hugues de Sade and mother of eleven children. 14. Petrarch gloriously crowned. Francesco Pe- trarca (1304-1374). He was crowned poet laureate, at Rome, in 1341. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 4. Apollo, As patron of poetry. 8. Chapman. George Chai)man published his translation of Homer in instalments between 1598 and 1616. It is still prized as one of the greatest of English poetical translations. II. stout Cortec. Not Cortez, but Balboa actually discovered the Pacific Ocean. 14. Darien. The mountain from which Balboa first sighted the Pacific was nearly a month's jour- ney from his base at Darien. ENDYMION, BOOK I 640. 35. the story of Endymion. The most famous English treatment of the legend before Keats was that of John Lyly in his drama, Endymion (1579). THE EVE OF ST. AGNES I. St. Agnes' Eve, January 20, in popular opin- ion, apt to be the coldest night of the year. St. Agnes suffered martyrdom under Diocletian. The chief superstitions connected with the Eve of St. Agnes are given in the course of the poem, espe- cially 11. 47-55- 643. 172. Since Merlin paid his Demon. According to the legend with which Keats was familiar. Merlin had been begotten by demons. He was beguiled by an enchantress who employed one of his own spells to imprison him forever in a tree in the forest of Broceliande. Immediately afterward, a terrific tempest swept the forest. The legend forms the basis of Tennyson's Merlin and Vivien in The Idylls of the King. 643. 242. 7nissal where swart Paynims pray. A prayer-book bearing upon its margin pictures of converted heathen in the act of prayer. 644. 270. Fea. See 611. 431, note. 271. Samarcand. A city in Turkestan, more im- portant in the middle ages than now. It was the capital of the conqueror Tamerlane. 271. cedared Lebanon. A mountain range in Syria, famed from remote antiquity for its cedars. 293. In Provence called, ' La belle dame suns mercy.' This is the title of a poem by Alain Cliartier, a translation of which Keats had seen in a volume of Chaucer. The ascription of it to Provence is fanciful. The same words suggested to Keats the poem of this title, p. 654. 645. 350. Rhenish, wine from the vmeyards of the Rhine. 350. mead, a liquor, made by fermenting honey, much prized by the ancient Teutons. ROBIN HOOD For the ballads of Robin Hood, see above, pp. LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN 646. 4. the Mermaid Tavern. A favorite resort of Elizabethan dramatists, Shakspere, Ben Jonson, Beaumont, etc. 6. Canary wine. Wine made in the Canary islands. It was the ' sack ' of Shakspere and his contemporaries. ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 647. 7. Tempe. See 636. 11, note. 7. Arcady. Arcadia, celebrated in pastoral poetry as the house of a carefree shepherd life. 41. brede, embroidery. Strictly, braid. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 4. Lethe-wards. Towards the river of oblivion. 7. Dryad, a tree nymph. 13. Flora, goddess of the flowers and the spring. 14. Provencal song. Medieval lyric began in Provence. See 644. 293, and note. 16. Hippocrene, the Muses' fountain on Mount Helicon. 648. 32. Bacchus and his pards. The leopard or, more strictly, the panther, was associated with the god of wine. He was sometimes represented in a chariot drawn by leopards. 2~. Fays, fairies. 6b. Kiith. See Ruth ii. ODE ON MELANCHOLY 1. Lethe. The river of oblivion, in Hades. 4. Proserpine. Queen of the infernal regions. 7. Psyche, the soul. Her symbol was the butter- fly. HYPERION Of the design of this poem Keats's friend. Wood- house, wrote in his annotated copy: ' The poem, if completed, would have treated of the dethrone- NOTES 1097 ment of Hyperion, the former god of the sun, by Apollo — and incidentally of those of Oceaiuis by Neptune, of Saturn by Jupiter, etc., and of the war of the Giants for Saturn's reestablisliment - — with other events, of which we have but very dark hints in the mythological poets of Greece and Rome.' 650. 4. Saturn, an Italic deity, sup[)oseJ to have ruled in the golden age; he was identified with tlic Greek Cronus, father and predecessor of Zeus. .See, also, 250. 509, note. 23. there came one. Thea, sister of Hyperion, one of the female Titans. 30. Ixion's wheel. See 361. 133, note. 31. Memphian sphinx. A purely hypothetical sphinx. Memphis was an early capital of Egypt. 651. 147. The rebel three. Jupiter, Neptune, and Apollo. 652. 166. Biasing Hyperion. Hyperion was tlic pre-Olympian god of the sun. He was supplanted by Apollo. 181. Aurorian. Of Aurora, goddess of the dawn. 653. 246. Telhis, the earth goddess. 274. broad-belting colure. The colures are the two great circles which belt the celestial sphere, intersecting each other at right angles at the poles of the equator. 307. Cwlus, god of the firmament. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI See 644. 293, note. ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES Between 1801 and 1803 the Earl of Elgin brought from Athens and deposited in the British Museum a superb collection of Greek sculptures. Keats de- rived not a little of his sympathy with Greek con- ceptions of beauty from the study of these an- tiquities. BRIGHT STAR! WOULD I WERE STEAD- FAST AS THOU ART This is believed to have been the last poem writ- ten by Keats. It was composed on shipboard just before his departure for Italy and written across a blank page of Shakspere's poems. 4. eremite, hermit. NINETEENTH CENTURY LYRICS ROBERT SOUTHEY: THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM 657. 56. Prince Eugene. Francois Eugene de Sa- voie-Carignan (i 663-1 736), a distinguished Austrian general, in alliance with Marlborough defeated the French and Bavarians at Blenheim, Aug. 13, 1704. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR : ROSE AYLMER 657. The subject of this poem was a beautiful Welsh girl who had died in Italy. She was of an ancient and tilled family; hence, 'the sceptred race.' PAST RUINED ILION 1. Ilion, Troy. 2. Alcestis, the heroine of Euripides' drama of that name. ARTEMIDORA 658. II. Iris stood over her dark hair. Iris the messenger of the gods was supposed to loosen the hair of dying persons and, until she did so, their spirits were unable to depart. DIRCE I. Stygian, of the river Styx; here, destined for Hades. 3. Charon. The ferryman of the river Styx. ON LUCRETIA BORGIa's HAIR l.ucretia Borgia (1480-1519), Duchess of Ferrara, was famed for beauty, wit, and wickedness. MEMORY AND PRIDE 3. lanthe, Sophia Jane Swift, afterwards Countess de Molande, Landor's early ' flame ' and life-long friend. Many of his lyrics of gallantry were ad- dressed to her. TO ROBERT BROWNING 10-14. But ivarmcr climes, etc. Browning had just married Elizabeth Barrett and left England for Italy. 3. The Fates and note. TO AGE . shears. Compare 240. 75. THOMAS CAMPBELL: YE MARINERS OF ENG- LAND 659. 15. Blake. Robert Blake, the famous admiral of the Commonwealth, died at sea, 1757. Nelson fell. Horatio, first Viscount Nelson, the chief naval hero of England, died at Trafalgar, Oc- tober 21, 1805. He ' fell ' severely wounded, at the Battle of Copenhagen, April 2, 1801. THOMAS MOORE: THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA's HALLS Tara, the ancient capital of one branch of the Irish race, is frequently named in early Irish poetiy. JOHN KEBLE: UNITED STATES 661. I. This poem had been preceded in the Lyra Apustolica by John Henry Newman's similar apos- trophe to England, beginning ' Tyre of the West.' J3. Tyre, the great trading center of ancient I'henicia, was constantly execrated by the Hebrew prophets for its worldliness and commercial pros- perity. Salem, Jerusalem. WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED : THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM 665. 31. Locke. John Locke (1632-1704), author of Essay Concerning Human Understanding, etc. 32. Little. A pseudonym of Thomas Moore. 61. Handel. Georg Friederich Handel lived for a long time in London and died there in 1759. His compositions were popular in England. loyS NOTES 6-^ the Calalani. Angelica Catalani, an Italian iiiigcr. 70. Fierce odes, etc. Probably an allusion to Coleridge's Fire, Fnmkie, and Slaughter. 71. Prince Lehoo. Jean Louis Joseph Lebcau (b. 1794) was a distinguished Belgian diplomat who carried on important negotiations in England, 1830- 31- 666. 67. the vat'ors, a ' Queen Anne ' term for the blues. 71. Wcriher. Goethe's sentimental novel, The Sorrows of IVerther. 73. The City. The business district of London. WILLIAM BARNES: BLACKMORE MAIDENS The peculiarities of the spelling are intended to suggest the Dorsetshire pronunciation. 667. 4. Clole, waterlily. 7. bnckcn tuns. Brick-built vats. 37. twcil. toil. EDWARD FITZGERALD: THE RUBAIYAT 669. 7. the dark Ferrash, servant, camp-follower. II. SciL-i, wine-bearer. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING: A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT 670. I. Pan. God of forests and flocks, the special deity of Arcadia. To him was imputed the inven- tion of the shepherd's flute. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE This sonnet series is based upon the courtship of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett (see p. 785). When the poems were published the de- scription ' from the Portuguese ' was adopted for the sake of disguising their personal import. 1-2. Theocritus had sung . . . years. Idyl XV, 104-S. 13. 'Death'! I said. Miss Barrett had been for years an invalid. V 2. As once Electro, etc. An allusion to a passage in the Electro of Sophocles in which the heroine, holding as she supposes the urn containing the ashes of her brother Orestes, experiences a sudden revulsion of feeling when she finds him alive be- fore her. II. those laurels, etc. Browning's poetical fame. XXXV 671. I. If I leave all, etc. The marriage with Browning, because of the character and attitude of Miss Barrett's fathi home ties. involved the severing of all SIDNEY DOBELL: AMERICA These sonnets are from a series published during the Crimean War, when America was supposed to be hostile to Great Britain. 677. 6. satchelcd. Compare As You Like It, II, 7. 145, ' the schoolboy with his satchel,' etc. AUSTIN DOBSON : A DEAD LETTER 679. II. Goldsmith's Madam Blaize. An allusion to Goldsmith's ridiculous poem An elegy on the Glory of her Se.K, Mrs. Mary Bloize. 14. tea-hoard garden-maker. Apparently, one de- signing a garden on the scale of a tea-tray. 15. Dutch William's day. William of Orange's time, 1688 and after. 38. Tithonus. See p. 778 and note. C80. s~- Damson Jam. Jam made of the damson, or damask plum. 6-'. Padesoy, paduasoy, a rich heavy silk from Ladua. 63. the Vapors. See 666. 67, note. 79. Bon-es, images of Buddhist priests. 112. Point and Flanders. Lace. JAMES THOMSON : MELEXCOLIA 16. the pure sad artist. Albrecht Diirer (1471- i5j8), Nuremberg, painter and engraver. The sketch here described is one ot his works on copper. 74. teen and threne. Sorrow and lamentation. DE OUINCEY: CONFESSIONS OF AN ENG- LISH OPIUM EATER The version of the ' Confessions ' adopted in the text is that of the original issue in the London Magazine (1821), which has been generally pre- ferred, both by the critics and the public, to the en- larged edition published by De Quincey in his col- lected works thirty-five years later. On account of his tendency to digression, De Quincey's second tlioughts are sometimes less effective than his first. The additional details given in the later version have been used in the notes and are distinguished by quotation marks. 684. a. I. an affection of the stomach. Opium is said to be a remedy for gastrodynia, or neuralgia of the stomach. 20. My father. Thomas Quincey, merchant, of Manchester, d. July 18, 1793. so. ' and a ripe and good one.' See Henry I' III, I\', ii, 51—2. The master in question was a Mr. Morgan, of Bath Grammar School. 55. a blockhead. The master of W^inkfield, a small private school. b. 1. a respectable scholar. Mr. Lawson, head of Manchester Grammar School. 4. College, Brasenose. 9. Etonian Up to 1851 the curriculum at Eton was entirely classical. 2y. Archididascalus. Greek for head master. 685. a. II. a ivoman of high rank. Lady Carbery. ' A young woman some ten years older than my- self, and who was remarkable for her intellectual pretensions as she was for her beauty and her benevolence.' 15. five guineas, $25. 35. of Dr. Johnson's, at the end of the last article in his periodical. The Idler. 44. 1 had not been happy. The chief reasons of De Quincey's unhappiness at Manchester Grammar School were (i) the state of his health, the school hours not permitting him to take sufficient exercise; NOTES 1099 (j) liis dislike of tlie head master; (3) the refusal of his guardian to allow him to go to Oxford, as explained above. b. 3. valediction, farewell. 21. towers of , the 'old cliurcli," now the cathedral of the modern diocese of Manchester. 49. 'pensive citadel.' See Wordsworth's sonnet Nuns fret not, 537. 3, and note. 686. a. 9. eighteen years ago, when De Quincey wrote the 'Confessions' about Christmas, i8jo; really nineteen when they were published, the fol- lowing September and October. 13. lovely . A portrait of an unknown lady, reputed in the school to be a copy from Vandyke (1598-1641). 22. clock. ' the old church clock.' S4-5S. See Paradise Lost II, 306-7, p. J58. 56. Salisbury Plain, in Wiltshire. b. 3. contretemps, mishap, unlucky accident. 25. canorous, resonant, ringing. 686. b. 27. the Seven Sleepers, seven Christian youths of Ephesus, who took refuge in a cave from persecution, and, according to the legend, slept there for 230 years. 32. ctourdcrie, heedless, giddy behaviour. 35. Dr. . ' The head-master at that time was Mr. Charles Lawson. In former editions of this work I created him a doctor; my object being to evade too close an approach to the realities of the case, and consequently to personalities, which (though indifferent to myself) would have been in some cases displeasing to others.' 50. ' with Providence my guide.' Paradise Lost, closing lines: ' The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way.' C87. a. 16. lustrum, period of five years. 38. I'VxOrif'-fpov, a night and a day. 42. 1 hat moveth. See Wordsworth's Resolution and Independence, 529. 77. 44. Now, then, I was again happy. This was in 1816, the year of De Quincey 's marriage, which induced him to suddenly cut down from 8,oqo to i,ooo drops his daily allowance of opium. "In- stantaneously, and as if by magic, the cloud of pro- foundest melancholy which rested upon my brain, like some black vapors that I have seen roll away from the summit of a mountain, drew off in one week.' De Quincey began to take opium in 1804 as a remedy for ' excruciating rheumatic pains of the head and face '; but he did not become a regular and contirmed opium eater till 1813, when he was attacked by ' a most appalling irritation of the stomach.' De Quincey made repeated efforts to free himself from thraldom to the drug, which brought on severe depression and made him at times in- capable of mental exertion, but he never entirely succeeded. b. 3. Kant, Imnianuel Kant (1724—1804), the founder of ' Transcendental ' Philosophy. 22. Malay. There has been an inclination to re- gard this as a fictitious personage invented by De Quincey to give variety and color to his narra- tive; he himself protested that he had recorded the incident ' most faithfully.' He adds a note to the later edition: ' Between the sea-faring populations on the coast of I.ancashire and the corresponding populations on the coast of Cumberland (such as Uaven^lass, Whitehaven, Workington, Maryport, etc.) there was a slender current of interchange con- stantly going on, and especially in the days of press-gangs — in i)art by sea, but in part also by land.' 28. a young girl. ' This girl, Barbara Lewth- waite, was already at that time a person of some poetic distinction, being (unconsciously to herself; the chief speaker in a little pastoral poem of Words- worth's. That she was really beautiful, and not merely so described by me for the sake of improv- ing the picturesque effect, the reader will judge from this line in the poem, written perhaps ten years earlier, when Barbara might be six years old: — "fwas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare! ' De Quincey adds in an appendix that subse- quently, when a young woman, she entered uncon- sciously into the composition of Wordsworth's Ode, Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood. Wordsworth, however, writing in 1843, when Barbara Lewthwaite was still living at Ambleside, says that she was not in fact the child whom he had seen and overheard as described in The Pet Lamb. Within a few months after the publication of the poem, it came to Barbara's knowl- edge, 'and alas! I had the mortification of hearing that she was very vain of being thus distinguished: and, in after-life, she used to say that she remem- bered the incident and what I said to her upon the occasion.' 688. a. 32. Anastasius, a novel published in 1819, and in 1821 'both of high reputation and of great inrtucnce amongst the leading circles of society.' Its hero was a Greek who ate opium, and it in- cluded a glossary of the Oriental terms used in the slory. 34. Mithridates, King of Pontus, was said to be able to speak the twenty two dialects of his king- dom. For this reason the German philologer Ade- lung gave this title to a universal dictionary of languages he published in 1806. b. 29. ' a-muck,' Malay amoq, ' rushing in a state of frenzy to the commission of indiscriminate murder.' 32. intercalary, interpolated, intervening. An in- tercalary day is one inserted to make the calendar agree with the solar year, as the 29th of February in leap year. 32. happiness, i.e., opium. 689. a. 21. didactically, in the way of teaching, by direct instruction. 26. c/i.ri>, the philosopher's stone, which the alchemists imagined would confer perpetual youth. 30. a collage standing in a valley. ' The cottage and valley concerned in this description were not imaginary: the valley was the lovely one, in those days, of Grasmere: and the cottage was occupied for more than twenty years by myself, as immediate IIOO NOTES successor, in the year 1809, to Wordsworth. Look- ing to the limitation here laid down — viz. in those Jays — the reader will in(|iiire in what way Time can have affected the beauty of (Jrasmere. Do the Westmoreland \ alleys turn greyheaded ? O reader! this is a painful memento for some of us! Thirty years ago, a gang of vandals (nameless, 1 thank heaven, to me), for the sake of building a mail- coach road that never would be wanted, carried, at a cost of £3,000 to the defrauded parish, a horrid causeway of sheer granite masonry, for three-quar- ters of a mile, right thiough the loveliest succession of secret forest dells and shy recesses of the lake, margined by unrivalled ferns, amongst which was the Osiiiunda regalis. This sequestered angle of Cirasmere is described by Wordsworth, as it un- veiled itself on a September morning, in the ex- quisite poems on the " Naming of Places." From this also ^ — viz. this spot of ground, and this mag- nificent crest (the Osinunda) — was suggested that imique line, the finest independent line through all the records of verse: Or lady of the lake. Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance. Rightly, therefore, did I introduce this limitation. The Grasmere before and after this outrage were two different vales.' 689. a. 42. a witty author, Coleridge in The Devil's Thoughts: He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility! And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin Is pride that apes humility. b. 21. The Castle of Indolence, by Thomson, Canto I, Stanza 43. See p. 373. 25. a high latitude, far north. Lord Dufferin's travels in Iceland are described in Letters from High Latitudes. 32. ' particular/ precise, exactly. De Quincey l)uts the word in quotation marks because this use of it is a Northern provincialism. 34, Mr. , ' Anti-slavery Clarkson,' the author of a History of the Abolition of the Slave Trade. 45. a Canadian winter. De Quincey seems to have been in earnest in this preference. At one time he thought of retiring to the woods of Lower Canada to devote himself to philosophic studies, and he had even fixed upon the situation for a cottage and a considerable library seventeen miles below Quebec. He gives the following reasons for this choice: ' My object was simply profound soli- tude, such as cannot now be had in any part of Great Britain — with two accessory advantages, also peculiar to countries situated in the circumstances and under the climate of Canada: viz. the exalting presence in an iinder-consciousness of forests end- less and silent, the everlasting sense of living amongst forms so ennobling and impressive, together with the pleasure attached to natural agencies, such as frosts, more powerfully manifested than in Eng- lish latitudes, and for a much longer period. I hope there is nothing fanciful in all this. It is certain that in England and in all moderate cli mates, we are too slightly reminded of nature or the forces of nature. Great heats or great coUU (and in Canada there are both) or great hurricanes, as in the West Indian latitudes, recall us continually to the sense of a powerful presence, investing our path on every side: whereas in England it is possi ble to forget that we live amongst greater agencies than those of men and human institutions.' 48. fee-simple, a legal phrase for absolute owner- ship. 51. St. Thomas's day, December 21. 53. vernal, spring. 690. a. 10. bcllum intcrnccinum, war to the death. Ilanway wrote an Essay on Tea (1756), which Dr. Johnson reviewed and condemned, declaring himseli ' a hardened and shameless tea-drinker, . . . whose kettle has scarcely time to cool.' A lively controversy resulted. See Boswell's Life of Jolin- son (Macmillan's edition — Library of English Classics), I, pp. -24-5. 27. ' a double debt to pay.' Goldsmith's Deserted Village, 466. 229-30. 46. eternal d parte ante and a parte post, from everlasting to everlasting, having no beginning and no end. 53. Aurora . . , Hebe, beautiful Greek god- desses, the former the personification of Dawn, the latter of Youth. 54. dear AI , Margaret, De Quincey's wife. b. 8. 'little golden receptacle, etc.,' quoted from the Anastasius mentioned above. ]6. 'stately Pantheon,' a London theatre, so de- scribed by Wordsworth, near which was the drug- gist's shop from which De Quincey first obtained opium, as described in an earlier passage in the ' Confessions ' not included in our extracts. 29. my body should be had into court, adapted from the wording of the writ of habeas corpus. iy. the Opium-eater's exterior. As was pointed out in the introductory biography, De Quincey's personal appearance was peculiar. Carlyle describes him as ' one of the smallest men you ever in your life beheld; but with a most gentle and sensible face, only the teeth are destroyed by opium, and the little bit of an under lip projects like a shelf.' 'Blue-eyed, blonde-haired, sparkling face, — had there not been a something, too, which said, " Ec covi, this child has been in hell! " ' Professor Mas- son writes: ' In addition to the general impression of his diminutiveness and fragility, one was struck with the peculiar beauty of his head and forehead, rising disproportionately high over his small, wrinkly visage and gentle, deep-set eyes.' The effect of his childish figure and odd gait was increased by his ec- centricities of dress. ' His clothes had generally a look of extreme age, and also of having been made for a person somewhat larger than himself.' He was fond of list slippers for outdoor wear and some- times forgot to put on one or both stockings. 48. categories, of Aristotle: i Substance or Be- ir.g, 2 Quantity, 3 Quality, 4 Relation, 5 Place, 6 Time, etc. NOTES IIOI THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY: THE ROMANCE OF HISTORY The article of which the latter part is here piinted was professedly a review in the Edinburgh, May, 1828, of a new book by a popular writer of that day, Henry Neele, entitled, ' The Romance of History. England '; but this served Macaulay merely as an opportunity to set forth his own ideas as to how history should be written. He had stated the same opinions before in a review of Mitford's History of Greece, and he re-stated them in reviews of the historical works of Hallam and Mackintosh before he was able to put them into practice in his own History of England from the Accession of James II. In spite of his extraordinary aptitude for the undertaking, he carried out his scheme for only fifteen years of the century and a half for which the work was planned; no one man, even in a long life, could have executed the design with such a broad canvas and in such minute detail as Macaulay attempted. Much of the higher side of life was omitted, and many of his judgments have not stood the test of subsequent investigation. The modern historian aims at far greater accuracy as well as a more profound inquiry into causes; but no one has been more successful than Macaulay in writing a historical narrative of unfailing interest to the gen- eial reader. 692. a. 7. Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury, 1633— 45, and the director of Charles I's ecclesiastical pol- icy. Curiously enough, the very faults of which Macaulay here accuses other historians have since been urged against himself, and Laud is one of the instances cited. Professor Montague says: ' Ma- caulay, who regarded this period of English history in a peculiarly partisan spirit, uniformly wrote of Laud's personal character with a loathing, and of his abilities with a contempt, unbecoming the gravity of a historian.' II. Herodotus, 'the father of history' and the first important writer of Greek prose. Macaulay says of him earlier in this same article: 'Of the romantic historians Herodotus is the earliest and the best. His animation, his simple-hearted tender- ness, his wonderful talent for description and dia- logue, and the pure, sweet flow of his language, place him at the head of narrators. . . . He has written something better perhaps than the best his- tory; but he has not written a good history; he is, from the first to the last chapter, an inventor." Fuller knowledge has proved that Herodotus is much more accurate and trustworthy than Macaulay here makes out. 41. Hume's History of England was published in 1754-61 and still retained its popularity in 1825, as Macaulay admits in his essay on Milton, in which he says that Hume ' hated religion so much that he hated liberty for having been allied with religion, and has pleaded the cause of tyranny with the dex- terity of an advocate, while affecting the impartiality of a judge.' This comment Professor Montague describes as ' mere childish petulance,' adding that ' Hume sympathized with the Stuarts because he was a Scotchman and distrusted popular government because he was a sceptic' The fact is, as Professor Huxley points out in his essay on Hume, that Hume wrote history from the Tory point of view, Macaulay from that of the Whigs. 46. obnoxious, open, liable. Gibbon published his Decline and Fall of the Roman Emj^ire in 1776-88. It has stood the test of time much better than Ma- caulay's own work and has still a very high reputa- tion for impartiality and accuracy. 49. Mitford, who died the year before this criti- cism appeared, published his History of Greece in 1 784-1 8 18. Macaulay had reviewed it with some severity in 1824, with the object, to use his own words, of ' reducing an over-praised writer to his proper level.' b. 15. Plutarch (first century A. D.) wrote the Lives of 46 eminent Creeks and Romans, arranged in pairs so as to bring out contrasts of character and point moral and political lessons. Sir Thomas North's English version, made from .Xmyot's French translation of the Greek original, was the foundation of Shakspere's Roman tragedies. 15. Thuc^didcs, the second great Greek historian (fifth century B. C), wrote the history of the long struggle between Athens and Sparta which ended in the ruin of the former. Macaulay says earlier in this essay that ' Thucydides has surpassed all his rivals in the art of historical narration, in the art of producing an effect on the imagination, by skilful selection and disposition, without indulging in the license of invention.' 23. Calcutta . . . Bombay both in India, but at opposite ends of it. So, it is said, English peo- ple coming to Montreal are charged with messages for friends in Vancouver. 24. Rollin and Barthelemi, French historians of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, who in Macaulay's time had not ceased to be read. 693. a. 17. make the worse appear the better rea- son. Milton of Belial in Paradise Lost, II, 112— 4. See p. 255. 24. the poet Laureate, Southey, who wrote excel- lent biographies of Nelson and Wesley, but no his- torical works of any value. His Book of the Church, Macaulay wrote a year or two later, 'con- tains some stories very prettily told; the rest is mere rubbish.' Southey was a copious writer of reviews and miscellaneous articles, in which he fre- (luently attacks Lingard, who was a Roman Catholic. 'Ihe latter's History of England (first edition 1819- .^5) at once became a standard work on account of its learning and insight; it is still held in high esteem. 26. Brodie, author of A History of the British Empire from the Accession of Charles I to the Restoration (1822). In 1836 he was appointed His- toriographer Royal for Scotland. 29. about to be reheard. Macaulay no doubt re- fers to the History of Greece by George Grote, writ- ten with much more sympathy for democracy than Mitford's. It was not published till 1846-56, but the author began to collect materials as early as .823. 37. neglect the art of narration. This was Ma- caulay's repeated complaint about the historians of his day; it was an art in which he himself ex- celled. 1102 NOTES 49. the most frivolous and indolent. This passage is an instance, not only of Macaulay's exaggeration of statement, but of his niisconceiition of popular tastes, lie writes in his review of Sir James Mackintosh: — 'A history of England, written throughout in this manner, would be the most fasci- nating book in the language. It would be more in request at the circulating libraries than the last novel.' In his own History Macaulay went further than any one else towards justifying the claim he here puts forward; but he could not altogether suc- ceed. The comparison with the historical novel, on which Macaulay so often insisted, is misleading, as Professor Montague points out. ' A novel and a history can never really be occupied with the same matter. Imaginative writing, whether in prose or verse, is always and above all concerned with the individual, and everything else is only accessory. History concerns itself with the great organized masses of men known as people or states and treats of individuals only in relation to such masses and the effect produced upon them by uncommon per- sonal qualities.' Moreover, history deals witli what actually happened, the historical novel with what might have happened. b. 10. conventional decencies . . . of the French drama, the rules of classical tragedy which forbid the introduction of comic or commonplace elements and the representation of acts of violence on the stage, all the murders, etc., being reported by messengers. The bane of the French drama, from the English point of view, has been rather the ob- servance of the Unities of Time and Place, the restriction of the plot to one critical event, and the consequent exclvision of incident. 15. too trivial for the majesty of history. This is a favorite idea with Macaulay. In 1824 he wrote that the true historian ' will not think any- thing too trivial for the gravity of history which is not too trivial to promote or diminish the happiness of man.' In the opening of his History (1848) he says: ' I shall cheerfully bear the reproach of hav- ing descended below the dignity of history, if 1 can succeed in placing before the English of the nine- teenth century a true picture of the life of their ancestors.' 18. King of Spain, Philip III, who was said to have died from a fever brought on by the excessive heat of a fire, which the courtiers refused to damp because it was contrary to etiquette, the nobleman whose ofhce it was being absent. But Lafuente in his History of Spain says tlie story was a pure invention of the French Ambassador, Bassompierre. 29. The knowledge of it is valuable, etc. It is characteristic of Macaulay that he has no appre- ciation of knowledge for its own sake. 35. turnpike, tollgate. 36. Sir Matthew Mite, the principal character in Foote's farce The Nabob (,17-/2), described by Ma- caulay in his essay on Clive as ' an Anglo-Indian chief, dissolute, ungenerous, and tyrannical, ashamed of the humble friends of his youth, hating the aris- tocracy, yet childishly eager to be numbered among them, squandering his wealth on panders and flat- terers, tricking out his chairmen witli the most costly hot-house flowers, and astounding the igno rant with jaiRon about rupees, lacs, and jaghires.' He uses the fortune he has made in India to bribe his way into Parliament, becomes a member of the Antiquarian Society, and commits scores of ex- travagant follies similar to that referred to in the text. 37. Lord Clarendon, Charles ll's chief minister and author of the History of the Great Rebellion. 46. Hampden, Oliver Cromwell's cousin and the man on the Parliamentary side whom Macaulay most admired. In his essay, John Hampden, he de- scribes him as ' the first of those great English com- moners whose plain addition of Mister has, to our ears, a more majestic sound than the proudest of the feudal titles.' 51. Vane was 'a singular combination of the statesman and the mystic' According to Clarendon ' he did at some time believe that he was the person deputed to reign over the saints upon earth for a thousand years.' He was at one time Governor of Massachusetts, and his statue adorns the en- tiance hall of the Boston Public Library. He was a leading member of the Long Parliament and after the Restoration v/as put to death as a traitor. 694. a. 5. Rupert (Prince), nephew of Charles I and commander of the Royalist cavalry in the Civil War. 6. Harrison and Fleetwood, leaders on the Par- liamentary side, who were famous for their religious zeal. 40. Bishop Watson (1737-18 16), a distinguished defender of revealed religion against Tom Paine and other sceptical writers. 53. at the close of the Seven Years' War (1763), when France gave up Canada to Great Britain and acknowledged British supremacy in India. 55. American war of Independence. b. 9. late ministerial interregnum, in 1827, on the death of Canning, when Goderich kept the min- istry together for a few months, giving place in January, 1828, to a new government under Welling- ton and Peel. 695. b. 7. Sir Walter Scott, whose novels Macaulay praises in this and the following pages, is not now so highly esteemed as a historical authority for the customs and phraseology of the sixteenth and seven- teenth centuries. 32. Froissart was the chronicler, as Chaucer was the poet, of fourteenth century chivalry. The Tabard Inn, in Southwark, is the scene of the open- ing of the Canterbury Tales. 38. Legate, the ambassador of the Pope. 40. palmers, strictly, pilgrims who had been to the Holy Land and were therefore entitled to carry a branch or leaf of palm, but often used of pilgrims generally, and especially of those who gave all their lives to pilgrimage. 42. refectory, dining-hall. 52. villain (Low Latin villanus), a medieval vil- lager or serf, who was bound to the soil and sub- ject to the lord of the manor. 696. a. II. Tacitus is described by Macaulay earlier in this essay as unrivaled for the delineation of character and certainly the greatest of the Latin historians. XOTES 1 103 40. keep, the central tower or stronghold of a rr:edieval castle. 44. oriel, a window built out so as to form a re- cess. It is one of the features of Elizabethan do- mestic architecture, of which Longleat and ISurleigh were conspicuous examples. The houses of the no- bility built at this time surpassed all that had been built before in comfort and magnificence and all that have been built since in beauty. b. 18. Fifth-inonarcli\-ma)\, one of those who in the seventeenth century believed that the second coming of Christ was immediately at hand, and that it was the duty of Christians to be prepared to assist in establishing his reign by force, and in the meantime to repudiate all allegiance to any other government. The allusion is to the fifth kingdom foretold in Daniel ii, 44. THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND This short extract cannot give any adequate im- pression of the scope and methods of the great his- tory, but it may be enough to suggest some idea of the way in which Macaulay carried out his con- ception of how history should be written. 697. b. I. Danby's administration. 1674-9. 45. clown, country bumpkin. 698. a. 12. Perrault (1628— 1703), a member of the French academy, the advocate of the superiority of modern literature against Boileau, who upheld the classics. 17. Venice Preserved (1682), a tragedy by Thomas Otway. 22. Templars, barristers or law students, of the Inner or Middle Temple. 30. Racine (1660-1699). 31. Bossu (i63i-!68o). b. 33. Lord Mayor's show, a magnificent alle- gorical procession through the streets of London made every year when the Lord Mayor assumes of- fice. 34. Moncydroppers, coiners or distributors of false money, cart's tail, at which they were whipped through the city. 699. b. 38. Tlioresby (1658-1725). 42. Pepys ( 1 632-1 703), the great diarist. 700. a. 20. higgler, a wandering dealer in poultry and dairy produce. b. 34. parochial, levied on the parish, the small- est territorial division in England. SI. turnpike acts, acts of parliament establishing trusts for the maintenance of roads on which tolls were collected. The toll-gates or toll-bars were abol- ished about the middle of the nineteenth century. 701. a. 31. seven pounds, nearly $35. 33. fifteen pence, 30c. b. 37. I'anbrugh (1666-1726), writer of witty and licentious comedy. NEWMAN: THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY This discourse is one of a series given before the University of Dublin and addressed primarily to Catholic educators. 706. a. 54-5 5. ' the world is all before it where to choose.' Paradise Lost, XII, 646. 707. a. 24, St. Thomas. Thomas Aquinas, the fa- mous schoolman of the thirteenth century. b. 46. Pompey's Pillar, a shaft of the Cor- inthian order near Alexandria. Its traditional as- sociation with Pompey is no longer believed to have any foundation in fact. 708. b. 33. the Peripatetic, an epithet applied to the school of Aristotle,' traditionally because his discussions were carried on while walking about in the Lyceum. 35. the Stoic, the school of Greek philosophy founded by Zeno, about 340-265 B. C. 37-39- Felix qui potuit, etc. Virgil's Georgics II, 490—92. 709. a. 23. the music of the spheres. A proberbial phrase founded on the old belief that the celestial spheres were of crystal and made a harmonious sound as they revolved. b. 2. Salmasiiis. A Dutch scholar, chiefly re- membered by Englishmen for his controversy with Milton. 3. Burman. Francois Burmann, Dutch theologian of the seventeenth century. 4. Imperat aut scrvit collecta pecunia cuique [a man's money is either his master or his servant]. Horace, Ep. i, x, 48. 8-10. Vis consili, etc. Horace, Odes 3, iv, 65. 15. Tarpeia. According to legend, she betrayed the Roman citadel to the Sabines for promised treas- ure, but was crushed to death by the shields they threw upon her. -'9. Moshcim. Johann Lorenz von Mosheim (1694-1755). 30. Du Pin, Louis Ellies (1657-1719), French ecclesiastical historian. 711. a. 54. a so-called university, etc. The Univer- sity of London, a corporation for the giving of ex- aminations and conferring of degrees had been founded in 1836. b. 5-6. the University of O.vford . . . some si.rty years since. One may read in this con- nection Gibbon's account of Oxford, in his Memoirs. 712. a. 46. genius loci. Spirit of the place. 713. b. 9-10. ' tongues in the trees . . . brooks.' Slightly inaccurate quotation of As You Like It, II, i, 16. * CARLYLE: PAST AND PRESENT This pamphlet, written during the first seven weeks of 1843, and published in April, has two sides: its historical side is founded on the twelfth century Chronicle of Jocelin de Brakelonde, de- scribing the government of the .\bbey of St. Ed- mund's, which had been printed in 1840 by the Camden Society; its social and political side is con- cerned with the England of 1842, alarmed by Chart- ist riots and at a loss which way to turn for relief of popular discontent. Carlylc was not in sympathy with any of the existing political parties; his pam- phlet aimed at arousing the laboring classes, their employers, and the landed aristocracy to nobler ideals and a sense of their obligations to each other. 714. a. II. Laissez-faire, freedom of manufacture, originally a protest against artificial restrictions of ir.dustry, but later the motto of the English free- traders. Carlyle denounced their policy because they were opposed to all state-interference with in- dustry. 104 NOTES 715. a. 1. Mammon-Gospels. Matthew vi, 54: ' Ye cannot serve God and Mammon.' Evangel. Gos- pel. 22. ' wine-and-walnuts philosophy.' Philosophy suit- ed to be taken with wine and walnuts after a good dinner. 27. ' Suul, take thy ease' See Luke xii, 19-20. 36. his Grace of Castle-Rackrent. Duke with an estate on which exorbitant rents are charged to the tenants. 39. Land Auctionecrship, selling land to the highest bidder. 41. Sliding-scales, adjusting the duty on corn to the price of wheat. 42. Plugsoii, the typical manufacturer. 51. Chancery, the principal English court for deal- ing with business matters. b. I J. are discrepant, disagree, show discrep- ancies. 48. Abbot Samson, the hero of the Chronicle of Jocelin de Brakelonde. See introductory note above. 716. a. 36. Bucanier and Chactaw. Carlyle's own spellings, which it has seemed best to leave, along with his profuse capitals. 46. Caliban. The monster in The Tempest. 48. Fiat-Lux. ' Let there be light.' See Genesis i, 3- 51. garments rolled in blood. See Isaiah ix, 5. b. :i. unkempt, uncombed, raw. 15. Howel Davies. Not found in the Dictionary of National Biography. There was a famous West Indian pirate, Edward Davis, who flourished 1683- 1702, and had at one time command of abouf 3,000 men. 717. a. 2. Soul-Overseers. Bishops, the Greek eTTicTAOTros. from which the word is derived, mean- ing literally an overseer. 3. Hence these tears. Hinc illae lacrumae, a say- ing in Terence's Andria, quoted by Cicero and Horace, and since established as a commonplace of literature. 44. ll'tUiain the Norman Bastard. William I, Duke of Normandy and King of England, was of illegftimate birth. 45. Taillefcr (.literally ' cut-iron '), a minstrel of William's who at the battle of Hastings obtained from him the privilege of striking the first blow. 52. orthoepy, right speech. b. 44. tipstaves, bailiffs, constables. 718. a. 7. li'cstminster Hall, one of the oldest Eng- lish places of legislation and the administration of justice. Charles I was tried here in 1649. 20. Bastille, a great prison in Paris, destroyed at the French Revolution. Carlyle applies the term to the workhouses, in which the poor take refuge in England when they have no employment. 21. IVestminster. Parliament. 30, articulated, systematized, organized. 34. Midas-eared. Midas, a mythological king of Phrygia, who had asses' ears, and who obtained from the gods the embarrassing gift that everything he touched turned to gold. 57. Duces, lenders (Latin). ' on a 7ninimum of four thousand five hundred.' Some one had said that £4,500 (about $20,000) was a minimum salary for an I2ngli»h bishop. b. J4. Mammunish, done merely to get money. 719. (/. 18. Ececliiel. There is no reference to the potter's wheel in Ezechiel. Carlyle probably trusted to his remembrance of Jeremiah xviii, 1-6, and ascribed the passage to the wrong prophet. 23. amorphous, shapeless. 35. shambling, unable to stand straight. 35. squint-cornered, irregular. 37. vessel of dishonor. Romans ix, 21: 'Hath not the potter power over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honor, and another unto dishonor? ' 47. festering, stagnant, decaying. 51. How blessed, etc., blessed for the man's life, no matter what kind of work it is. 57. awakens, nominative ' force ' two lines above. b. 10. schools, of philosophy. II. vortices, whirlpools. 23. Sir Christopher Wren, after St. Paul's was destroyed by the great (ire of London (1666) was appointed architect of the new Cathedral, and car- ried his design to accomplishment in 1710, in spite of the many difficulties Carlyle here refers to. Nell Gwyn was a popular actress of the time, a great favorite with Charles II, who spoke of her en his death-bed. ' Defender of the Faith ' is a title con- ferred by the Pope upon Henry VHI for his answer to Luther, and retained by all the English sovereigns since. 41. architectonics, the principles of building. 720. a. 3. monument. Sir Christopher Wren's tomb in St. Paul's bears the inscription: ' Si monumentum quaeris circumspice.' ' If you seek his monument, look around you.' 50. Ursa Major, the Great Bear, a group of stars near the North Pole, popularly known as Charles's Wain or the Dipper. b. 33. ' Religion.' Carlyle now returns to the thought of the last paragraph but one. 36. Brahmins, the highest caste in the Hindoo re- ligion. Antinomians, a sect who maintained that the moral law was not binding upon Christians. 37. Spinning Dervishes, Mohammedan friars who whirl round and round in a state of religious ex- citement ' till collapse ensue and sometimes death.' 51. immethodic, without method, irregular. 721. a. 12. Shovel-hat, a broad-brimmed hat, turned up at the sides and projecting in front, worn by some clergymen. Talfourd-Mahon Copyright Act (1842) gave the author copyright for forty-two years. The meaning is that people should attack Ignorance, without wait- ing to be invested with authority, or promised re- ward and legal protection. 22. Sinai thunders. See Exodus xix, 16—19. 23. speech of Whirlwinds. See i Kings xix, 11- 12. 34. work, etc. John ix, 4: 'I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.' 43. Kepler (1571-1630), Newton (1642— 1727), two of the world's greatest mathematicians and astron- omers. 46. ' Agony of bloody sxveat.' See Luke xxii, 44, NOTES 1105 b. 15. denicoi, one born in the country, hav- ing rights of citizenship; opposed to ' foreigner.' ^4. Mayfair, the fashionable quarter of London. 34. Phantasm, an appearance, not a reality. 40. unprofitable servants. See Luke xvii, 10. 53. Eldorado, the ' golden ' land dreamed of by the Spanish explorers of America. 722. a. I. St. Stephen's. The Houses of Tarlia- ment. 20. Owen, Robert (1771-1858), a socialist re- former, who, amid many other projects intended to benefit working people, established in 1832 an ■ Equitable Labor Exchange.' It proved a failure. 29. ZJou'jn'nysireet, where many of the govern- ment offices are in London. 723. a. 8. Manes, the deified souls of the departed, the gods of the Lower World. 15. Acheron, a river in the Lower World; often used as synonym for the Lower World itself. 17. Dante (ij65-ijtfi), the great Italian poet from whose Divine Comedy {Inferno xv, 55) Car- lyle quotes below. 25. Se tu segui la tua stella. ' If thou followest thy star.' 33. Cerberus, the dog who guarded Hades. 30. Eccovi . . . all' Inferno. ' Behold the man who has been in hell.' 36. Dryden. See 269. 79. 4->. Eurydice, beloved of Orpheus, who went down to Tartarus to rescue her. b. 3. lath-and-plaster hats. Used for adver- tisements. 7. Controversies were raging at this time in the Church of England as to whether the preacher should wear a black gown or a white surplice. 10. Corn-Laws, imposing duties on wheat, which made bread dear, and pampered industry by increas- ing wages. Abolished 1846. 23. Great Taskmaster's eye. Milton's Sonnet On his having arrived at the age of 23 ends All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. 31. Galvanism, electricity. 55. Antaeus, a giant in classical mythology, who renewed his strength by contact with the earth, his mother. 724. a. 56. adscititioHS, accidental. b. 19. the proper Epic, not of military heroes, or of tailors, but of captains of industry. 725. a. 18. Stockport, a manufacturing town in the North of England, where, at this time, many work- ing people lived in cellars. 19. Poor-Law Bastilles, workhouses. 30. villani, bordarii, sochemanni, medixval Latin terms for serfs. 43. arrestment, arrest. 46. Dryasdust, the scholarly historian or medixval chronicler. b. 6. Phalaris, a tyrant of ancient Sicily, who was said to burn men alive in a bronze bull. 31. Dahomey, a kingdom in West Africa. 33. Mungo Park (1771 — 1806), an African explorer who tells in his Travels the incident referred to by Carlyle. 40. Calabash, a tree common in tropical .America, 70 but said to have been introduced from Guinea. The hard shell of the fruit is used for bottles, cups, and other vessels. 52. Gurth . . . Cedric the Saxon. Characters in Scott's Ivanhoe. 726. a. 2. boscage and umbrage, wood and shade. b. 35. Tancred of Hautcville (1078-1112), one uf the leaders of the first crusade. 38. cased in tin. The Champion of England, who appears at the Coronation ceremony, wears armor — a survival of ancient custom which Carlyle wishes to ridicule. 49. Hereward, a Saxon hero who withstood William I in the Fen Counties, on the east coast of England. 51. H'allheof, Earl of Northumberland, beheaded in 1076 for conspiring against William I. 727. a. 35. Corn-Laws, maintained for the advan- tage of the country landowners, whose main activ- ity, according to Carlyle, was the preservation and slaughter of partridges. 37. bedlamtsm, lunacy. 38. bush, to plant bushes on game preserves so as to prevent the use of nets by poachers. 40. Par la Splendeur dc Dieu, a Norman oath. ' By God's Splendor.' 44. Joe Manton (d. 1835), a famous London gun maker. b. 14. Charter. The agitation for the People's Charter was coming to a height when Past and Present was written. The six ' points ' in it were (1) manhood suffrage; (2) equal electoral districts; (3) vote by ballot; (4) annual parliaments; (%) abolition of the property qualification for members of the House of Commons; (6) payment of mem- bers of parliament. 25. St, Mary Axe, a London parish. 30. Wahngasse of Wcissnichtieo, the imaginary street of ' Nowhere,' in which lived Terr Teufels- drockh (Devil's dung), the hero of Carlyle's Sartor Resartus. Carlyle here returns to the style and thought of his earlier work, and quotes from his own hero — really from himself, for Teufelsdrockh is merely Carlyle under a thin disguise. 41. mein Lieber, my dear fellow. The imaginary German philosopher intersperses his speech with scraps of his native language. 728. a. I. Sansculottic, revolutionary. 2. ruinous, because sansculottic literally means ' without breeches.' 10. Keinestvcgs, by no means. 11. Sumptuary Laws, regulating the dress and way of living of various classes. 14. amphibium, a compromise, neither one thing nor another. 24. Cheruscan, a German tribe mentioticd by Julius Cxsar. b. I. Sedan, a town on the French frontier with many cloth factories: now more famous for its surrender by Napoleon III to the Germans in 1870. Huddcrsfield, one of the centers of the Yorkshire cloth trade. Nescience, ignorance. 50. Windsor Georges, decorations or titles. 53. Franchiser, voter, elector. ;6. Heavy wet. ale. iio6 NOTES 729. a. 48. wardmotes, meetings of the voters of a small district. 55. Palaver, Parliament, which literally means ' talking-place.' b. 24. Pococurantisin, carelessness, inattention, J5. Beait-Bruminelism, dandyism. -•7. Byronism, sentimental egotism. Dead Sea, in Palestine, on the site of the once flourishing ' cities of the plain.' 30. Sabbath-day, of witches and apes. 730. a. 16. lion-soirees, evening entertainments given for the exhibition of social ' lions ' or notabilities. 27. dispiritments, discouragements. 40. Histrios, actors. 47. Qtiackhood, quackery. 54. ninth-parts of men, tailors. b. 5. succedanea, substitutes. 36. Bobus Higgins, ' Sausage-maker on the great scale . . . with his cash-accounts and larders dropping fatness, with his respectabilities, warm garnitures, and pony-chaise,' is Carlyle's incarnation of commercial success. 47. Friend Prudence. ' Prudence keeps a thou- sand workmen; has striven in all ways to attach them to him; has provided conversational soirees; play-grounds, bands of music for the young ones; went even "the length of buying them a drum"; all which has turned out to be an excellent invest- ment. For a certain person, marked here by a black stroke, whom we shall name Blank, living over the way — he also keeps somewhere about a thousand men; but has done none of these things for them, nor any other thing, except due payment of the wages by supply-and-demand. Blank's work- ers are perpetually getting into mutiny, into broils and coils: every six months, we suppose. Blank has a strike; every one month, every day and every hour, they are fretting and obstructing the short- sighted Blank, pilfering from him, wasting and idling for him, omitting and committing for him. " I would not," says Friend Prudence, " exchange my workers for his with seven thousand pounds to boot," ' 8. Law-ward, ' maintainer and keeper of Heaven's laws ' — Carlyle's interpretation of the word ' lord.' Its true origin is, however, hlaf-weard, loaf-ward or keeper of bread, as that of ' lady ' is hlaf-dige, kneader of bread. Cf. 725. b. 21. 731. a. 23. flunky-species, people with the ideas .of footmen. Chactaw, Indian, heathen. 48. my Transcendental friends. Carlyle was in correspondence with two of the New England Transcendentalists — Ralph Waldo Emerson and George Ripley. The latter defined Transcendental- ists as people who 'believe in an order of truth that transcends the sphere of the external senses. Their leading idea is the supremacy of mind over matter. H«nce they maintain that the truth of re- ligion does not depend en tradition or historical facts, but has an unswerving witness in the soul.' As may be gathered from the text, Carlyle was not altogether in sympathy with his Transcendental ad- mirers. He wrote to Emerson in 1842: 'You seem to me in danger of dividing yourselves from the Fact of this present Universe, in which alone, ugly as it is, can I find any anchorage, and soaring away after Ideas, Beliefs, Revelations, and such like — into perilous altitudes, as 1 think.' 52. Demiuryusships, Lordships. The Demiurgus is in the Platonic philosophy the Maker of the world. It means literally ' one who works for the people,' and in some Greek states was the title of a magistrate. 56. Chronos, in Greek mythology Kronos, the ruler of heaven and earth until his son Zeus (Latin Jupiter or Jove) drove him from the throne. Odin, the All-father of Norse mythology, the same as the Old English Woden, whose name is preserved in ' Wednesday.' 57. St. Olaf, who early in the eleventh century converted Norway to Christianity, the Dollar, etc. The promised change in American ideals was prob- ably suggested to Carlyle by Emerson, who wrot'e to him from Concord on Oct. 30, :84o: ' We are all a little wild here with numberless projects of social reform. Not a reading man but has a draft of a new Community in his waistcoat pocket. I am gently mad myself, and am resolved to live cleanly. George Ripley is talking up a colony of agriculturists and scholars, with whom he threatens to take the field and the book. One man renounces the use of animal food; and another of coin; and another of domestic hired service; and another of the state; and on the whole we have a commendable share of reason and hope.' b. 2. Socinian from two Italian theologians of the sixteenth century named Socinus, who did not believe that Christ was God. Emerson and Ripley had both resigned their charges as Unitarian ministers. 5. retire into the fields, etc. Carlyle here refers to the Brook Farm Institute of Agriculture and Education, which Emerson mentions in the passage quoted above. Emerson, though in sympathy with the enterprise, took no active part in it. The leader was George Ripley, and another active member, John S. Dwight, had also been a Unitarian minis- ter. The Farm was managed on a system of ' brotherly co-operation,' and no one was paid more than a dollar a day; provision was made for edu- cational courses of an advanced character, but after a year or two it v/as found that the income did not meet the expenditure. Nathaniel Hawthorne was one of the original members of the community, and has left an account of his experiences in The Blithe- dale Romance. 20. Exeter Hall, the meeting place of various Evangelical societies every May. It is in the Strand and has since been bought by the Y. M. C. A. 22. Puscyism, from Pusey, an Oxford professor and one of the leaders of the High Church move ment which was attracting public attention about this time. 32. zvliy will, why not shall, expressing determina- tion on the part of the speaker. 732. a. II. Long-acre, a London street where car- riages were sold. A witness in a famous trial in 1823 had described a certain person as 'respecta- ble,' and when asked why, answered, ' he always NOTES 1 107 kept a gig.' This furnished Carlyle with a text on which he was never tired of preaching against tlie superficiality of current standards of worth. 14. Simulacrum (Latin), image. 18. llion, Troy; Latium, the country about Rome, scenes of the Iliad and the JEncid. Mayfair, a fashionable part of London, east of Hyde Park; so called from a Fair formerly held there in the month of May. 23. Phrygians, inhabitants of Asia Minor, Tro- jans. 24. j'dtuns, a supernatural race of giants in Scan- dinavian mythology. The heroism of the future will consist in overcoming tlie forces of nature and the evil passions of the heart of man. 30. Fribbles, triflers. ' bush,' preserve game. See 727. a. 38, note. 35. the Subtle Fowler, Destiny. 42. with beards on their chins, grown men, no longer children. b. 24. Brindley (1716-72) , engineer of the Bridgewater and Grand Trunk Canals. 25. Goethe, ' for the last hundred years, by far the notablest of all Literaiy Men.' — Heroes and Hero Worship. Odin, celebrated by Carlyle in his lecture on ' The Hero as Divinity.' Arkwright (1732-92), inventor of cotton spinning machinery. 35, Bath-garter. The orders of the Garter and the Bath are among the highest honors conferred by the English sovereign. Carlyle confuses the two, for the purpose of expressing contempt for such decorations regarded as claims to respect. 36. George, the jewel which forms part of the insignia of the Order of the Garter. 43. Duke of Weimar. Carlyle had written in the previous chapter: 'A modern Duke of Weimar, not a god he either, but a human duke, levied, as I reckon, in rents and taxes and all incomings whatsoever, less than several of our English Dukes do in rent alone. The Duke of Weimar, with these incomings, had to govern, judge, defend, everyway administer his Dukedom. He does all this as few others did: and he improves lands besides all this, makes river-embankments, maintains not soldiers only but Universities and Institutions; — and in his Court were these four men: Wieland, Herder, Schiller, Goethe. ... I reckon that this one Duke of Weimar did more for the Culture of his Nation than all the English Dukes and Duces now extant, or that were extant since Henry the Eighth gave them the Church Lands to eat, have done for theirs! ' 47. The Future hides in it, etc. This is a stanza from Goethe's poem ' Symbolum,' introductory to the series entitled ' Loge.' Carlyle had given a translation of the whole poem earlier in Fast and Present (end of Bk. III). He now recalls it as the final thought he wishes to impress upon the minds of his readers. 49. thorozv, through. RUSKIN: TRAFFIC 734. a. 12. carelessness, lack of interest. b. 28. pitch farthing, pitch and toss, ' match- ing ' coppers. 735. a. 18. Teniers (1582-1649). the great Dutch realist painter. 29. Titian (i477-«576), the leading artist of the X'enetian school. 30. Turner (1775-1851). the greatest of English landscape painters and Ruskin's particular favorite. See introductory biography, 733. 4. 49- Fleet Street, a great London thoroughfare, where many London publishers have offices. 54. classifying, dividing into classes. b. 7. costermonger, peddler of apples (' cos- tards ') and other small fruits. 8. Newgate Calendar, a publication giving ac- counts of sensational crimes. Newgate is a London prison. 736. a. 4-6. Quoted from Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto i. 38. steel-traps . . . spring guns. Appliances used against poachers, but here allegorically signi- fying the armaments of modern nations. 54. Bedlam, the monastery of St. Mary of Beth- lehem in London, later used as an asylum for the insane. b. 13. Armstrongs, big guns manufactured by the great English firm of Armstrong. 19- black eagles of Austria. Ruskin means that the English let the great military nations alone. 52. Inigo Jones . . . Sir Christopher Wren, the great English architects of the seventeenth century. The former planned the royal palace of Whitehall in London, the latter St. Paul's Cathedral, both in the Italian style. 737. a. 50. This is none other than the house of God. See Genesis xxviii, 10-17. b. 25. Thou, when thou prayest. See Mat- thew vi, 5-6. 49. Lares, Latin gods of the hearth, household gods. 738. a. s. The Seven Lamps. See introductory biography, p. 733. b. 48. Bosphorus, the strait dividing Europe from Asia. 739. a. 9, to the Jews. See i Corinthians i, 23. b. 51. Tetsel, a seller of papal indulgences who provoked the indignation of Luther. b. 55. bals masques, masked balls. They were a feature of the French frivolity which preceded the Revolution and the guillotine. 740. a. 6. Revivalist, of classical architecture, as seen in the royal palace of Versailles, near Paris, and the papal palace of the Vatican at Rome. 17. sevenths of time, Sunday, one-seventh of the week. 38. Acropolis, the hill overlooking Athens; the site of the Parthenon and other Greek temples. 39. walls of Babylon . . . temple of Ephesus, monuments of antiquity. b. 23. affairs of exchange. See Matthew xxi, 12-13. 34. quartering. As armies do when they occupy a country, color, pretence. 55. ' carry.' At the point of the bayonet. 741. b. 2. St. George, the English national saint. 3. semi-fleeced . . . proper . . . fields, terms of heraldry. iio8 NOTES .•3. Comjoitcr, the Holy Ghost. See John xiv, 16-17. .'7. Agora, market. 742. a. 4. Olympus . . . Pclion . . . Ossa. Mountains of classical antiquity. See llamlcl V, i, 304-7- 743. a. 21. Solomon made gold. See 1 Kings x, 14-17- 51. Bolton priory, a beautiful abbey in Wharfc dale, Yorkshire. 56. ' men may come.' Quoted from Tennyson's The Brook. 744. b. 7. plain of Dura, where Nebuchadnezzar set up a golden image. See Daniel iii, i. 25. pleasantness . . . peace. See Proverbs iii, 35. not made with hands. See 2 Corinthians v, 1. TENNYSON: MARIANA 745. 8. moated grange. Tennyson printed, as the motto of this poem, the phrase, ' Mariana in the moated grange,' adapted from a passage in Shak- spere's Measure for Measure, III, i. The situation of Shakspere's Mariana, then, probably furnished the germ of Tennyson's conception. THE POET 747. 15. Calpe, Gibraltar. Caucasus, the Caucasian THE LADY OF SHALOTT This was probably Tennyson's earliest study from the Arthurian legend. It may be compared with his later embodiment of the story in Lancelot and Elaine. 5. Camelot. In Cornwall. The legendary seat of King Arthur's court. 9. Shalott. Malory's Astolat. According to Pal- grave, this poem was suggested to Tennyson by an Italian romance upon the Donna di Scalotta. This would account for the form, Shalott. 748. 84. the golden Galaxy. The Milky Way. 107. ' Tirra Lirra.' Tirelirer, in French, signifies to sing like a lark. THE PALACE OF ART The ethical burden of this poem has been well stated by Tennyson's friend, James Spedding. The poem ' represents allegorically the condition of a mind which, in the love of beauty and the triumphant consciousness of knowledge and intellectual su- premacy, in the intense enjoyment of its own power and glory, has lost sight of its relation to man and God.' 750. 99. Saint Cecily. C-nipare 276. 138-47. and note. 105. Uther's deeply-wounded son, King Arthur. See below, p. 758. 111. The wood-nymph, Egeria. The Ausonian king, Numa Pompilius. 115. Indian Cama. The Hindu god of love. 117. Europa. According to the Greek myth, Europa, sister of Cadmus, was carried to Crete by Zeus, who assumed the form of a white bull. 'Europa and the Hull' is the subject of a famous painting by Titian. 121. Ganymede, the cup-bearer of Zeus, who was conveyed to Olympus by an eagle. 137. the Ionian father, etc. Homer. 163. I'erulani. Francis Macon was created Baron V'erulam in 1618. See pp. 187-199. 171-J. as morn from Memnon, etc. A colossus near Thebes, Egypt, was believed by the Greeks to represent this solar deity and to give forth a niusi cal sound when reached by the rays of the rising sun. 752. 219. Like Herod, etc. See Acts xii, 21-J3. 226. The airy hand, etc. See Daniel v, 24—27. A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 753. 2. The Legend of Good Women. For its place among Chaucer's works, see p. 4. 27. tortoise, the roof formed by the shields of soldiers held over their heads. 754. 87. a daughter of the gods, etc. Helen. 100. One that stood beside. Iphigenia, the daugh- ter of Agamemnon. Part of the details are drawn from Aeschylus' Agamemnon, 225—49, and from Lu- cretius' De Rerum Natura, I, 85-100. 122. Sudden I heard, etc. The description of Cleopatra is based chiefly on Shakspere's Antony end Cleopatra, though there are touches from Horace. Ode i. 755. 145. Canopus. One of the brightest of the first magnitude stars. It is not visible in our mid- dle northern latitudes. 154. the other. Octavius Cssar. 176. Then I heard, etc. Jephthah's daughter. See Judges xi. 756. 250. Rosamond. See 375. 95, note. 254. Eleanor, Henry II's queen. She is said to have slain Rosamond with her own hand or to have forced her to drink poison. 260. Fulvia. Antony's first wife. Cleopatra n'.eans, ' You should have slain your rival.' 264. The captain of my dreams. The morning star, an allusion to 1. 3. 265—6. her, who clasped . . . father's head. Margaret Roper, the daughter of Sir Thomas More, is said to have rescued his head from London Bridge where it had been placed after his execution for high treason, and to have kept it until she died. 267—71. Or her who knew, etc. Eleanor, wife of Edward I, who saved his life by applying her lips to his wound after he had been stabbed with a poisoned dagger. ST. AGNES EVE See 640. i, note. OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS 758. 15. the triple forks. The trident of Neptune, symbolic of maritime supremacy. SIR GALAHAD 25. When down the stormy crescent goes. After a victory over the Saracen. S3, the leads. The roofs of lead. 84. C'ii/i7 / find the holy Grail. The sacred ves- sel in which the blood of the Lord was caught as NOTES 1109 he hung upon the Cross, was said to have been carried to Britain by Joseph of Arimathea. It was an object of quest among the knights of the Rouml Table, but only Galahad was pure enough to acliievt- it. See Tennyson's Holy Grail in The Idylls of Hit- King and Malory's Morte d' Arthur. A FAREWELL 759. The Tennysons left their old home at Somers- by in 1837. There are references to the incident and to the same brook in In Alemoriam. MORTE D'ARTHUR For Malory's Mortc d' Arthur, Bk. XXI, upon which this poem is based, see p. 21. The poem was afterward incorporated, with additions, into The Idylls of the King. 4. Lyonnesse. A mythical region, oflf the shores of Cornwall, now supposedly submerged by the sea. 15. The goodliest felloivshit>, etc. The Round Table. 21. Camelot. See 747. s, note. 23. Merlin. The wise magician of Arthur's cimrt. 31. samite, a kind of silk. 43. hcst, behest, command. 760. 139. the northern morn, Aurora borealis. 140. isles of winter, icebergs. 761. 186. harness, armor. 215. greaves, shin pieces, cuisses, thigh pieces. 762. 259. the island valley of Avilion. Tennyson's description is influenced by classical conceptions of the Fortunate Islands. See 763. 63, note. ULYSSES The germ of this poem is to be found in Dante's Inferno xxvi, 85—142. 2. these barren crags, the bleak island of Ithaca. 3. mete, measure. 10. the rainy Hyadcs. A part of the constellation Taurus, supposed to bring rain. Virgil's pluvias Hyadas. 763. 63. the Happy Isles. X'aguely thought of by the ancients as somewhere in the Atlantic off tlie west coast of Africa, perhaps the Cape Verde or the Canary Islands. Tennyson's description of Avilion borrows from classical sources. See 762. LOCKSLEY HALL Suggestions for this poem were derived from the Amriolkais, an Arabian poem translated by Sir William Jones. Works, Vol. IV, pp. 247-57. 8. Orion. A conspicuous constellation often men- tioned by Tennyson. 9. the Pleiads. A group of stars in the constella- tion Taurus. A similar reference occurs in the Amriolkais. 765. 75. Comfort scorned of devils. The reference is to Paradise Lost, Books I and II, passim. 75-76. this is truth the poet sings, etc. Nessun maggior dolore, . Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nclla miseria. — Dante, Inferno v, 121-3. 766. 155. Mahratta-hattle. With the Mahrattas, a warlike and powerful Hindu people of mid-India, the British had a number of serious wars between 1750 and 1818. 767. 180. Joshua 12-13. moon in .4jaion. See Joshua x, nging grooves of change. Tennyson has 182. the explained that when he traveled by the first train from Liverpool to Manchester in 1830 it was night and he thought that the wheels ran in a groove. ■ Then 1 v/role this line.' 184. Cathay, China. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK Composed ' in a Lincolnshire lane at five o'clock in tlie mo*- ing between blossoming hedges.' (Ten- nyson.) N MEMORIAM A. H. H. Arthur Henry Ilallam died at Vienna, in Septem- ber, 1833. He had been Tennyson's most intimate friend at Cambridge and was betrothed to Tenny- son's sister. He was a youth of great intellectual promise and exceptional purity of spirit. The ' elegies ' as they were called which make up In Mcmuriam, were composed at various times during the seventeen years which intervened between Hal- lam's death and their publication in 1850. 769. 5. orbs of light and shade. The eyes. 8. the skull. As symbolizing death. 35. merit lives from man to man. That is, man in comparison with man. 42. Confusions of a wasted youth. This section of the poem was written in 1849, while much of the poem had been composed years before. XIX 1-4. The Danube to the Severn, etc. Vienna, where Ilallam died, is on the Danube; while C'leve- don Church, where he is buried, is on the river Severn near its confluence with Bristol Channel. 5-8. There twice a day the Severn fills, etc. The tide pushes back into the Severn and up the tribu- tary Wye. LV 770. 7-8. So careful of the type, etc. Type, species. In Ivi, Tennyson points out that types, as well as inilividuals, become extinct. 1. Ilwu, the spirit of Ilallam. LXVll 3. that biuad water of the ivest. The mouth of the Severn. See xix, 1-4, note. LXXXVIII 2. quicks, hedges. Literally, living things. MAUD; A MONODRAMA 772. 36. vitriol madness. The frenzy produced by chemicalized liquor. 40. center-bits. The drills of the safe-blower. 43. poisoned poison. Adulterated drugs. 45. Timour-Mammon. Timour (Tamerlane), ' the Scourge of the World,' is united with the god of riches to name an evil potency of the modern world. 773. 89. Orion. Compare Locksley Hall, 763. 8. and note. lO NOTES 132. Birds in the high Hall-garden, etc. Tenny- son called attention to the imitation of the cries of the rooks, 11. 134 and 158, and of the smaller birds, 1. 142. 774. 206. Lebanon. The cedars of Lebanon arc said to have been brought into England by the cru- saders, on their return from the Holy Land. 227. A sad astrology. The old astrology was based upon a belief that the movements of stars controlled the destiny of men; but modern science teaches us that they have no such significance. 775. 297. the planet of love. Venus, as morning star. 392. the Breton Strand. The coast of Brittainy, in France. 777. 411. that of Lamech. 'I have slain a man to my wounding, and a young man to my hurt.' Genesis iv, 2Z. 456. O that 't were possible, etc. This section of the poem, in slightly different form, had been pub- lished in The Tribute, 1837. Tennyson's friend. Sir John Simeon, who greatly admired the verses, sug- gested that they needed some introduction to make them fully intelligible. Tennyson undertook to carry out the suggestion, and Maud was the result. TITHONUS Although not published until i860, this poem was written at about the same time as Ulysses, It is based upon the Greek myth according to which Tithonus, a mortal, being beloved by Eos, goddess of the dawn, the gods conferred vipon him the gift of immortality. As they had neglected the gift of immortal youth, he gradually dwindled away and was metamorphosed into a grasshopper. The poem should be read as a myth of the dawn. MILTON This is one of a group of poems which Tennyson styled ' experiments in quantity.' It imitates the Alcaic stanza of Horace and other classical poets. To those who are unacquainted with classical prosody perhaps the best advice is that which Tennyson gave in regard to a similar experiment: ' Read it as prose and the meter will come right.' The following time scheme may, however, be found useful in interpreting the meter: — |-^o|-^— ||-^uo|-lo|-i NORTHERN FARMER This poem is written in the Lincolnshire dialect with which Tennyson was familiar from childhood. It will be more easily understood if read aloud. 779. I. 'asta, hast thou, liggin', lying. 2. nowt, nothing. 10. issen, himself. 780. II. towd, told, toithe, tithe. 14. barne, bairn, child. 16. raate, tax. 18. 23. -'7- have 28. 31. 32- 34- 35- 36. 37- 38. 41. 49. 52. 54- 61. 62. 781. 66. he 's Though some may bussard-clock, cockchafer 'Siver, howsoever. thaw summnn said it. said it. stiibb'd, grubbed, cleared. boggle, goblin, bogle. btttter-bunip, bittern. raiived, rived, tore, rembled, removed. 'enemies, anemones. toaner, the one or the other. 'seise, the assizes. Dubbut, do but. bracken, brake, fern, fiizs, furze, gorse. nobbut, only. 'aapoth, half-penny's worth. hoalnis, flats, lowlands. sewerloy, surely. kittle o' steam, steam-engine. Hucsin' an' maasin'. Buzzing and amazing. 65. atta, art thou. 'toattler, teetotaler, a's haollus t' the oud taale, always at the old story. THE REVENGE Compare the account from Hakluyt, above, 92 ff. TO VIRGIL . . fire. The reference is )f the burning of Troy. 783. I. Ilion's . . ^neas's description Alneid II. 3. he that sang the ' Works and Days.' Hesiod. S. Thou that singcst . . . herd. Reference to the Georgics. 7. Tityrus. See Eclogue I. 8. the poet-satyr. See Eclogue VI. 9. the Pollio. See Eclogue IV. II. Thou that seest Universal Nature, etc. See Aineid VI, 727. 14. Golden branch, etc. See Aineid VI, 208. 16. the Northern Island, etc. See Eclogue, I, 67. 19. Mantovano, Mantuan. From Mantua, Virgil's birthplace. FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE The refrain, ' Brother, hail and farewell,' is from Catullus's invocation at his brother's tomb. See Catullus, ci. 1. Desemano . . . Sirmione. Villages on the Lago di Garda, largest of the northern Italian lakes. 2. O venusta Sirmio [O Ancient Sirmio]. See Catullus xxxi. 8. Lydian laughter of the Garda Lake. See Ca- tullus xxxi. CROSSING THE BAR Tennyson requested of his son that these verses should be placed at the close of all collections of his poems. They were written in his eighty-first year and ' came in a moment.' 784. 3. moaning of the bar. The poem was sug- gested by the popular superstition that the tide moans in going out, whenever a death has occurred. 15. my Pilot 'that Divine and Unseen who is al- ways guiding us.' (Tennyson.) NOTES nil BROWNING: SONGS FROM ' PIPPA PASSES ' Browning was walking alone in a wood on the outskirts of London when the image flashed upon him of ' someone walking thus alone through life; one apparently too obscure to leave a trace of his or her passage, yet exercising a lasting, though un- conscious, influence at every step of it." This orig- inal conception is charmingly worked out in the character of Felippa or I'ippa, tlie little silk winder of Asolo, a hill town in North Italy which had taken Browning's fancy during his first visit. I'ippa is introduced in her humble room springing out of bed on her one holiday — New Year's Day, and singing the tirst of her songs, as here given. During the day she passes in and out of the vil- lage, singing her artless songs, and unconsciously influencing the lives of those about her. The sec- ond song, ' The year 's at the Spring,' awakens two wicked people to a sense of their guilt and the di- vine government of the world. The third, ' Give her but a least excuse to love me,' rouses a young painter to a higher conception of love and art. The explanation of this song is given in the lines which follow in the original: — What name was that the little girl sang forth? Kate? The Cornaro, doubtless, who renounced The crown of Cyprus to be lady here At Asolo, where still her memory stays. And peasants sing how once a certain page Pined for the grace of her so far above His power of doing good to ' Kate the Queen — She never could be wronged, be poor,' he sighed, ' Need him to help her! ' Browning gives us in the first five lines of each stanza the page's song; in the last four the com- ments of the Queen and her maid, who overhear him. Caterina (or Kate) Cornaro was a Venetian citizen who married the King of Cyprus, and after his death, resigning her authority to the Republic, retired to keep a small court at the Venetian vil- lage of Asolo, where she ' wielded her little sceptre for her people's good, and won their love by gentle- ness and grace.' 786. 18. jesses. Straps for hawks' legs. MY LAST DUCHESS Ferrara, which Browning gives as the scene of tl:is poem, is a town in North Italy, not far from Venice. It was the capital of the House of Este, who were among the most accomplished and the most cruel of the tyrants of the Italian Renascence. Symonds says in his Age of the Despots: ' Under the House of Este, Ferrara was famous throughout Italy for its gaiety and splendor. No city enjoyed more brilliant or more frequent public shows. No- where did the aristocracy retain so much feudal magnificence and chivalrous enjoyment. The square castle of red brick, which still stands in the mid- dle of the town, was thronged with poets, players, fools who enjoyed an almost European reputation, court flatterers, knights, pages, scholars, and fair ladies. But beneath its cube of solid masonry, on a level with the moat, shut out from daylight by the sevenfold series of iron bars, lay dungeons in which the objects of the Duke's displeasure clanked chains and sighed their lives away.' 3. Fra. The painter, who is an imaginary char- acter, was a monk like Fra Angelico and other Ital- ian artists of the Renascence. 787. 45-6. There has been much discussion as to whether these two lines imply that the Duke gave orders for his wife's execution. Professor Corson put the question to Browning himself, and quotes his answer thus: '"Yes, 1 meant that the com- mands were that she should be put to death." And then after a pause he added with a characteristic dash of expression, as if the thought had just started in his mind, " Or he might have had her shut up in a convent." ' 56. Claus of Innsbruck. An imaginary artist. Innsbruck is in the Tyrol. It is famous for the bronze work on the tomb of the emperor Maxi- milian. The teacher should take care that the student masters all the points in this exquisite example of the dramatic monologue. Browning's favorite art form. COUNT GISMOND This stirring narrative, in which Browning con- centrates the heroic spirit of mediaeval chivalry, tells in the very words of the heroine of the inci- dent a straight-forward story which needs no com- ment; but the reader should not miss the charming equivocation with which the heroine avoids telling her husband that she has been boasting to her friend of his prowess. INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP Ratisbon is in Bavaria, on the right bank of the Danube. It was stormed by Napoleon in 1809, after an obstinate defence by the Austrians. Mrs. Orr says: ' The story is true; but its actual hero was a man.* 788. 1. we French. The story is told by a specta- tor. 7. prone. Bending or leaning forward. II. Lannes. One of Napoleon's generals. 789. 29. flag-bird. The Napoleonic standard was a tricolor powdered with golden bees, with an eagle on the central stripe. vans. Wings. Latin vannus, a fan for winnow- ing grain. 34-5. film is nominative to sheathes. THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND Browning was proud to remember that the Ital- ian patriot Mazzini used to read this poem to his fellow exiles in England to show how an English- man could sympathize with them. (Mrs. Orr.) 8. Charles. Charles Albert, Prince of Carignano, belonged to the royal house of Savoy, but was brought up among the people, and as a young man expressed sympathy with revolutionary principles. He was afterward accused of betraying Italy, and was bitterly denounced by his former friends. 19. Mettcrnich our friend. Said ironically. Met- ternich, the .Nustrian statesman and diplomatist, was the most determined enemy of Italian independ- III2 NOTES JO. See note above on Charles Albert. 41. ciyft. i'lace of concealment; commonly used of a place for burial. 46. My fears were not for myself, but f«r my country; 'on me Rested the hopes of Italy.' 35, 75. duomo. (Italian) Cathedral. 76. Tenebra. A service of the Roman (^alliolic Church, which involves the gradual extinction of the lights on the altar. The Latin word literally means ' darkness.' 81. It was not unusual for a priest to render service to the cause of Italian liberty. 790. 125-7. Charles Albert became King of Sar- dinia in 1831 and resigned the crown to his son, Victor Emmanuel, in 1849. He retired to Portugal, where he died in the same year, ' broken-hearted and misunderstood.' The patriot's wish as ex- pressed by Browning was, therefore, fulfilled four years after the poem was published. Charles Al- bert's position wr:; a very difficult one, and his- torians generally take a nc:^ favorable view of his conduct than i: here given. Browning has merely given characterlztic exprc;;ion ti the sentiment of the ardent Italian patriots of tli- time. 138-44. '-'lieSc lines forcefully represent the divi- sion of opinion in Italy during the apparently fruit- less struggles for independence. THE LOST LEADER The suggestion for this early poem was undoubt- edly Wordsworth's abandonment of the Liberal principles of his youth for the reactionary Con- servatism of his old age; but it was only a sugges- tion. ' Once call my fancy portrait Wordsworth,' Browning wrote, ' and how much more ought one to say.' In another letter he speaks of Wordsworth's ' moral and intellectual superiority,' and protests against taking this poem as an attempt to draw his real likeness. It is really a character study from Browning's own imagination, and should be so re- garded, in justice to both poets. 791. 29-30. It is best for him to fight for the side he has chosen as well as he can, to fight so well indeed as to threaten us with defeat before the hour of our final triumph. ' Then let him receive,' etc. HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD It is interesting to contrast Browning's prefer- ence for English birds and flowers, expressed in this poem after his earlier visits to the Continent, with the love of Italy breathed in ' De Gustibus — ' p. 802, which was written after his settlement with his wife in Florence. HOME THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA Written off Gibraltar during Browning's first voyage to Italy in 1838. 1-7. Cat^c St. Vincent, Cadiz Bay, Trafalgar are all associated with English victories. Gibraltar. the famous rock-fortress which guards the entrance to the Mediterranean, has been held by Great Britain since its capture in 1704. These glorious memories inspire the poet with a sense of his duty to his country, and he mingles prayer for the fu- ture with praise for the past. Say is imperative. ' Whoso turns, etc. ... let him say " How can 1 help England? SAUL Browning found the suggestion for this, one of his finest religious poems, in the Old Testameirt narrative of Saul's depression and its relief by the harping of David, the shepherd boy — i Samuel xvi, 14-23, which the teacher would do well to read to the class in order to show how the poet has filled with life and color the mere hints of the original. Browning has read into the ancient story not only doctrines and ideas taken from the New Testament, but modern religious views and sentiments. I. Abner. The son of Ner, captain of Saul's host. See I Samuel xxvi, 5. 792. 36-41. Professor Albert S. Cook suggests that Browning obtained his hints for these tunes from Longus's romance of Dcphnis end Chloe. The first is found on pp. 303-4 (Smith's Translation, Bohn ed.), ' He ran through all variations of pastoral melody, he played the tune which the oxen obey, and which attracts the c^ats — that in which the sheep delight,' etc.; pp. 332-4, '. . . . standing under the shade of a beech-tree, he took his pipe from his scrip and breathed into it very gently. The goats stood still, merely lifting up their heads. Next he played the ] asture tune, upon which they all put down their heads and began to graze. Now he produced some notes soft and sweet in tone; at once his herd lay down. After this he piped in a sharp key, and they ran off to the wood, as if a wolf were in sight.' In answer to the question as to whether there is any historical foundation for David's songs. Rabbi Charles Fleischer of Boston replied in a letter to the editors: 'I believe that David's songs in Browning's poem Saul are the in- spired melodies of our nineteenth century David rather than the songs of Israel's poetic shepherd- king. . . . While, then, I believe that these melodies in Saul were not current among the Jews of old, I know that they would serve well to ex- ])ress beliefs and ideals characteristic of the best minds among the Jews of to-day.' — Porter and Clarke. 45. Jerboa. The jumping hare. 795. 203. Hebron was one of the cities of refuge, but Browning evidently takes it as the name of a mountain. 204. Kidron. A brook near Jerusalem. The first nine stanzas of this poem (to line 96) were published in Dramatic Romances and Lyrics in 1845; the later stanzas were written after his marriage, and published in Men and Women (1855). The latter part shows a marked advance in inten- sity of religious conviction, probably due to Mrs. Browning's influence. The student should note that David first played on his harp (36-60) ; then sang (68-190); and finally spoke (237-312). The inner structure of the poem should be carefully studied so as to bring out the gradual rise of theme from external nature to human activities and sympathies, from the glory of kingship to the glory of fame, and so to the culmination of Divine Love as mani- fested in the Incarnation. NOTES 1113 LOVE AMUNC; THE RUINS This poem was written when Browning was in Rome in the winter of 1853-4, and is said to have been suggested by the contrast between the present desolation of the Campagna and its former mag- nificence; but the scene is imaginatively treated, and cannot be identified with any place in particular. The living love, even of an obscure boy and girl, counted for more with Browning than all the dead glories of the earth. A WOMAN'S LAST WORD The title refers to the old proverb, ' a woman will always have the last word in a quarrel.' This ' woman's last word,' however, is not one of re- crimination, but of reconciliation and submission. She will even sacrifice what she believes to be true (st. iv), lest she should lose her domestic peace as Eve lost Paradise. A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S Baldassare Galuppi (1706-85), a musical composer of some note in his day, who was for the last years of his life organist at St. Mark's Cathedral, Venice, is here taken by Browning as an exponent and critic of the frivolous, empty life with which the name of this Italian city has long been asso- ciated. But the toccata speaks to the man who plays it — a student of science — not only of the emptiness of life at Venice in the eighteenth cen- tury, but of the emptiness of life in general, for St. xiii is, of course, to be taken ironically; as he thinks of the beauty and gaiety of Venice all turned to ' dust and ashes,' he feels ' chilly and grown old,' for even so all human activities seem to pass away into nothingness. The toccata is marked by the repetition of phrases calculated to display a peculiar facility of touch (It. toccarc, to touch) on the musician's part. 799. 6. ' The ceremony of wedding the Adriatic was instituted in 1174 by Pope .\lexander III, who gave the Doge a gold ring from his own finger in token of the victory achieved by the Venetian fleet at Istria over Frederick Barbarossa, in defense of the Pope's quarrel. When his Holiness gave the ring, he desired the Doge to throw a similar ring into the sea annually, in commemoration of the event.' (Brewer.) 8. Shy lock's bridge. The Rialto. 18. claiichurd. An old-fashioned instrument, with keys and strings, the predecessor of the modern pianoforte. The musical technicalities made use of are thus elucidated by Porter and Clarke, Poems of Robert Browning: — 'The technical musical allusions in the poem are all to be found in the 7th, 8th, and 9th stanzas. The lesser thirds (line 19) are minor thirds (intervals containing three semitones), and are of common occurrence, but the diminished sixth is an interval rarely used. Ordinarily a dimiiiislied sixth (seven semitones), exactly the same interval as a perfect fifth, instead of giving a plaintive, mournful, or minor impression, would suggest a feeling of rest and satisfaction. There is one way. however, in which it can be used — as a suspension, in which the root of the chord on the lowered super- tonic of the scale is suspended from above into the chord with added seventh on the super-tonic, making a diminished sixth between the root of the first and third of the second chord. The effect of this progression is most dismal, and possibly Brown- ing had it in mind. Suspensions (line 20) are notes which are held over from one chord into an- other, and must be made according to certain strict musical rules. This holding over of a note always produces a dissonance, and must be followed by a concord — in other words, a solution. Sevenths are very important dissonances in music, and a com- miserating seventh (line 21) is most likely the va- riety called a minor seventh. Being a somewhat less mournful interval than the lesser thirds and the diminished sixths, whether real or imaginary, yet not so final as " those solutions " which seem to put an end to all uncertainty, and therefore to life, they arouse in the listeners to Galuppi's play- ing a hope that life may last, although in a sort of dissonantal, Wagnerian fashion. The " com- miserating sevenths " are closely connected with the "dominant's persistence" (line 24). The domi- nant chord in music is the chord written on the fifth degree of the scale, and it almost always has a seventh added to it, and in a large percentage of cases is followed by the tonic, the chord on the first degree of the scale. Now, in fugue form a theme is first presented in the tonic key, then the same theme is repeated in the dominant key, the latter being called the answer; after some development of the theme the fugue comes to what is called an episode, after which the theme is presented first, in the dominant. " Hark! the dominant's persistence " al- ludes to this musical fact; but according to rule this dominant must be answered in the tonic an octave above the first presentation of the theme, and " So an octave struck the answer." Thus the in- exorable solution comes in after the dominant's per- sistence. Although life seemed possible with com- miserating sevenths, the tonic, a resistless fate, strikes the answer that all must end.' MY STAR This poem has been interpreted as having per- sonal reference to Mrs. Browning; but there is no reason to set it apart from the other poems de- scribed by Browning as ' always dramatic in prin- ciple, and so many utterances of so many imaginary persr>i's.' GOO. 4. angled spar. ' A prism of Iceland spar l.a3 the property of polarizing or dividing a ray of light into two parts. Suppose this polarized ray be passed through a plate of Iceland spar, at a certain angle, and a second prism of Iceland spar be rotated in front of it, different colors will be given out. complementary tints being ninety de- grees apart, and four times during the rotation the light will vanish completely. Some such experiment as this was probably in the poet's mind when he made the comparison with the angled spar.' (Por- ter and Clarke.) 1II4 NOTES THE LAST KIDE TOGETHER The utter devotion of this poem is, in Brown- ing's view, characteristic of true love. 801. 6-'. Ten lines. Of history or biography. 65. the Abbey. Westminster Abbey, wliere Eng- land's heroes are commemorated. 67-88. Cf. Ill a Balcony, 664-7: — ' We live, and they experiment on life — Those poets, painters, all who stand aloof To overlook the farther. Let us be The thing they look atl ' MEMORABILIA • Things worth remembering.' This poem is said to have been suggested to Browning by overhearing a man say in a shop that he had met and spoken to Shelley. ]5y the metaphor of the eagle's feather, Browning conveys to the reader that if such a piece of good fortune had happened to him, it would have been enough to blot out all other inci- dents. 'DE GUSTIBUS' The Latin proverb ' De gustibus non est disputan- dum,' corresponds to the English one ' There 's no accounting for tastes.' Browning says that if our preferences persist after death, his will be, not for England, but for Italy. 802. 22. cicala, the tree-cricket, often heard in Italy in the heat of summer. 36. liver-wing, right arm. The Bourbon rule in Southern Italy was exceedingly unpopular, and nu- merous attempts were made to cast it off; the king here referred to was Ferdinand II, whose cruelties were denounced by Gladstone in 1851. He was succeeded by his son, who was expelled in i860, and Naples was incorporated with the new king- dom of Italy. Browning sympathized with all the Italians' attempts to regain their liberty and inde- pendence, even when they went the length of as- sassination. ANDREA DEL SARTO This is one of the most remarkable of Browning's shorter poems, whether regarded as a study of character or of art. It was written when he was living in Florence, in answer to a request from a friend in England for a copy of the portrait of Andrea del Sarto and his wife in the Pitti Palace. Browning could not get one, and sent the poem instead. Mr. Ernest Radford thus describes the picture: — 'The artist and his wife are presented at half length. Andrea turns towards her with a pleading expression on his face. . . . His right arm is round her; he leans forward as if searching her face for the strength that has gone from him- self. . . . She holds the letter in her hand, and looks neither at that nor at him, but straight out of the canvas. And the beautiful face with the red- brown hair is passive and unruffled, and awfully expressionless. There is silent thunder in this face if there ever was, but there is no anger. It sug- gests only a very mild, and at the same time im- mutable determination to have her own way.' Browning develops, in his favorite form of the dramatic monologue, the suggestion given by An- drea's portrait of himself; for the details he is chiefly indebted to V'asari's Life of Andrea del Sarto, as will be seen from the following extracts (trans- lation by Blashfield and Hopkins, with Mrs. Fos- ter's notes; : — ' Had this master possessed a some- what bolder and more elevated mind, had he been as much distinguished for higher cjualifications as he was for genius and depth of judgment in tiic art he practised, he would, beyond all doubt, have been without an equal. But there was a certain timidity of mind, a sort of diffidence and want of force in his nature, which rendered it impossi- ble that those evidences of ardor and animation, which are proper to the more exalted character, should ever appear in him; nor did he at any time display one particle of that elevation which, could it but have been added to the advantages where- with he was endowed, would have rendered him a tiuly divine painter. ... At that time there was a most beautiful girl in the Via di San Gallo, who was married to a cap-maker, and who, though born of a poor and vicious father, carried about her as much pride and haughtiness as beauty and fasci- nation. She delighted in trapping the hearts of men, and among others ensnared the unlucky An- drea, whose immoderate love for her soon caused him to neglect the studies demanded by his art, and in great measure to discontinue the assistance which he had given his parents. Now it chanced that a sudden and grievous illness seized the hus- band of this woman, who rose no more from his bed, but died thereof. Without taking counsel of his friends therefore; without regard to the dig- nity of his art or the consideration due to his genius, and to the eminence he had attained with so much labor; without a word, in short, to any of his kindred, Andrea took this Lucrezia di Baccio del Fede, such was the name of the woman, to be his wife; her beauty appearing to him to merit thus much at his hands, and his love for her having more influence over him than the glory and honor towards which he had begun to make such hope- ful advances. But when this news became known in Florence the respect and affection which his friends had previously borne to Andrea changed to contempt and disgust, since it appeared to them that the darkness of this disgrace had obscured for a time all the glory and renown obtained by his talents. But he destroyed his own peace as well as estranged his friends by this act, seeing that he soon became jealous, and found that he had be- sides fallen into the hands of an artful woman, who made him do as she pleased in all things. He abandoned his own poor father and mother, for ex- ample, and adopted the father and sisters of his wife in their stead; insomuch that all who knew the facts mourned over him, and he soon began to be as much avoided as he had previously been sought after.' Andrea found this mode of life so oppressive that, on the advice of his friends, he put his wife in safe keeping and went to Paris, where he was richly rewarded by the King of France for his work. But a pitiful letter from his wife induced him to return. ' Taking the money which the king confided to him for ihc purchase NOTES 1115 of pictures, statues and other fine things, he set off, therefore, having first sworn on the gospels to return in a few months. Arrived happily in Flor- ence, he lived joyously with his wife for some time, making large presents to her father and sis- ters, but doing nothing for his own parents, whom he would not even see, and who, at the end of a certain period, ended their lives in great poverty and misery.' Having spent the money entrusted to him in building a house and indulging himself in various other pleasures, Andrea was afraid to re- turn to France, and remained in Florence in the very lowest position, ' procuring a livelihood and passing his time as he best might.' So says Vasari, who at one time was Andrea's pupil, and published his Lives of the Painters while Andrea's widow was still in Florence; but recent investigation has failed to reveal the slightest evi- dence in support of the charge of embezzlement made by Vasari against i\ndrea, and it has been generaly discredited. 803. 15. Fiesole. The village on the top of the ridge overlooking the quarter of Florence in which Andrea lived. 25. It saves a model. ' Andrea rarely painted the countenance of a woman in any place that he did not avail himself of the features of his wife; and if at any time he took his model from any other face there was always a resemblance to hers in the painting, not only because he had this woman con- stantly before him and depicted her so frequently but also and what is still more, because he had her lineaments engraven on his heart; it thus happens that almost all his female heads have a certain something which recalls that of his wife.' (Vasari.) 32. no one's. Not even his. 36-45. Lucrezia has lost only her first pride in her husband; he has lost all his youthful ambitions and aspirations, as the day loses its noontide splen- dor, and the glory of summer changes to the decay of autumn. 43. huddled more inside. The trees are huddled together within the convent wall, and have no room to grow; but they are, perhaps, safer — so, per- haps, too, is the painter in his own home, though he misses the inspiration and development that come fiom contact with the world. Andrea acquiesces in his seclusion, but he cannot help regretting his lost opportunities. 93. Morello. A mountain near Florence. 804. 105. the Urbinate. Raphael of Urbino, the most famous of Italian painters; he died in ii.-o, ten years before Andrea. Vasari says that Andrea copied a portrait by Raphael with such exactncri that Raphael's own pupils, who had helped in the painting, could not tell the copy from the original. 130. Agnolo. The great Italian painter usually called Michael Angelo in English; he was doubtless the 'Someone' of line 76; Andrea refers to him again in line 184. 150. Fontaineblcau. A royal palace not far from Paris. 166. See quotation from Vasari above for An- drea's recall from France by his wife's importuni- ties. 173. there. In your heart. 174. ere the triumph. Of my genius in art. 805. 189—193. Hocchi, in his Beauties of Florence, states that Michael Angelo said to Raphael, re- ferring to Andrea: — 'There is a little man in I'lorence, who, if he were employed upon such great works as have been given to you, would bring the sweat to your brow.' 199. Lucrezia has interrupted to ask Andrea about whom and what he is talking. She is evi- dently paying no attention. 209-10. Mount Morello can no longer be seen, the lights on the city wall are lit; and the little owls, named in Italy fiom their call, Chiu, are cry- ing; darkness is falling on the house, as on Andrea's life. 212-18. See above for the charge against Andrea of building a house for himself with the money en- trusted to him by King Francis to buy pictures with. 220. The cousin (or lover) who waits outside is the third character in the little drama — silent and unseen, but profoundly affecting the situation. 806. 263. Leonard. Leonardo da Vinci, the third great Italian painter of the time; he died the year before Raphael. 266. Andrea at last acknowledges to himself that his wife has been a hindrance instead of a help, a drag preventing his ascent from the second rank to the first: but he prefers this to the sacrifice of giv- ing her up. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL In the Church of St. Augustine at Fano, on the Adriatic, there is a picture called ' The Guardian Angel,' by Guercino, an Italian painter of the seven- teenth century. It represents an angel with out- spread wings embracing a kneeling child, whose hands he folds in prayer. 6. another child. The poet himself. 7. retrieve. Bring back to the right way. 14-16. In the picture cherubs point to the opened heaven, and the child looks upward past the angel's head. 18. bird of God. This beautiful expression is translated from Dante's Purgatorio. 20—21. The angel seems to be enfolding the child with the skirt of his robe, held in his left hand. 39-40. The angel's head is turned away, but tin- reason given is Browning's own. 46. My angel with me, too. His wife. See line 54- C07. 5t. dear old friend. Alfred Domett, a much- prized friend of P.rowning's youth, who in 1842 settled in New Zealand. 56. Ancona. On the Italian coast, near Fano. Browning and his wife visited both places soon after their first settlement in Italy in 1846, and the poem was doubtless written at the time. Mrs. Browning writes of the visit to her friend, Miss Mitford: — 'So we went to Ancona — a striking sea city, holding up against the brown rocks, and elbow- ing out the purple tides — beautiful to look upon. An exfoliation of the rock itself you would call the houses that seem to grow there — so identical is the color and character.' iii8 NOTES PROSPICE ' Look forward." This noble defiance of death was written in the autumn after Browning lost his wife, and appeared first in the Atlantic Monthly for June, 1864. 816. 19. life's arrears. All the pain that a man might fairly have expected to suffer in life, but missed. 23. fiend-voices. The ancient belief was that the soul at the moment of separation from the body is the object of a struggle between the angels, whose office is to bear away the freed spirit (Luke xvi, 22) and the powers of darkness who strive to snatch it from salvation. For this reason fervent prayers are offered for a soul on the point of departure. 27-28. Browning had a strong faith in immor- tality, and repeatedly expressed it in both prose and verse. He said: 'I know I shall meet my dearest friends again.' HERVE KIEL Browning was in France when it was invaded by Prussia in 1870, and escaped from the country with some difficulty before the outbreak of the disorders which followed the collapse of the French resist ance. Desiring to express his sympathy for the suf- ferers by the siege of Paris, he sold this poem to Cornhill Magazine for £100, which he gave as a subscriptioH to the Relief Fund. It was written in 1867 and first published in 1871. The incident it re- lates was first denied in France, but the records of the admiralty of the time proved that Browning was correct, except in one small detail: the reward Herve Riel asked and received was ' iin conge ab- solu' — a holiday for the rest of his life. I. the Hague. Cap La Hogue, where the French fleet was attacked in 1692 by the English and Dutch, and forced to retire. The expedition aimed at the restoration of James II, who watched the de- feat from the Norman coast. 5. St. Malo, at the mouth of the Ranee River, in Brittany, has a harbor which is described as ' safe, but difficult of approach.' In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries it was a flourishing port, and from it Jacques Cartier sailed in 1535 to ex- plore the River St. Lawrence, the Ranee. A small stream with picturesque steep banks. The town is situated on a rock between the harbor and the mouth of the river. 18. twelve and eighty. French, quatre-vingt- douze. 817. 30. Plymouth Sound. In the West of Eng- land, an important harbor and naval station. 43. pressed. Forced to serve. Tourville. The French admiral. 44. Croisickese. Of Croisic, a little fishing vil- lage of Brittany, where Browning liked to stay. See the title of the next poem in this selection. It was no doubt at Croisic that Browning picked up the story. 46. Malouins. Men of St. Malo. 49. Greve. La Grande Greve, the sandy shallows of the coast about St. Malo, especially to the east. 53. Solidor. A small harbor near the mouth of the Ranee, beside the town of St. Servan. A fort of the same name defends it. 75. profound (here used as a noun). Depths. 92. rampired. I'rotccted by ramparts or fortifica- tions. 95. for. Instead of. 818. 135. the Louvre. A famous palace at Paris, now used as an art museum. On its external walls ^ there are eighty-six statues of notable Frenchmen, J" but not, of course, one of the forgotten hero, Herve I Riel. f THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC The Prologue and the Epilogue are connected with the main jjoem (which is here omitted) only by the thought, common to all three, that }ove is a necessary part of the poet's life and art. The Prologue may cause a little difficulty to begin with by its extraordinary conciseness, but this only adds to its charm when the meaning has been grasped. The grammatical construction and the relation of the stanzas to each other are indicated in the fol- lowing prose rendering: ' As a bank of moss stands bare till some May morning it is made beau- tiful by the sudden growth of the violets; as the night sky is dark and louring till a bright star pierces the concealing clouds; so the world seemed to hem in my life with disgrace till your face ap- peared to brighten it with the smile of God — the divine gift of love.' In the Epilogue it is a young girl who repeats to the poet the ' pretty tale ' he has once told her, and makes her own application of its significance. The story is found in Greek literature both in prose and in verse. 819. so. Here, as in lines 15 and 21, the poet has attempted to interrupt. 77. Lotte. The pet name of Charlotte Buff, upon ' whom Goethe modelled the heroine of Tite Sorrows of Young Werther. The reference here, however, is rather to Goethe's way of treating women in general than to the particula;' ease of Lotte, for she was already engaged to he married when he .net her, 100—2. The sweet lilt of the treble was supp'ied by the chirping of the ri ic-ket, when its absence would have allowed the predominance of the sombre bass. Cf. lines 112-4. 120. (There, enough!') To what interruption of the poet's does this repfy? PHEimPPIDES This is Browning's romantic setting of an incident of the Persian war which is thus recounted by the Greek historian Herodotus (VI, 105. Rawlinson's tianslation) : — ' And first, before they left Athens, the genera's sent off to Sparta a herald, one Pheidip'pides, who was by birth an Athenian, and by birth and prac- tice a trained runner. This man, according to the account which he gave to the Athenians on his return, when he was near Mount Parthenium, above Tegea. fell in with the god Pan, who called him by his name, and bade him ask the Athenians ' wherefore they neglected him so entirely, when he was kindly disposed towards them, and had often helped them in times past, and would do so again in time to come? ' The Athenians, entirely believ- NOTES 1119 iiig ill llie trulh of this report, as soon as tlicir affairs were once more in good order, set up a Ic-in- pie to Pan under the Acropolis, and, in return for the message which 1 have recorded, eslablished in his honor yearly sacrifices and a torch-race. ' On the occasion of which we speak, when Pheidippides was sent by the Athenian generals, and, according to his own account saw Pan on his journey, he reached Sparta on the very next day after quitting the city of Athens. Upon his arrival he went before the rulers, and said to them: — ' " Men of Laceda>mon, the Athenians beseech you to hasten to their aid, and not allow that state, which is the most ancient in all Greece, to be en- s-laved by the barbarians. Eretria, look you, is al- ready carried away captive, and Greece weakened by the loss of no mean city." ' Thus did Pheidippides deliver the message com- mitted to him. And the Spartans wished to help the Athenians, but were unable to give them any present succor, as they did not like to break their established law. It was the ninth day of the first decade, and they could not march out of Sparta on the ninth, when the moon bad not reached the full. So they wailed for the full of the moon.' It will be seen that the original story makes no mention of a reward promised by Pan to Pheidip- j)ides. This was Browning's own invention, follow- ing a later tradition. In connection with the Marathon race at the Olympic games this was the subject of a considerable discussion, to which Pro- fessor Ernest A. Gardner contributed the following note as to Pheidippides: ' His great exploit, as re- corded by Herodotus, was to run from Athens to Sparta within two days, for the practical purpose of summoning the Spartans to help against the Per- sian invader. The whole Athenian army made a forced march back to Athens immediately after the battle, also for a practical purpose; but there is no reason to suppose that Pheidippides or any one else ran the distance. The tale of his bearing the message of victory and falling dead when he ar- rived is probably an invention of some later rheto- rician; it is referred to by Lucian, as well as by Robert Browning, but the two authorities are about of equal value for an occurrence of the fifth cen- tury B. C. It is most unlikely that Herodotus would have omitted such a story if it had been current in his time.' XCLipere, viKWfiev, the Greek words prefixed by Browning to the poem, form the message which Plutarch and Lucian attribute to the dying runner after Marathon. Browning translates them ' Re- jcice; we conquer!' and in lines 113— 114 makes effective use of the fact that ^^at'/aere (' Hail ! ' or ' be of good cheer! ') was also the customary form of salutation with the Greeks. Here again he was indebted to a suggestion derived from Lucian. 820. 4. Her of the ccgis and s(>ear. Athene, auis, shield. 5. yc of the botv and the buskin. Apollo and Artemis, buskin, laced boot. 9. Aichons. Rulers or magistrates, tettix. The golden grasshopper worn by Athenians to show that they were autochthons (natives of the country). II. Crowned with the myrtle. This still refers to Archons. Browning is strictly accurate in these points of detail. 18. water and earth. The emblems of subjection. This demand was made in 493 B. C. The invading Persians were defeated at Marathon three years later. 19- Eretria. The chief city of the island of Eubfea, a little north of Athens. -•o. Hellas. Greet civilization regarded as a whole. 25-40- Herodotus, as quoted above, says: ' So they waited for the full of the moon.' Grote ascribes the delay of the Spartans to conservatism, Rawlin- son to envy; there was longstanding jealousy be- tween Athens and Sparta, who were rivals for tlu- leadership of Hellas. Sparta later sent ::,ooo men, v.ho arrived after the battle. 3'-33- Phoibos. Olumpos. Browning preferred to retain the Greek spelling instead of the Latinized forms ' Phoebus ' and ' Olympus.' 47. filleted. Adorned for sacrifice with wreaths and ribbons. 821. 5->. Fames. In North Attica. But according to Herodotus as quoted above. Pan appeared to Pheidippides near Mount Parthenium in Argolis. This would be on his way from Athens to Sparta: I'arnes would not. Professor John Macnaughton suggests that Browning made the change deliber- ately. ' He must have an Attic hill at all costs, when what he wants to say is that it is the spirit of her own mountains, her own autochthonous vigor, which is going to save Athens. He consciously sac- rifices, in a small and obvious point, literal ac- curacy to the larger truth.' {Queen's Quarterly, April, 1903.) 62. Erebos. The darkness under the earth — Erebus. 72-80. After Marathon, the Athenians built a temple to Pan and established yearly sacrifices and a torch-race in acknowledgment of the help the god had given them in the battle by affecting the Per- sians with ' panic ' — the headlong fear Pan was supposed to inspire. 83. Fennel. Marathon, the name of the place where the battle was fought, is also Greek for fennel. This touch is Browning's own. 87. on the razor's edge. In a critical position — a proverbial phrase in Greek. 89. Miltiades. The leading Athenian citizen of the time and commander of the forces at Marathon. 822. 106. Akropolis. The citadel of Athens. 109. the Fennel-field. Marathon. See note on line 83. Pheidippides is in a measure of Browning's own, composed of dactyls and spondees, each line ending in a half foot or pause. It gives the impression of firm, continuous, and rhythmic emotion, and is gen- erally fitted to convey the exalted sentiment and heroic character of the poem. (Mrs. Orr.) The metrical scheme should be carefully analysed. Dr. D. G. Brunton uses this poem as an illustration of Browning's employment of rime ' merely as a means of heightening his secondary rhythm. The riming words are so far apart that we are aware I 120 NOTES only of a faint melodious echo. The always arti- licial and somew hat mechanical etfect of rime is thus avoiilcd, while its rhythmic essence is retained.' EPILOGUE TO ASOLANDO We have given al the foot of each poem the date of its publication, and the \olunie to which this little poem is the Epilogue bears the date 1890; it was actually issued in London on Dec. 12, 1S89, the day of Browning's death at Venice. ' The re- port of his illness had quickened public interest in the forthcoming work, and his son had the satisfac- tion of telling him of its already realized success, while he could still receive a warm, if momentary pleasure from the intelligence.' (Mrs. Orr.) Browning prepared the volume for publication while staying in the Asolo villa of his friend Mrs. Arthur lironson, to whom it is dedicated. The fanciful title is derived from the Italian verb asolare — 'to disport in the open air, amuse one's self at random ' — popularly ascribed, Browning tells us, to Cardinal Bembo, who was Queen Cornaro's secretary, and in his dialogue, Gli Asolani, described the discus- sions on platonic love and kindred subjects the lit- tle court at Asolo used to indulge in. To Mrs. Bronson Browning justified the title in the follow- ing sentence: 'I use it for love of the place and in requital of your pleasant assurance that an eariy poem of mine first attracted you thither.' This was, no doubt, PitM Passes. The Epilogue is a final expression of Browning's profound belief in a future life of hopeful activity. When reading the poem in proof, he said of the third stanza: — 'It almost looks like bragging to say this, and as if I ought to cancel it, but it 's the simple truth; and as it's true, it shall stand.' As in life he had faith in right, so in death — which only fools think of as a prison of the soul — he would be, not pitied, but encouraged by the good wishes of those who are working in the world. 17. tlie unseen. The poet himself after death. ARNOLD: THE STUDY OF POETRY This essay was published as the Introduction to The English Poets, edited by T. H. Ward, London, 1880. 823. b. 1. tliese zvords of my own, quoted — not quite exactly — from Arnold's introduction to Tlie Hundred Greatest Men, Vol. I, London, 1879. 5. In the present work, in The English Poets, edited by Ward. 824. a. II, 15. Wordsworth . . . Again Words- worth. These two quotations are taken from the Preface to the Second edition of Lyrical Ballads, 1800. 38. Sainte-Benve, Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve (1804-1869), an eminent French critic. 825. a. 48. Pcllisson, Paul Pellisson (1624-1693), a French man of letters and politician. 56. Charles d' Hcricault (born 1823), French his- torian, novelist, and editor. 57. Clement Marot, a noted French poet (i-l97- 1544)- 826. (1. 13. Methuselah, see Genesis v, 25-27. b. 8. tlic Imitation, The Imitation of Christ, a religious treatise commonly ascribed to Thomas a Kempis (1380-1471). The passage quoted is found in Bk. iii, Ch. 43. § 2- 28. Cccdmon, an Anglo-Saxon poet who is said to have flourished about the year 670. The Biblical Iiaraphrases long ascribed to Cxdmon are now re- garded as of uncertain authorship. ■ iZ. M. I'itet, a French critic and politician (1802- I .873). I 35. Chanson de Roland, the oldest French iia- I tional epic, written, probably, during the closing I years of the nth century. 37. joculator or jongleur, well enough understood by our English word w.instrcl. 39. Hastings, battle of Hastings, in 1066 43. Ronccvaux, a pass in the Pyrenees, in Spain, notable as the scene of the events recounted \i\ the Chanson de Roland. 44. Turoldus or Tluroulde. The last line of the Chanson in the Oxford nianuscrijjt may be trans- lated, ' Here ends the geste that TurolUis tells.' Turoldus may be the name of the minstrel who sang or recited the poem rather than that of the poet who composed it. 827. b. 27. Dante, Dante Alighieri (1265-1321), the greatest of Italian poets. His great work. The Divine Comedy, consisted of three parts: Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise. Ugolino, Ugolino della tiherardesca (d. 1289), a partisan leader in Pisa. With his two sons and two nepliews he was starved to death in prison. 32. Beatrice to Virgil. According to The Di- vine Comedy, \'irgil guided Dante through Hell and Purgatory. In Paradise, Beatrice became Dante's guide. 44. Henry the Fourth's cxftoslulation, 2 Henry IV, Act iii. Scene i. 828. a. 6. Hamlet's dying request. In the closing scene of the play. 14. that Miltonic passage, Paradise Lost, I, 599- 602. 17. intrenched, cut, furrowed. 21. tzvo such lines. Paradise Lost, I, 108-9. 27. cxqitisttc close. Paradise Lost, IV, 271—2. 829. a. 53. Southcy, Robert Southey (1774-1843),' an English poet and prose-writer. b. 7. Biunctto Latini (1J30-1J94), an Italian poet, scholar, and orator. His chief work is an en- cyclopedia, Tresor (Treasure), in French. 13. Christian of Troycs. The passage here quoted is from Cliges, lines 30—39. 48. that stanza. To which of the Chaucerian stanzas Arnold refers we cannot be certain. In the matter of stanza forms Chaucer borrowed muel) from France, and practically nothing at all from Italy. 54. Wolfram of Eschcnbach, a German poet (ff. c. 1200). 830. a. 30. Dryden's. Quoted from the Preface to the Fables. See edition of Scott and Saiutsbury, Vol. XI, p. 230. 49. Cower, John Gower (1325 ?-i4o8), an Eng- lish poet. NOTES II2I b. 40. worship, honor. 41. O Alma, the beginning of a hymn to the Virgin, 831. b. 12. Villon. Frangois Villon (1431-1484?), a French poet of irregular life. 832. a. 20. Cowley, Abraham Cowley (1618- 1667), an English poet. See p. 183. -M-8. Dryden . . . there . . . perfect. See Preface to the Fables, edition of Scott aiul Saintsbury, Vol. XI, p. 224. b. 10. Chapman, George Chapman i559?- 1634), an English poet and dramatist, best known for his translation of Homer. 14. Cades, a I'henician colony on the spot where Cadiz now stands, on the western coast of Spain. Aurora, the dawn, the East. 15. Ganges, the sacred river of India. 21. Milton writing. See Milton's An Apology for Smectymnuus, Prose Works (ed. Bohn), Vol. Ill, pp. 1 1 7-1 18. 29. Dryden telling us. See the Postscript to the Reader appended to Dryden's translation of the JEneid. 41. Restoration, the reestablishment of the Eng- lish monarchy with the retain of Charles II in 1660. 833. a. 30-31. .4 milk-ivhilc Hind . , . ranged, the opening lines of 7'lie Hind and the Panther. 40—44. To Hounslow Heath . , . my ozvn, Second Satire, lines 143—4. b. 23. Cray. See p. 396. 834. a. I. Mark ruffian I'iolence, etc., from On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq. ij. Clarinda's love-poet Sylvander. Over the name Sylvander, Burns carried on a correspondence with Mrs. Maclehose, whom he called Clarinda. 15. gravel, vex. b. 5. Leece me on, dear to me is. The quota- tion is from The Holy Fair, gies, gives, niair, more. 7. waukens lair, wakes learning. 8. pangs, crams, stuffs, fou, full. 9. gill, a pint of ale. penny wheep, small ale. 12. kittle, tickle, enliven. 23. aboon, above. 34. mauna fa', may not get. 43. falls moralizing. See Epistle to a Young Friend. 45. lowe, flame. 47. rove, roving. 50. quantum, quantity. 56. Who made, etc., from Address to the Unco Cuid. 835. a. II. To make, etc., from To Dr. Blacklock. 12. weans, children. 20—22. Xenophon . . . Socrates. In his Mem- orabilia, the Greek historian and essayist, Xeno- phon (born about 430, died after 357 B.C.), de- fends the memory of his master Socrates. b. 27. Thou Power Supreme, etc., from Win- ter. 32. laz'e, remainder. 836. a. 6. Auerbach's Cellar of Goethe's Famt. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749— 1832) is the greatest name in German literature. The scene in Auerbach's Cellar is to be found near the beginning of the First Part of Faust. 9. Aristophanes (c. 450-c. 380 B. C), the great- est of the Greek writers of comedy. 36. We two, etc., from Auld Lang Syne, paidl't, paddled, burn, stream, brook. 37. dine, dinner-time. 38. braid, broad. 39. Sin auld lang syne, since old times. 52. Pinnacled . . . inane, Shelley's Prometheus I nbound. Act III, So. iv, 1. 204. b. I. On the brink, etc., from Shelley's Pro- metheus Unbound, Act II, Sc. v. 10. niinnie, mother, deave, pester. SOHRAB AND RUSTRUM 840. 2. Oxus, the chief river of central Asia, flow- ing northwest into the Aral Sea. 3. Tartar camp. The Tartars were nomadic tribes of central Asia and southern Russia. 841. II. Peran-Wisa, a chief of central Asia, in command of Afrasiab's army of various Tartar tribes. 15. Pamcre, a plateau region of central Asia. 38. Afrasiab, king of the Tartars. 40. Samarcand, a city in Turkestan. 42. Ader-baijan, the northwest province of Per- sia. 60. common fight, general engagement. 82. Seistan, a province of southwest Afghanistan, bordering on Persian territory. 85. Persian King, Kai Khosroo. See line 223. 842. loi. Kara-Kul, a district in the southern part of central Asia. 107. Haman, a leader of the Tartars, ne.xt to Peran-Wisa in command. 113. Casbin, a fortified city in the northern part of Persia. 114. Elburz, mountains on the northern border of Persia. Aralian, on the Aral Sea, in central Asia. 1 15. frore, frozen. 1:9. Bokhara, a large district in central Asia, of which Bokhara, is the capital. 120. Khiva, a district in the valley of the lower Oxus. iJi. Toorkmuns, a branch of the Turkish race, living in central .\sia, cast of the Caspian Set. 122. Tukas, from northwest Persia. Salore, a tribe living east of the Caspian Sea. 123. Attruck, a river in northern Persia. 128. Ferghana, a district in Turkestan. 129. Jaxartes, an ancient name of the Sir-Daria River, which flows northwest through Turkestan into the Aral Sea. 131. Kipchak, a district in central Asia. 132. Kalmucks, Mongolian nomads dwelling in western Siberia. Kiiccaks. Cossacks, a warlike people in southern Russia and in various parts of Asia. 133. Kirghizzes, a nomadic people in northern Turkestan. 138. Uyats of Khorassan. Khorassan is a prov iiice in northeastern Persia. i.s6. cum. grain. 1 122 NOTES 1 60. Cabool, an important commercial city of northern Afghanistan. 161. Indian Caucasus, a range of mountains on the boundary between Turkestan and Afghanistan. 843. 217. Iran's, Persia's. 844. 257. plain arms, arms not emblazoned with de- vices. See line 266. 277. Dight, adorned, harnessed. 286. Bahrein, or Aval Islands, in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for their pearl-fisheries. 288. tale, reckoning, count. 846. 412. Hyphasis, Hydaspes, two rivers in north- ern India. 414. wrack, ruin. 847. 452. autumn-star, Sirius, the Dog Star. 497. shore, cut. 508. curdled, thickened. 848. 590. Ader-baijan. See 1. 42. 592. Koords, a semi-independent people of west- ern Persia. 596. bruited up, noised abroad. 849. 613. style, name. 851. 750. Scistan. See 1. 82. 751. Helmund, a river in Seistan, in Afghanistan. 752. Zirrah, a lake in Seistan. 763-4. Moorghab, Tejend, Hohik, rivers in Turke- stan. 765. The northern Sir, the Maxartes. See 1. 129. 852. 861. Jcmshid, a mythical king. Persepolis, an ancient capital of Persia. 878. Chorasmian waste, a region of Turkestan. 880. Right . . . star, i.e., due north. Or- gunje, a village near the delta of the Oxus. 887. Pamere. See 1. 15. 890. luminous home, the Aral Sea. THE SCHOLAR GIPSY • There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies. Among these ex- travagant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty while exercized in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars who had formerly been of his acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among the gipsies, and he gave them an account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he went with were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a tradi- tional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others; that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.' (Glanvil's Vanity of Dogmatising, 1661.) 2. zvattled cotes, sheep-folds. 853. 19. corn, grain. 31. Glanvil's book. See note above. 42. erst, formerly. 57. Hurst, Cumner Hurst, a hill a few miles southwest of Oxford. 58. Berkshire, a county south of Oxford. 59. ingle-bench, bench in the chimney-corner. 854. 74. Bab-lock-hithe, a village about four miles southwest of Oxford. 79. Wychwood bowers, Wychwood Forest, ten miles or so northwest from Oxford. 83. Fyfield elm in May, the May-pole dance at Fyfield, some six miles soutliwest of Oxford. 91. Godstow Bridge, about two miles up the Thames from Oxford. 95. lasher pass, mill race. III. Bagley Wood, southwest of Oxford. 114. tagged, marked. 115. Thessaly, the name of the northeastern dis- trict of ancient Greece, here given to a ground near Bagley Wood. 125. Hinksey, a village a short distance south of Oxford. 855. 129. Christ-Church, a large and fashionable college in Oxford. 133. Glanvil, Joseph Glanvil (1636-1680), an English clergyman and writer. 147. teen, sorrow. 856. 208—9. Averse . . , turn. Dido, queen of Carthage, deserted by her lover ^neas, slew her- self. When jEneas encountered her on his jour- ney through Hades, she turned scornfully away from him. 220. dingles, v/ooded dells. 232, Tyrian, a city of Phenicia, anciently an im- portant commercial center. 236. Aigean isles, islands of the ^gean Sea, east of Greece. 238. Chian wine. Chios, an island in the jEgean, was noted for its wine. 239. tunnies, a kind of fish. 244. Midland waters, Mediterranean Sea. 245. Syrtes, Gulf of Sidra, on northern coast of Africa. 247. western straits. Strait of Gibraltar. 250. Iberians, inhabitants of Spain and Portugal. RUGBY CHAPEL Written in memory of the poet's father. Dr. Thomas Arnold (1795-1842), head-master of Rugby, whose remains are interred in Rugby Chapel. ROSSETTI: FRANCESCA DA RIMINI Francesca da Rimini, an Italian lady of the thir- teenth century, became the wife of Giovanni Mala- testa. Having discovered the love between Fran- cesca and his young brother Paolo, Giovanni killed them both. An incident in the love-story of Paolo and Francesca is put into the mouth of Francesca in Dante's Divine Comedy, Hell, Canto v, whence it is here rendered by Rossetti. 861. 17. Lancelot, the lover of Queen Guenevere, in several medieval romances. 862. 26. A Galahalt. C.alahalt was the go-between for Lancelot and Guenevere. Hence the book that brought Paolo and Francesca together is here called ' a Galahalt.' NOTES 123 THE KING'S TRAGEDY ' Tradition says that Catherine Douglas, in honor of her heroic act when she barred the door with her arm against the murderers of James the First of Scots, received popularly the name of " Bar- lass." This name remains to her descendants, the Barlas family, in Scotland, who bear for their crest a broken arm. She married Alexander Lovell of Bolunnie. A few stanzas from King James's lovely poem, known as The King's Quair, are quoted in the course of this ballad. The writer must express re- gret for the necessity which has compelled him to shorten the ten-syllabled lines to eight syllables, in order that they might harmonize with the ballad meter.' (Rossetti.) The passages from The King's Quair quoted in the present poem are printed in italics. James I was murdered at Perth, Feb. 20, 1437, by the Earl of Atholl and Robert Graham (Gra?me). 864. 8. palm-play ball, an old kind of tennis in which the ball was struck with the hand rather than with a racket. 25. Bass Rock, an islet at the entrance of the Firth of Forth. 29. England's king, Henry IV. 30. long years immured. In 1405, on his way from Scotland to France, James was captured by the English, and detained in one English prison or an- other until 1424. 37. a lady, Joan Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset. She became the wife of James in 1424. 41. a sweeter song, a reference to King James' poem, The King's Quair. 865. 45. teen, sorrow, grief. 48. At Scone . . . crowned. Scone, in Perth- shire, Scotland, was the traditional scene of Scot- tish coronations. The coronations of James I and Joan occurred on May 21, 1424. 72. leaguer, siege. Roxbro' hold, Roxburgh Cas- tle, on the Tweed, near the English border, be- sieged by James I in 1436. 106. Three Estates, that is, the nobility, the clergy, and the common people. \22. Grv^ m, Henry 185 Waller, Edmund 178. Walton, Isaak 212. Warton, Thomas 389. Wither, George 1C9 Wolfe, Charles 661 Wordsworth, William 503. Wyatt, Sir Thomas 54. Young, Edward 377 1053 1057 .1072 1079 1037 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE A baby's feet, like the seashells pink, . . . 906 A book was writ of late called Tc- trachordon, 242 Adam scriveyn, if ever it thee bifalle... 18 A gentle knight was pricking on the plaine 109 Ah, Ben! 174 Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, 802 Ah for pittie ! wil rancke winters rage., 104 Ah sunflower, weary of time, 489 Ah, what avails the sceptered race, .... 657 Ah, what is love? It is a pretty thing, 137 Alas, so all things now do hold their peace ! 59 Alas, 't is true I have gone here and there 154 All service ranks the same with God : . . 786 All that I know 800 All ye that lovely lovers be, 136 Along these low pleached lanes, on such a day, 907 Although I enter not, 672 Amid my bale I bathe in bliss, 133 A milk-white Hind, immortal and un- changed, 270 And now 't is time ; for their officious haste 267 And the first gray of morning filled the east, 840 And welcome now, great monarch, to your own ! 267 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 55 An evil Spirit (your Beauty) haunts me still, 140 A povre widwe somdel stope in age 12 Ariel to Miranda. — Take 637 A roundel is wrought as a ring or a star- bright sphere 906 ' Artemidora I Gods invisible, 657 As I in hoary winter's night stood shiv- ering in the snow, 138 As it fell upon a day 157 Ask me no more where Jove bestows, . . 176 A slumber did my spirit seal ; 521 A sonnet is a moment's monument 873 As other men, so I myself, do muse 140 A spirit haunts the year's last hours.... 746 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 673 As there I left the road in May, 667 As this my carnal robe grows old, 170 As two whose love, first foolish, widen- ing scope, 875 At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, 78 1 A trouble not of clouds, or weeping rain, 541 I PAGE At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time S22 Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 243 Awake, ^olian lyre, awake, 400 Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 645 Be it right or wrong, these men among on women do coniplaine 34 Beauty clear and fair, 169 Beauty sat bathing in a spring 157 Behind yon hills v.here Lugar flows, .... 491 Behold her, single in the field 530 Behold, within the leafy shade, })27 Blow, jjlow, thou winter wind ! 156 Borgia, thou once wert almost too august 658 Brave infant of Saguntum, clear 163 Break, break, break, 767 Bright Star of Beauty, on whose eyelids sit 139 Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art 655 But do not let us quarrel any more, .... 802 By this the northerne wagoner had set.. 117 Calme was the day, and the trembling ayre 130 Captain or colonel, or knight in arms, . . 242 Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, 139 Charm me asleep, and melt me so 173 Christ God who savest man, save most, , 787 Coldly, sadly descends 857 Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me; 161 Come, dear children, let us away, 837 Come, live with me, and be my love, 216 Come, my Celia, let us prove, 161 Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 88 Come, we shepherds, whose blest sight,, 180 Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn : 763 Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 243 Crowned, girdled, garbed, and shod with light and fire, 915 Cuddie, for shame ! hold up thy heavye head 107 Cupid and my Campaspe played So Cyriack. this three years* day these eyes, though clear, 244 1 138 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave 806 Dear child of nature, let them rail! 530 Dear love, for nothing less than thee... 166 Death, be not proud, though some have called tliee 167 Deem not devoid of elegance the sage, . . 390 Deep in the shady sadness of a vale,... 649 Deep on the convent-roof the snows.... 757 Does the road wind up-hill all the way? 678 ' Do you remember me ? or are you proud ? ' 658 Drink to me only with thine eyes, 161 Duncan Gray came here to woo, 501 Earth has not anything to show more fair : 538 Eat thou and drink; to-morrow thou shalt die 875 England, mother born of seamen, daugh- ter fostered of the sea, 907 Enter these enchanted woods, 961 Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! . . 586 Even such is time, that takes in trust. ... 135 Fair and fair, and twice as fair; 135 Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 173 Fair Star of evening. Splendor of the west, 538 Fair stood the wind for France, 141 False Hope prolongs my ever certain grief, 138 Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat, 816 Fear no more the heat o' th' sun, 156 First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock 820 Five years have passed ; five summers, with the length 518 Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 759 Foolish Prater, what do'st thou 183 Forget not yet the tried intent 55 For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love ; 166 For my first twenty years, since yester- day 167 For those my unbaptized rimes, 175 Frail creatures are we all ! To be the best 566 From Sterling Castle we had seen 530 From the bonny bells of heather 948 From Tuscan came my lady's worthy race ; 58 From you have I been absent in the spring, 153 Full many a glorious morning have I seen 151 Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 173 Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn 172 Give her but a least excuse to love me! 786 Give place, ye lovers, here before 60 Give me my scallop-shell of quiet 134 Go and catch a falling star, 165 PAGE God Ly;eus, ever young 168 Go fetch to me a pint o' wine 497 Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill ; Good and great God, can I not think of thee, 161 Go, lovely Rose ! 179 Green grow the rashes, O ! 491 Grow old along with me ! 813 Had we but world enough, and time, ... 185 Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 627 Happy shepherds, sit and see, 158 Happy those early days, when 1 185 Happy ye leaves ! when as those lilly hands 123 Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 156 Hark ! 't is the twanging horn o'er yon- der bridge, 471 Has summer come without the rose, . . . 682 Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance 89 Hence, all you vain delights, 168 Hence, loathed Melancholy, 237 Hence, vain deluding joys, 238 Here, a little child, I stand, 174 Here, where the world is quiet; 898 He rises and begins to round, 960 Her mother died when she was young. . 47 ' Hey down, a down ! ' did Dian sing, . . 159 How like a winter hath my absence been 153 How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, 155 How sleep the brave who sink to rest.. 386 How sweet is the shepherd's sweet lot ! 486 How vainly men themselves amaze, .... 184 I am not One who much or oft delight. 537 I am that which began ; 899 I arise from dreams of thee 626 I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 626 I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, 749 I can love both fair and brown 165 I Catherine am a Douglas born, 864 I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs _ _ • . 243 I drew it from its china tomb ; 679 If all the world and love were young. .. 216 If from the public way you turn your steps; 521 If I could trust mine own self with your fate, 678 'If I were dead, you 'd sometimes say, Poor child ! ' 677 If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 386 If poisonous minerals, and if that tree. . 167 If the quick spirits in your eye 177 If there be any one can take my place. . 678 If there were dreams to sell, 667 If thou wilt ease thine heart 668 I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, "JTi- INDEX OF FIRST LIXES 1 139 PAGE I have had playmates, I have had com- panions, 567 I know not of what we pondered 678 I long to talk with some old lover's ghost 166 I looked and saw your eyes 864 I met a traveler from an antique land.. 616 In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland 901 In a drear-nighted December, 654 In Cyprus springs, whereas dame Venus dwelt, 59 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; . . 539 In the merry month of May, 157 Into these loves, who but for passion looks, 139 In vain to me the smiling mornings shine 397 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 5G5 I read, before my eyelids dropped their shade, 753 I said — Then, dearest, since 't is so, ... Soo I saw Eternity the other night, 185 Is it not better at an early hour 658 Is there a whim-inspired fool, 496 Is there, for honest poverty, 502 I strove with none ; for none was worth my strife, 659 I struck the board, and cried, ' No more ; I will abroad! 175 It befell at Martynmas 45 It does not hurt. She looked along the knife 915 It happened once, some men of Italy... 887 1 thought once how Theocritus had sung 670 It is not sweet content, be sure, 674 It keeps eternal whisperings around.... 655 I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, 540 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 538 It is an ancient Mariner, 553 It is not to be thought of that the Flood 539 It little profits that an idle king, 702 1 traveled among unknown men, 520 It was a summer evening, (356 I wandered lonely as a cloud 531 I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile! 432 I weep for Adonais — he is dead ! O29 Jenny kissed me when we met, 660 John Anderson my jo, John, 497 Just for a handful of silver he left us, 790 Keen, fitful gusts are whispering here and there 639 Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, . 177 Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth 242 Lay a garland on my hearse i6() Lot me not to the marriage of true minds 154 Let others sing of Knights and Paladins 139 P.\OE Let 's contend no more. Love, 799 Let those who are in favor with their stars 1 50 Let us begin and carry up this corpse, . . 807 Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, 838 Like as the waves make towards the peb- bled shore, 151 Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, 145 Lo ! I the man, whose muse whylome did maske log Look in my face; my name is Might- have-been ; 876 Lord, thou hast given me a cell 174 Love bade me welcome ; yet my soul drew back, 175 Love built a stately house, where Fur- tune came ; 1 76 Love in my bosom like a bee, 159 ' Love seekest not itself to please, 488 Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought 58 Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, 87 Lucasta, frown, and let me die ! 183 Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after many a vanished face, 783 Martial, the things that do attain 61 Mary! I want a lyre with other strings; 479 Master of the nmrmuring courts 862 Men say, Columbia, we shall hear thy guns 677 Methought I saw my late espoused saint 244 Mild is the parting year, and sweet.... 657 Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour : 539 Morpheus, the lively son of deadly Sleep, 88 Mortality, behold and fear ! 169 j\Iost sweet it is with unuplifted eyes... 541 Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, 639 Music, when soft voices die, 629 My eye, descending from the hill, surveys 181 My galley — charged with forgctfulness 54 My good blade carves the casques of men 758 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 647 My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, 497 My heart leaps up when I behold 527 My lov"d, my honored, much respected friend ! 492 My lute, awake, perform the last 55 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun ; 155 My mother bore me in the southern wild. 486 My mother's maids, when they did sew and spin 56 My mind to me a kingdom is 134 My sheep are thoughts, which I both guide and serve ; 90 1 140 INDEX OF FIRST LINES My spirit is too weak — mortality . My true-love hath my heart and 1 his, have 655 90 No longer mourn for nic when 1 am dead 152 No more, My Dear, no more these coun- sels try ! 89 No more shall meads be decked with flowers, 177 Nobly, nobly. Cape Saint Vincent to the Northwest died away ; 79i No, my own love of other years! 658 No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist. .. 648 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 661 Not in the crises of events, 676 Not marble, nor the gilded monuments. . 151 Not mine own fears nor the prophetic soul 154 No ! those days are gone away, 646 ' Nought loves another as itself, 489 Now the lusty spring is seen ; 168 Now the storm begins to lower, 403 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 537 O blithe New-comer ! I have heard, 527 O cruel Love ! on thee I lay 80 Of a" the airts the wind can blow 497 Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, 877 Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit 244 Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 757 O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, 154 O for some honest lover's ghost, 179 Oft do I marvel, whether Delia's eyes. . 138 Oft, in the stilly night, 659 O happy dames ! that may embrace 59 O Heart of hearts, the chalice of love's fire, 915 Oh ! for a closer walk with God, 470 Oh, Galuppi, Baldassare, this is very sad to find ! 799 O, much more doth beauty beauteous seem 151 Oh, that those lips had language! Life has passed 477 Oh, to be in England, 79i Old Adam, the carrion crow, 6(39 Old Chaucer, like the morning star, 182 ' Old things need not be therefore true,' 674 O Mary, at thy window be, 49° O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmo- nies, 779 O Mistress mine, where are you roam- ing? .....156 O mortal man, who livcst here by toil, . . 2i7?> Once a dream did weave a shade 487 Once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee: 538 On either side the river lie 747 One more Unfortunate 662 O, never say that I was false of heart. . One word is too often profaned On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood, .' On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two On these great waters now I am, O saw ye not fair Ines ? Others abide our question. Thou art free O Thou, by nature taught '. O thou, whatever title suit thee, O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down Out upon it, I have loved O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! . . . O where hae ye been. Lord Randal, my son ? O where have you been, my long, long, love, O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Au- tumn's being, O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut O world ! O hfe ! O time ! O yes, O yes ! If any maid 154 637 142 816 170 662 837 387 495 485 179 654 49 625 500 268 80 Passions are likened best to floods and streams 134 Past ruined Ilion Helen lives, 657 Piping down the valleys wild, 486 Pitch here the tent, while old horse grazes : 953 Phyllis ! why should we delay 178 Poor soul, the center of my sinful earth, 155 Praise is devotion fit for mighty minds, 178 Remember me when I am gone away, . . 678 Resteth here, that quick could never rest; 61 Restore thy treasure to the golden ore; 138 Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread 90 Roman Virgil, thou that singest Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire 783 Rough wind, that moanest loud 638 Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione row ! 783 ' Ruin seize thee, ruthless King ! 402 Said Abner, ' At last thou art come ! Ere I tell, ere thou speak 791 Say not the struggle nought availeth. . . 674 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 502 Seamen three ! what men be ye ? 660 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 649 See the chariot at hand here of Love, . . 162 Set me whereas the sun doth parch the green, 59 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 130 Shall I, wasting in despair, 169 She dwelt among the untrodden ways.. 520 She fell asleep on Christmas Eve : 860 She has dancing eyes and ruby lips, .... 676 She was a Phantom of delight 531 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 141 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, . . . 497 Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more! ... 756 Silent nymph, with curious eye 381 Since brass nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea 152 Since there 's no help, come, let us kiss and part! 140 Sitting by a river's side, 136 Sleep ! sleep ! beauty bright, 487 So all day long the noise of battle rolled 759 Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 585 Some say Love, 137 Som tynie this world was so stedfast and stable 18 Souls of Poets dead and gone, 646 St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 640 Stand close around, ye Stygian set, 658 Stately the feast, and high the cheer : . . 389 Stella since thou so right a princess art 89 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! . . 533 Stop, Christian passer-by ! Stop, child of God, 566 Strange fits of passion have I known : 520 Strew on her roses, roses 856 Strong Son of God, immortal Love, .... 769 Such a starved bank of moss 818 Sunset and evening star, 784 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain ; 463 Sweet are the thoughts that savor of content ; 136 Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright. . . 175 Sweet dimness of her loosened hair's down-fall 874 Sweet dreams, form a shade 487 Sweet, serene, sky-like flower, 183 Swiftly walk over the western wave, . . 637 Take, O take those lips away, 156 Tax not the royal saint with vain ex- pense, 540 Tell me not. Sweet, I am unkind, 182 That second time they hunted me 789 That 's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 786 That time of year thou mayst in mc be- hold 152 That which her slender waist confined, . 178 Ihe awful shadow of some unseen Power 615 The blessed damozel leaned out 860 The changing guests, each in a different mood, 875 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 398 The day is dark and the night 863 The feathered songster chaunticleer 390 The forward violet thus did I chide.... 153 The frost performs its secret ministry, . 565 The harp that once through Tara's halls 660 The hour which might have been, yet might not be, 874 The inhabitants of old Jerusalem 268 The king sits in Dumfcrling tounc 49 The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest 178 The long love that in my thought 1 har- bor, 54 The lost days of my life until to-day, .. 876 The merry World did on a day 175 The mountain sheep are sweeter, 660 The nightingale, as soon as April bring- eth 90 The pale stars are gone ! 616 The play is done — the curtain drops, . 672 The poet in a golden clime was born, . . 746 The primrwose in the shcade do blow, . 667 The rain had fallen, the Poet arose 767 There is delight in singing, though none hear 658 There lived a wife at Usher's Well 47 ' There ! ' said a stripling, pointing with meet pride 541 There they are, my fifty men and women